A/N: So, yeah, I apologise for the slight delay in getting this up. My laptop decided not to co-operate with me in the slightest. Oh well, hopefully you all enjoy this part! Not much more to go now! :)


The hive of activity and noise coming from the living room was more than enough to make both Phil and Clint realise that there was going to be no way to avoid the attentions of the others.

Whilst JARVIS hadn't stated the arrival of both the Agents in the lobby to the Avengers, Phil knew that at least one of them would've noticed the elevator descending to meet them. As it was, they were both staring straight ahead at the metal doors, steeling themselves for the inevitable barrage of questions and statements that would be directed at them – well, mainly Clint, seeing as no-one else had seen him in nearly three and a half weeks – the moment they were spotted.

Clint's shoulder were tightly squared, his fingers locked with Phil's down by his side in an attempt to hide the visible nerves he was showing. Phil hadn't said anything to Clint – he didn't know what he could say after the clusterfuck that was the shooting range – but he kept squeezing Clint's hand soothingly, his smile only growing wider every time Clint responded in kind. This quiet, discreet sort of intimate reassurance was one that suited them both better; there was no clumsiness or awkward declarations that could blow up in their faces, and Phil was just happy that Clint was willing to accept his touch or even him being in the same enclosed space after what he'd done.

The elevator came to a shuddering halt, Phil withdrawing his hand with one final embrace. Clint straightened his shoulders, trying to project an air of confidence to mask the doubt and the discomfort that Phil could still clearly see, and Phil just took a deep breath, steadily releasing it when the door eventually slid open and they walked out into the living room.

Less than a split second later, the unavoidable happened.

"Holy fuck, is that you Cupid? Where's Agent kept you hidden? I was beginning to wonder if you even still existed."

As the sound of Stark's voice called out from the kitchen, Banner and Rogers both stretched to turn and look over the back of the couch they'd been sat on; one look at both Phil and Clint, and they were immediately on their feet, closing in on them as they offered their own greetings. Clint went rigid next to Phil, and it took all of Phil's self-control not to reach out and grab him as he deflected the random questions and curious stares they directed at them in order to make his way into the kitchen. Clint looked as if he was determined to follow, but before he could move, Stark had jovially thrown his arm around Clint's shoulders, dragging him over to the couch with the promise of some bad television and a few new arrow heads he'd been working on.

Phil had noticed the way Clint had flinched under Stark's touch, his breathing briefly faltering from its previously steady rhythm. The way that Rogers raised an eyebrow in silent questioning at Phil suggested that he'd noticed that something was off, but it didn't seem like he was actually going to ask; Phil was more than grateful for the Captain's lack of probing. He wasn't sure how he'd be able to explain the nature of the situation and the vague details of the mission to Rogers; it would be difficult to explain it to any of them if they asked, but expecting a man decades out of his own time to understand the ways and foibles of the world now would be an especially uncomfortable discussion.

Pouring the hot water into the mugs he'd pulled out – one with the amazingly rich coffee that Stark seemed to keep on tap just for him, and the other with one of Natasha's herbal green teabags that Clint seemed to be rather fond of whenever he was stressed – he managed to balance them both in his left hand, steadying them against the edge of his cast as he sat down in his usual position on the couch, smiling at the profound gratefulness and thanks that Clint gazed back at him with. With a sudden burst of energy that Phil knew was nothing more than a façade to try and keep the others off his back, Clint kicked both his feet up to rest on the coffee table, flipping the bird at Stark when he protested about how disgusting it was to put his dirty feet up where they eat. If anyone else noticed the slight shaking in Clint's hand, or the fake exuberance he forced himself to laugh with when Stark clapped his hand against his back, welcoming him back into the group in his own special way, then they weren't going to comment on it.

"God lord, Barton, we need to get some meat back on those bones before Coulson makes us write up the paperwork on how we starved you to death. JARVIS, get onto that nice pizza place around the corner," Stark announced, glaring at the collective groans and moans that he got from the others.

Banner shifted forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he glanced over the table conspiratorially at Phil. Rogers and Stark were too caught up in arguing the nutritional benefits of eating take-out for the fourth time that week to notice the low conversation taking place just across from them.

"How's he doing?" Banner asked quietly, his already soft baritone meaning that no-one else could hear him over the sound of the others.

Phil let out a sigh, his eyes drifting over to watch Clint; out of his periphery vision, he could see the sympathy and concern painted into the scientist's face.

"Not great," Phil admitted honestly, not worrying about letting Banner become privy to the background context. He knew that Banner would respectfully keep any information or thoughts to himself, and he came to appreciate the rapport he'd built up with Banner during their late night talks.

"But he'll get there, even if it kills me."

A faint smile crossed Banner's face as he inclined his head, and Phil felt a small bubble of tension begin to disperse at knowing there was someone else he could chat to who wouldn't be too judgmental of the mistakes he'd made. A moment of understanding passed between them before it was broken by the sound of Stark loudly protesting about Clint's apparent decision to side with Rogers in the great pizza debate, and Phil let his eyes linger on Clint. Clint caught his stare, torn between the decision to stay and pretend he was okay or to escape whilst he could, and Phil felt that fist clench around his heart again.

It probably was going to kill him, but that didn't mean he wasn't going to try.

~x~

Finally, the arguments and conversations bubbled down into the background as they all settled into watching the television. Stark was holding court with Clint and Banner about some new gadgets; Clint still had that look of fear and nerves in his eyes at the way Stark kept randomly grabbing him, both Tony and Steve seeming to flank him protectively against some hidden threat, and Phil had to keep squashing down the urge to ask them to back off and give Clint some space. The look that crossed Banner's face suggested that the scientist was concerned about the same thing that Phil was, but Banner eventually just settled back into the couch with his glass in his hand.

It was his subtle way of telling Phil that he wasn't going to get involved, and Phil wasn't overly surprised. Banner still wasn't big on jumping into situations that could potentially turn quite messy, especially when Stark was present; the last shouting match had led to half the lab being destroyed. Phil just kept his eyes focused on Clint the entire time, shrugging off the way that Steve kept furtively flicking his gaze between the two of them. Clint, other than the faint 'mmm' and 'sure' that he spoke – most likely to keep Stark happy – was just sat there in silence.

They'd been eating their way through a mountain of pizza, Clint barely picking at the slice of pepperoni he'd been nursing for near half an hour, when Natasha had arrived a couple of hours later.

The atmosphere instantly changed, the irritation and stress falling off the assassin in spades as she completely ignored the huddle of bodies surrounding the piles of pizza boxes, going straight through to the kitchen.

"Right," Tony clapped his hands together loudly, and everyone noticed the way that Clint seemed to jump out his skin from the sound. No-one must have thought anything seriously wrong about it though as they rolled their eyes collectively. "I'm going down to robotics before I end up as pizza topping. Banner, you in?"

Banner just laughed roughly, shaking his head softly; whilst Phil knew that being in the presence of a pissed off Natasha was never anyone's idea of a good time, being in the presence of Tony Stark wasn't much better. Stark obviously wasn't going to take no for an answer, rounding the back of the couches and physically trying to push Banner to his feet.

"Wrong answer, buddy. Besides, I need an extra set of eyes, and potentially some big, ugly green back-up if this experiment goes haywire."

Banner groaned, briefly glancing up at the ceiling as if JARVIS could help him out of this, before he gave in.

"Fine," he grumbled, knowing that there was no real way of being able to change Stark's mind once he was set on his path.

"Atta boy!" Stark called, throwing his arm across Banner's shoulders as he fled the room as fast as possible, the sound of the discussions gradually quietening until the low hum of the television filled the room again.

Phil, Clint and Steve all shared a look, a cross between amusement and worry, before Natasha appeared in the doorway, a mug of green tea in her hands. Phil winced slightly at the sight of her; she looked exhausted, her hair roughly tousled and her field uniform covered in dust and grime – never a sign of a good mission. Before he could say anything to her though, she immediately honed in on the figure slumped next to Steve. Swiftly crossing the room, she sat down where Stark had been a few moments beforehand, putting her cup on the table as she very gently placed a delicate hand against Clint's shoulder. Clint's body seemed to tense at her touch as he turned reluctantly to look at her, his eyes wide and dark.

She just stared back at him; an entire conversation seemed to pass between them without either of them opening their mouths, and Phil briefly felt that knot in his stomach again. They were both so alike in so many ways, so trusting and open with each other, that it made Phil envious. Whilst he knew that Clint and he were close, he'd never be able to read and understand him the same way that Natasha could; he felt a dull throb in his chest. Whilst he knew that it was wrong on so many levels, those protective instincts rising up within him were selfishly pouting, telling him that it should be him giving Clint that reassurance; taking a deep breath, he grabbed his mug of coffee, the feel of the china in his hand giving him something to hold so that the sporadic clenching of his hand wouldn't be noticeable to anyone else.

When Natasha and Clint did start to talk, it was in Russian; for some reason that just made Phil feel worse. He wasn't sure why; they frequently conversed in Russian if they wanted to discuss something privately without going through the hassle of finding a secure location. Clint's Russian was surprisingly good – hell, his linguistic ability in general was stronger considering how poor the rest of his education had been. Phil had had to teach Clint how to read and write above a remedial level, but Clint could speak six different languages to varying degrees of fluency. Apparently, the number of different people at the circus meant that he had to learn, even if it was just enough to ensure that he didn't end up in trouble.

He didn't like it when he was kept out of the loop though, or when he couldn't understand something happening right in front of his face. Phil's Russian was basic at best – both Natasha and Clint had tried to teach him some in the past when they had had nothing else to do – but he knew enough to recognise some words and broken fragments of sentences. He heard his name being mentioned, he saw the way that Clint's stare drifted to rest on him, his eyes glazed over and hollow, and the tightening in his chest became too much to stand.

He pushed himself to his feet, walking straight into the kitchen without daring to look back. He knew that Clint had been watching him, and from the wavering softness behind Natasha's next words, he knew that Clint had obviously reacted to Phil's leaving in some way, but he ruthlessly ignored the guilt gnawing away at him as he leant over the sink. The lights of New York were brightly flickering against the inky sky, the scene normally one that helped to calm Phil to no ends, but he just sighed. He could hear the hushed whispers being exchanged in the living room, the creaking of the couch as someone pushed themselves up, and as the gentle thud of footsteps coming closer to the kitchen door became louder, Phil steeled himself, his shoulders becoming tense as he took a deep mouthful of coffee.

"Romanov isn't going to hurt him."

The sympathy and concern that was carried on the honeyed, smooth tones only made a lump come in Phil's throat as Steve stood next to him, his arms folded across his chest and a bare foot resting against the cupboard behind him.

"I know," Phil replied, a hint of defensiveness bristling in him that immediately died when Steve just raised an eyebrow at him.

They stood in comparative silence, neither of them really willing to broach the elephant in the room as they drank their drinks. The sheer presence and authority pouring out of Steve though was enough to make Phil feel impotent. Steve seemed to ooze everything that Phil had to work for so naturally, and whilst Phil normally found that part of the charm and appeal behind the Captain, now it just made him feel like an awkward teenager again, trying and failing to walk in the footsteps of his idol.

"There's no shame in admitting weakness, Sir. Too many men were brought to their knees by their regrets and pride behind enemy lines for it to be such a bad thing."

Phil snorted bitterly, not able to look Steve in the eye. "Yeah, but isn't the same. Me admitting weakness wouldn't get me some kind of award; being compromised ends careers now, especially in our line of work. Weakness is worse than failing."

Steve took a sip of water, contemplating his words carefully.

"It's Barton, isn't it?"

Phil finally met Steve's gaze, his heart thudding in his chest.

"What?"

Phil most certainly didn't jump when Steve wrapped a free hand around his shoulder, guiding him over to the breakfast bar so that he could take a seat before he ended up on the floor. Steve sat opposite him, staring down at his hands for a moment before glancing back up at Phil, his voice not betraying any sense of judgment or disgust.

"The reason why you've been unable to stop looking at him like you think he's going to disappear if you close your eyes for more than a second. The reason you got so emotional when he was released from medical. You care about him."

Phil shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly, desperately hoping that the nerves and panic he was feeling didn't come out in his voice.

"He's my Asset, I'm his handler. Of course I care about him."

Steve just raised his eyebrow again; if anyone else had looked at him like that, then Phil knew they would've been calling 'bullshit,' but Steve wasn't like anyone else at SHIELD. If anything, he felt more chastised and guilty, his head seeming to duck slightly in shame from the gamut of emotions Steve showed in that one simple gesture.

"That's the point, Coulson. This is much more than just a simple Agent thing."

Phil didn't have anything to say to that. He couldn't defend himself, and he couldn't bring himself to lie to Captain America of all people. A bittersweet smile faintly curled his lips.

"It doesn't matter. I just make things worse."

"I think you're wrong."

Phil nearly choked on the mouthful of burning hot coffee in his mouth, eyeing Steve sceptically.

"When you spend so long with the same person, learning what makes them think the way they do, you might say some things that cause pain; you might do some things you regret in the heat of the moment," Steve paused, pointedly gazing at the bruise on Phil's cheek. "But you can never truly make things worse. You and Barton, you're so much like soldiers. You spend so much time relying on that one person to have your back, trusting others with your life, that eventually it becomes impossible to notice when your professional duty became your personal goal."

A ghost of a shadow fell over Steve's face.

"Just like you and Bucky?" Phil flatly intoned, feeling that ball of guilt in his chest gradually start to dissipate.

Steve smiled fondly, an edge of pain underlining the reminiscent glow in his eyes. "Yeah, just like me and Barnes."

They both fell into a comfortable silence, the gravity and the implication of the conversation they were having still weighing heavily on their minds as they drank.

"So, maybe you're right," Phil admitted softly, watching the steam rise from his coffee as if it was the most engaging thing in the world. "But it doesn't change anything, does it? Clint doesn't trust me like he used to. He's been through hell and back just because he wanted to protect me, and yet I can't even tell him the truth."

Steve seemed to ponder the situation for a few minutes. "Well," he started slowly, "have you ever thought to just tell him the truth?"

Phil laughed, the sound coarse and unnatural as he ran a hand down his face.

"Don't you think I've tried that? I couldn't even react when Clint told me how he felt in that hell-hole, I'm that much of a coward."

"You are not a coward," Steve immediately shot back, his voice thick with promise. "You are a braver man than most I've met in my life."

Phil couldn't help the weak smile he gave; the awkward teenager inside him was practically hysterical with pride.

"This is not a normal situation; I understand that. I couldn't say to James how I felt, and I regret that. I know that it's no longer the 1950's, and that the world doesn't frown upon love like it used to, but I know that there are still people out there who disapprove. Different decades, still the same war though."

Phil nodded his head respectfully, admiring the strength and conviction behind Steve's words despite the pain that lanced through him; even Steve seemed better at this than he did. Swallowing down the lump in his throat, Phil let out a sigh, glancing sadly at Steve.

"But what can I do? Even without worrying about Clint, something like this basically throws my entire career into jeopardy. Forget all the non-fraternisation regulations, but how can I be trusted in the field if I'm compromised by the thoughts about what could happen to him, or if I make a bad call? Then there's the rest of the Agents, and I'm sorry to tell you, but they wouldn't all be sending cards and rolling out the welcome mat if me and Clint walked in holding hands or whatever."

Phil knew that his words were gradually becoming more frantic, his breathing becoming less steady as the stream of possibilities and fears came flooding to the forefront of his mind, but he couldn't help himself. With all due respect to the man, Steve seemed to be looking at this entire thing with such an air of naivety and simplicity, and Phil felt as lost as he had when Clint had confessed his feelings to him in the first place.

"But will it matter if you're happy?" Steve asked bluntly, and Phil felt all the panic that had been coursing through him disappear in the wake of his confusion. Phil must have looked how he felt, because Steve took a deep breath before continuing. "Maybe you're looking into the negatives too much. Sure, there's always the chance that people might not be accepting, or that they might watch your missions just a little bit closer to ensure that you're making all the right decisions, but is it worth using those as excuses to continue living in fear?"

Phil wrung his fingers together around the cup in his hands, a sure sign of his uncertainty. Maybe he was overanalysing the risks, focusing too much on the 'what ifs' instead of the possibilities sitting right in front of him, but that didn't mean they weren't there. It didn't help either that he might have been wishing for something that couldn't happen; just because Clint said that he loved him, and just because they had shared a couple of kisses, didn't necessarily mean that Clint was after a relationship with him. The throbbing bruise on his cheek could be proof of that, and that was before Phil had even had the chance to look at the Psych report. Whilst he hated the idea of using Clint's mental and emotional state against him, Phil wasn't going to launch into anything if there was even the slightest chance that Clint was being coerced into it, or that he was vulnerable.

Phil shuddered, a brief flare of nausea rising in his gut; this was why he liked to know all the options available before making a decision. Stamping down on the mirage of questions that were threatening to spill out, Phil looked earnestly at Steve, settling on the one that stood out in amongst the blur in his mind.

"So, what do you think I should do?"

Steve lowered his head slightly, gazing at Phil with equal measures of sympathy, understanding and authority as he downed the last of the water in his glass.

"I'm sorry, Coulson, this is something I can't give you an order for. It's ultimately down to you to decide what you think the right course of action is from here."

Phil deflated at the non-committal tone, but before he could do anything else, Steve continued speaking.

"If you want my advice though, just go and talk to him. Tell him the truth. Put the ball in his court, and just go from there. This might be one of those times when you underestimate just what Barton is made of."

Phil smiled warmly, grateful when Steve's words of wisdom seemed to clear the muddied thoughts that were lurking in his mind.

"Thanks, Captain."

Steve responded in kind, reaching out a hand to grasp one of Phil's shoulders gently.

"It's no problem, Sir. I know that Agent Romanov is probably saying the same things to Barton right now."

Phil groaned; he'd overlooked the possibility that Natasha and Clint were discussing exactly the same conundrum that they were. Whilst he knew that Natasha would probably be encouraging Clint to talk to him, even the thought that Clint could've told her about everything that happened in the shooting range, about their argument and Phil sending Clint into a panic attack despite knowing he was upset, made him fear for his life. Whilst she most likely would've given Clint a few insults and sternly worded warnings about hitting Phil and threatening him with an arrow through the skull for no reason, it didn't mean that she would go any lighter on him, especially after their conversation a few nights before.

Steve just laughed as he stood up, grabbing Phil's now empty cup as he went and depositing both in the sink.

"I'm sure it'll be fine, Sir."

As he walked away, Phil let his forehead fall overdramatically onto the table with a thud; he could hear a second voice, much softer and more delicate, suddenly in discussions with Steve. He didn't lift his head even when he heard his name being mentioned, although he did jerk up when he felt something hit him. Snapping his head up, he glared indignantly at the wet teabag that had landed in his hair, before glancing up to see Natasha standing beside Steve. She seemed relaxed enough, but Phil could see the hint of anger and exasperation in her eyes, and he shuddered.

"Don't worry, Coulson, I'm not going to hurt you."

The 'yet' hung heavily between them, and Phil winced under her stare.

"All I'm saying is that if you don't go and sort this out, I'll make you sure you end up with much worse than a bruise and an arrow in your eye."

Phil resisted the urge to protest under their duel attack, rolling his eyes with a huff as he got to his feet.

"Oh yeah, side with the others against me, why don't you? I'm your superior, where's my respect?"

Despite the gruffness of his words, he knew that Steve and Natasha would realise he wasn't actually annoyed with them. Steve just laughed as he walked back into the living room, and Natasha just stared at him. As he got closer to her, Phil could see the deep lines carved into her normally calm face, the visibly tangible emotions that flashed in her eyes, and he felt a brief spark of gratefulness that he had her around to help him out with this.

"Don't worry," she started softly as she brushed the tips of her fingers against the bruise on Phil's cheek; Phil shivered at the intimacy of the touch coming from such a normally reserved and private woman, and he could see the sympathy that she couldn't verbalise as she took a step back to look at him properly. "I'm sure that Clint will think twice before ever laying a finger on you like that again, or before ever daring to hold a weapon up at you, but I'm still pissed that you even considered to confront him like that after everything that's happened."

If Phil had felt chastised by Captain America, then he felt more than ashamed of himself under the weight of the icy glare directed at him by the Black Widow.

"I know, and I'm so sorry for doing that to him."

She rolled her eyes, before surprising him even further by pulling him into a brief hug; the affection couldn't last though, and Phil pouted at the slap around the head she gave him.

"I'm sure you won't. I'm not joking though, and neither is Steve. Just go and talk to him, for the good of both of you, because I swear that if you keep dancing around each other like this, then I will not be responsible for what I have to do to the two of you."

Phil went to open his mouth, until he shut it again, realising that there wasn't anything he could really say; whilst there was a small part of him that wanted to bristle at the fact that he had apparently just received the shovel talk off of both Natasha – expected – and Captain America – totally not expected – he felt almost profoundly relieved at the fact that he had the two of them there to help him at times like this. Some of that gratefulness must have come across in his eyes, because Natasha just laughed at him.

"Come on, Coulson, we better go and make sure that Stark isn't pestering Banner too badly."

When they walked back into the living room, Clint wasn't there. Phil couldn't say that he was shocked at that; if Clint had just been chewed out by Natasha during the process of having a heart to heart – neither of which Clint tended to react to very well – then Clint was probably hidden somewhere. The roof, or the specially installed archery range would've been his best guesses, and when JARVIS confirmed that Clint was up on the roof, Phil felt some of his nerves dissipate.

He knew better than to go and confront Clint now, especially with the memories of their last talk still vividly flashing through his mind; there were some things he needed to find out first. He needed to be prepared. He needed to be ready for anything that could happen.

"Actually, 'Tash," Phil breathed out, the use of Clint's nickname for her instantly making her pause and look at him, "There's a few things I've got to sort out first."

She raised an eyebrow at him, but it seemed as if she understood, because after a brief few moments, she nodded her head, continuing down on route to the labs. Left alone in the living room, with only the background sound of the television to break the otherwise tense silence that had fallen around him, Phil grabbed his briefcase, before settling himself down on the couch. He knew that JARVIS would warn him if anyone else came close to the room whilst he had confidential documents and files out, so he didn't bother to be secretive as he pulled out his laptop.

Logging into the network, Phil went to his inbox; apparently, the hundreds of emails that he'd been sent in the space of one afternoon meant that either no-one else knew that he was taking the afternoon off, or SHIELD would just fall apart without him. Sifting through the requests, and mission reports, and the various conversations he'd been CC'd into, Phil eventually managed to find what he was after. He smiled slightly at the title, "We'd appreciate it if you asked in future before hacking into our systems," before opening the attachment with a sense of trepidation growing in his stomach.

He was used to reading Psych reports; hell, he'd read more than enough in the past regarding Clint – the archer was a magnet for Pysch's and trouble – but this one made his heart uncomfortably skip a beat. This one seemed more important and potentially damning than any that had been compiled in the past, and if Phil's hands began to tremble as the report filled his screen, then at least no-one else was around to see it.

Taking a deep breath, Phil settled himself back into the couch, thankful for the privacy as he started to read.