Clint's eyes flicked open as Natasha rolled out of the bunk. A quick glance at the clock on the far wall told him it was nearly lunchtime. Tasha always woke with the sun, even when in a pitch black room like this one. She must have lain beside him for hours, not wanting any movement to wake him. She turned and smiled gently up at him. "Sorry, but I have a meeting with the team. I'll be back as soon as I can. Do you want me to bring you anything?"

Clint shook his head. "I should go too." He was still part of the team after all. Losing Phil didn't change the fact that he still had duties to perform. He started to sit up but Tasha pushed him back down with one hand.

"You are not coming." It was a command with no room for negotiation.

"But I don't want –" Clint struggled with the words. He couldn't think past the ache in his chest and his eyes started to blur from tears. It'd been so long since he'd felt so utterly hopeless. And he couldn't blame anyone else for it. It was all his fault. No one had told him yet how Phil had died and he didn't need them to. He'd gotten the gist of it from the whispered rumors that had swirled around him as he'd made his way to his barrack the night before. Their whispers only confirmed the truth of his guilt.

"I know." Tasha ran a hand over his head, smoothing his hair. "I'll only be gone a few minutes, Clint. Then I'll be right back. I promise." Clint forced himself to smile and nod and Tasha slipped silently from the room.

The moment she was gone the silence pressed down on him like a weight. He clamped his hands over his ears, trying to keep it out. It was too quiet. Too empty. He was alone now, truly alone. And he would be forever. Because the one man he'd ever truly loved was gone and he was never coming back. The hole where Clint's heart had been exploded as sobs wracked his body. The tears stopped eventually and left his eyes tired and too heavy to keep open.

;;;

"Eyes on target." Clint whispered into the comms.

"Copy that, Barton. Fire at will." Coulson's voice replied. Clint focused and a second later a small 'pop' as he squeezed the trigger. He watched through the scope as the figure dropped to the ground. "Good work. Now let's go."

Clint disassembled the rifle and packed it into a black backpack that he slung over his shoulder before running from the abandoned warehouse. Coulson was waiting in a black sedan in an alley two blocks over. He didn't wait for Clint to close the door before putting the car into gear and maneuvering out into traffic.

"You're supposed to wait until I'm actually in the car to start driving. That's sort of Getaway Driver 101."

Coulson barely even glanced over at him. "If you were quicker it wouldn't be a problem."

"I take exactly as much time as it takes to get the job done right."

"Plus an extra 30 seconds for sarcasm and gloating."

"I can up it to a full minute if you'd prefer?" Clint teased.

Coulson's mouth twitched. "Not unless I get to double how much of your own paperwork you do."

"Right then, 30 seconds it is."

"Thought so."

Clint turned on the radio as Coulson turned onto the expressway. He flipped through the stations until he found the one he thought would most annoy Coulson. He cranked the volume and rolled down the window, stretching his feet out of it. He leaned back and closed his eyes. "This is the life."

"Behave yourself." Coulson pushed a button and Clint yelped and scrambled to move his feet as the window started to close.

"Not cool." Clint pouted.

"I'll make up for it by buying Chinese for dinner."

Clint perked up. "From that place down by the river?"

"Sure."

They'd eaten there the first day they'd gotten to town and Clint had tried to get Coulson to eat there for every meal since. Which had been quite a lot considering the mission was now in its second month. During that time Clint had seen more than a dozen men drop dead under his scope. The men were supposedly a terrorist cell. At least, Clint thought that was what the dossier had said. He let Coulson handle the boring technical stuff, like paperwork. He just fired the gun.

Clint hopped into the shower when they got back to their hotel room as Coulson went to pick up the Chinese. He let the hot water engulf him. The steam and noise of the water hitting the ceramic tiles always had a way of clearing his mind. He'd done some of his best thinking in the shower. Not that he would admit to actually having thoughts. Most people considered him a trigger-happy idiot and he liked it that way. People who underestimated him were easier to kill.

Safe under the torrent of water was the only place Clint allowed his mind to turn towards the future. He could see himself, ten years down the road, still doing missions with Coulson. Still bickering over who's turn it was to pick the place to eat. Or maybe he'd do work at HQ, like training new recruits with Coulson. He could almost hear the long lectures Coulson would give him about convincing the recruits that Fury had a habit of sending the recruit who scored the lowest on assignment to Antarctica. Or maybe he'd just retire and move someplace tropical. He had enough money in his bank account that he could probably buy half of a private island. And then Coulson could buy the other half.

Clint's eyes snapped open. Coulson was there, in every future he could see for himself. The man had come to be a lot more than just his handler in the six months since Coulson had convinced Clint not to leave SHIELD. They'd been together constantly. Only apart for a few hours whenever they were between missions and needed to go home to sleep. His dependence on Coulson still surprised him. It scared him too, feeling so attached to someone else.

The hotel door slammed and Clint turned off the water and wrapped himself in a towel. Coulson had spread the food out on the small table and was shoveling the food into his mouth with a set of chopsticks, eyes glued to the t.v. Clint flopped down in the chair across from him and grabbed his box of food. He looked for a fork, even tipping over the bag and spilling napkins and fortune cookies everywhere but only found another set of chopsticks.

He could feel Coulson watching him despite the fact that the man's eyes were still on the episode of Hoarders. This was Coulson's idea of a joke. He knew Clint couldn't use chopsticks. He'd nearly poked his own eye out the last time he'd tried.

"Problem, Barton?" Coulson asked out of the side of his mouth.

"No!" Clint shot back defensively. He grabbed the chopsticks awkwardly and tried to grab a dumpling. The food just slipped away. He tried again, with even less success. After ten minutes he finally managed to get one halfway to his mouth before it shot across the room.

"Here." Clint gasped. He hadn't notice Coulson move. He swore that man was secretly a ninja. Coulson's hand reached around from behind Clint and grabbed the chopsticks. Coulson delicately adjusted Clint's fingers around the flimsy pieces of wood. Clint tried very hard not to make a dirty joke about the situation. Coulson helped Clint grab a dumpling and transfer it successfully to his mouth.

"See? Not that hard." Coulson had edged himself around so that his face was inches from Clint's. Clint swallowed hard and felt his breath hitch. He froze, every muscle tense, fully aware that he was still in just a towel. Coulson must have noticed the change because he paused. Clint bit at the inside of his lip, a nervous habit he hadn't done in years. He saw Coulson's eyes flick down at that movement.

A commercial came on, blaring a song about fabric softener and breaking the spell of the moment. Coulson sat back in his chair and stared pointedly at the t.v. Clint sighed and gripped the chopsticks tighter. He ate as normally as he could with the foreign utensil. Yes, it was definitely the awkward hold on the chopsticks that was making his hand shake slightly. And he was definitely not remembering how smooth Coulson's hands had felt on his own.

;;;

Clint snapped back to consciousness. He was surprised to see Natasha lying next to him. He must have really been out of it not to feel her come back to bed. He glanced at the red numbers of the wall clock. It was six thirty in the morning. He'd been in his bunk for over 24 hours. His muscles were stiff and he could feel the tingle in his fingers that he got from going too long without firing his bow. He needed to go to the range.

He slipped from the bed, trying not to wake Tasha, but she sat up before his feet hit the floor. She looked him over, trying to assess his mood and, most likely, his emotional stability.

"I need to go shoot." He explained. She nodded and gave a small tilt of her head. Silently asking if he wanted her to come with him. "No. I – I think I can manage. I'm usually alone down there anyway. Shouldn't feel too different."

But it did feel different. From the looks of the people he passed in the hall to the fact that his bow was hanging perfectly on the wall despite his never having unpacked it. He wasn't sure if that was a good or a bad thing. He hated when people touched his bow but right now he was glad that he didn't have to spend five minutes getting it out of its case. He grabbed it off the wall and slung a quiver of basic arrows over his shoulder. He strung an arrow and pointed down field towards the target. It was just a small speck at this distance.

He felt an unfamiliar tension rising through his chest as he tried to focus. He tried to force it back but it kept pushing at him. He took a deep breath and drew back his arm anyway. The movement felt like it tore his chest in half. He collapsed to the ground, clutching at his heart and fighting desperately to hold back tears. His bow had clattered to the ground a few feet away. He grabbed at it but couldn't quite reach. He tried to get his feet to cooperate, to inch himself a few inches so he could grab it but to no avail. It was pointless. All of it was pointless. Without Phil he didn't want to shoot, didn't want to eat or fight. His whole body shuddered with exhaustion. He was so tired of fighting and always, always losing.

;;;

Clint was sitting across from Coulson inside a little café. They were supposed to be watching some man accused of stealing government secrets but Clint was more interested in the basketball game on the t.v. on the far wall. It was the final game of March Madness and his team was still in it. There was a pool in the office and it was down to him and Coulson. The prize wasn't much, just a hundred bucks, but Clint desperately wanted it. Anything for a chance to trump Coulson. It was down to the final seconds and his team was behind by one when Coulson's team fouled. The player stepped up to the line. The first shot bounced out. Clint swore under his breath. Still one shot left, just a tie to push it into overtime. He pleaded for the ball to sink into the net. It went wide, barely hitting the backboard.

It was only his years of training that kept Clint from launching himself across the table and punching Coulson as the man gave a tiny smile and said, without any hint of emotion, "I win."