3. Into the red Eye

Clint stared out the window, his face pressed to the glass, the city lights blurring in his vision until New York was a haze of brilliant, glowing color. He loved living here in ways he wasn't properly able to explain. Some of it was the height, to be sure, so much distance, so much clarity. From here he felt like he could finally see his world in perspective. He just wished he could get this far away from himself.

"JARVIS," His soft voice carried clear and rough through the room. "Show me the tapes of the holding cell they had me in on the Helicarrier, post attack, roughly three hours."

He'd never had a real home before. It had taken him a while to think of this place in that way, and when he finally did it took him even longer to admit to himself it was the first he'd ever had. His first real family.

He'd loved his mother, and Barney too, but the perspective of years had taught him it was the love of a child with nothing else to cling to. It didn't have the strength behind it of the people he called family now. Somewhere deep in his chest was the urge to talk to Natasha or Cap but he stuffed it down, he couldn't bring himself to wake either of them, not for this.

He clambered over the back of the sofa, sinking into the plush leather to watch himself on the screen, bickering with Natasha, though the argument was without any real heat. Natasha was sitting on his gurney, her legs folded in front of her as he circled the room like a caged tiger. His skin pricked at the memory of the pins and needles feeling and he rubbed his arms absently as he watched.

"Fury said to keep you here," The Natasha on the screen declared gently. "Just until everything's settled and we have a plan. He's not going to take you out, Clint, he's as relieved as the rest of us."

"I feel like I'm going crazy in here," he countered. "You know how I am, Tasha."

"I know," she soothed. "but it's not a cell and it's only temporary."

"I have to get out of here, we have to stop him," Clint insisted. "I have to help, I should be in on the planning, I have intel."

"I know," she sighed. "Fury has his hands full right now."

"Well then get Coulson down here!" Clint pleaded. "He'll sign me out." Natasha winced and Clint felt his stomach turn over as he watched the horrified expression that washed over his face.

"No," the Clint on the screen whispered.

"Clint," she sighed. "He tried to stop Loki from escaping."

"But he's okay," Clint's voice wavered. Natasha didn't answer. "He's okay Nat, tell me he's going to be okay."

"I'm sorry," she murmured.

"Mute audio, JARVIS," Clint requested with a sigh, watching himself dive into the wash room to heave his guts up. Even the memory made him feel ill and he stared at Natasha's image as she slid off the gurney to lean against the wash room door her forehead pressed to the bulkhead. He could still feel the cold metal floor against his palms and the hollowed out feeling in his belly, like a phantom pain. Forty minutes after this, when he could finally stand again, Steve had come into the room and told him to suit up. He'd just been crawling on the floor thinking his head was going to explode and before he could even get his stomach to stop twisting he was on his way onto the battlefield.

Steve had never once questioned his fitness, not on the flight to New York and not after. Natasha had vouched for him and that was good enough for Rogers. He took her word as one warrior to another, believing that she wouldn't risk her own life by backing someone who wasn't ready. When the dust had settled and there was nothing left but raw pain and shattered psyche, Steve had gripped his shoulder as they walked through the Helicarrier to the debrief, shooting looks at everyone they passed, positioning himself between Clint and Fury just in case the buffer was needed. Clint was on Steve's team now, one of Steve's men, and as far as Rogers was concerned everyone else could go to hell. Clint wasn't sure he'd ever believed in anything as much as Steve Rogers believed in his team.

If anything, Fury seemed pleased about this. Steve had even offered to stay for Clint's medical eval. Clint had waved him off, of course. For once he didn't feel the need to escape medical. He knew he was compromised, he wasn't sure he'd be able to sleep at night without the knowledge that someone was keeping an eye on him, more for everyone else's safety than his own.

When he finally moved into the tower Steve had been the hardest thing to get used to. The man made pancakes, from flour and milk instead of a mix, no less, and he expected you to eat them. And he was handsy, always a pat on the back, a jostled shoulder an arm around the neck for no apparent reason. Clint supposed this was how war buddies behaved in the forties but it set him on edge. Cap was undeterred by his tension or glares or his outright shoving away. Clint's one blatant "Get the fuck off me" had been met with a laugh and an offer of a beer. That had probably been Clint's breaking point.

It wasn't that he disliked Steve. You couldn't dislike Steve Rogers once you actually got to know him, it just wasn't possible unless you were an asshole and Clint was fairly certain he wasn't an asshole. He realized, as Steve flicked the cap off the beer with his thumb and handed it to Clint, that he didn't want Steve Rogers to like him.

The thought left him breathless and he slipped out of the room almost instantly, his hands shaking. He didn't want to be Rogers' war buddy, he didn't want Stark making him a covert bow that would fold down and fit in the palm of his hand, he didn't want to fire up the grill with Banner. He didn't even want to play video games with Natasha. If Thor had still been on earth he wouldn't want his friendship either.

He wanted them to resent him, to give him a wide berth, to act as if he were one step from being a criminal. It was no less than he deserved.

The revelation had both relieved and terrified him at the same time. Relief because it had been like finally having a diagnosis for that odd madly that defied explanation. Terror because it was, in his mind, one of the worst possible outcomes.

His minor escape from SHIELD to avoid the World Security Council had meant that for more than a month Fury hadn't even really known where he was. Natasha had declared that the director hadn't asked so she hadn't offered. Clint suspected that Fury didn't bother asking because he knew Natasha would lie anyway. It was something they had in common and Clint always felt it was one of the things that made her Fury's favorite.

Staying clear of SHIELD's facilities had been the perfect excuse not to attend his Psyche appointments and when the WSC finally closed the case and he could officially resurface, he hadn't. Natasha returned to SHIELD the next day to tell Fury they were in New York and that Clint was secure. Sitwell called to check on him regularly, he supposed to confirm that Natasha didn't have him strung up by his toes somewhere. He really wouldn't put it past her.

Apart from that, he had no contact with SHIELD, only regular assurances from either Sitwell or Natasha that whatever was necessary for his recovery was all that mattered. Fury would extend his paid leave indefinitely if it meant he would be alright.

He knew he wasn't alright. He could feel it in skin and bone but he embraced it rather than try to fight it. He deserved to be punished, deserved to be despised and if his team wouldn't offer him contempt, he'd deliver it himself.

He pulled away as best he could without being suspicious. He was careful to turn up for meals, it was an easy way to placate everyone into believing he wasn't withdrawing. He didn't talk. Not any more than what was necessary to be polite. Of his four house mates only Natasha really knew how disturbing a fact that was, so the others dismissed it, no doubt thinking he simply wasn't the chatty sort.

Natasha seemed at a loss, if there was one thing she didn't deal with well it was guilt. Clint couldn't avoid her, not without threat to life or limb but he retreated when he could, often to the roof deck. Natasha avoided it for the most part, it was where she had finished out the Battle and he supposed it made her jumpy. That was why he was so surprised the night he'd escaped there only to be followed.

"You need something Cap?" Clint asked with a sigh, his arms slung around his knees as he sat on the edge of the retaining wall, looking out over the city. Feet crunched against gravel but he didn't look over his shoulder. He'd know that footfall anywhere. For a big guy with hardly any training in covert operations Rogers was stealthy.

"That's a heck of a view," Steve remarked, settling on the wall beside him, holding out a beer bottle to him. Clint blinked at it a long moment before looking up at the other man. There was an open expression on Steve's face that Clint found startling. He hesitated an instant before taking the bottle. He didn't know how to say that he appreciated the fact that Steve didn't think he was up here to jump, that he hadn't assumed the worst. But then, Steve never did.

"Thanks," he said instead, trying to force a smile.

"You picked a good spot, it's beautiful up here," Steve observed, taking a pull of his own beer.

"I'm not sure I noticed," Clint admitted. "it's just easier to think when I can see the big picture."

"It's a big picture," Steve agreed with a smile. "I keep coming up here to draw it but I haven't got it right yet." A companionable silence settled over them, the city so far below that only the barest sounds of traffic could be heard. It was almost peaceful. That was probably why Clint failed to notice his guard slipping.

"Why you up here, Cap?" he asked finally. Steve didn't seem worried about him, for which Clint was grateful. Natasha's constant scrutiny had started to wear on him. Clint could feel the unasked question in the air around them but the other man seemed unwilling to press whatever was on his mind.

"You lost someone," Steve stated with a shrug. "and that's a damn lousy place to be."

"You lose people in this line of work," Clint replied, hoping his tone didn't betray emotion. "It's a fact of life. A fact of war."

"Yeah you do," Steve agreed, and even Clint would admit that Steve probably knew that as well as anyone. "It's just not every day you lose someone that means something to you." Clint blanched. Damn Natasha, for someone whose whole life had been secrets why couldn't she keep any from the Avengers?

"You don't need to worry about me," Clint was almost surprised that his voice didn't crack. "These things happen, you deal with them and you move on." Rogers nodded in agreement.

"You don't have to deal with them on your own," he said, the words like an offer between them. "no one should have to do that."

"You have to when there's no one else to blame," Clint cringed. He hadn't meant to say that. Steve was silent for a long while and Clint was grateful for that. He wasn't sure a pep talk from Captain America was something he could stomach.

"I had a friend growing up, Bucky," Rogers supplied hesitantly.

"Cap, I'm pretty sure everyone in the country knows about the Howling Commandos," Clint answered. Steve shrugged with a self depreciating smile, looking out over the city. Clint followed his gaze, trying not to notice the wistful expression in his eyes.

"He was always there to look out for me," Steve hung his head, eying the toe of his sneaker as it dug into the gravel. "And then he fell, he died because I couldn't get to him fast enough, because I wasn't there to look out for him."

"Damn, cap," Clint sighed, wincing.

"So I know what it's like," Steve admitted. "Living with the guilt that you let down someone who meant the world to you. I know what that is."

"Are you going to tell me it's not my fault?" Clint asked icily. He wanted to hit Rogers, just to shut him up, just to keep him from talking. He felt his blunt nails dig into his palms. He couldn't handle forgiveness, maybe he'd never be able to. In a way he didn't want it, it felt like betrayal. He turned to the other man, a waspish comment on his lips to find Steve's eyes meeting his own, so sad and so lost. Clint thought he could understand for the first time the true depth of the tragedy there.

"No," Steve shrugged. "Because then it wouldn't be my fault either. And it is. I mean, I'd do anything in the world for absolution, but the only people with the right to give us that aren't here." Clint felt the air whoosh out of his lungs, stars sparking behind his eyes. He squinted them shut against the roll of his stomach.

For the first time since Nat had told him Coulson was gone, he felt actual honest grief wash over him, more powerful and wrenching than the guilt or pain he'd carried, bowing under its weight like Atlas.

"Does it get easier?" he choked out.

"No," Steve shook his head. "You get stronger. You learn to carry it. But it never gets easier." Clint bit his lip, fighting back tears, he drew in a steadying breath before casting a wary glance at Rogers to see if he'd noticed. A single tear trickled down Steve's cheek and Clint choked back a sob.

Almost instantly a strong, steady hand settled between his shoulders and Clint leaned into the contact without conscious thought.

"I'd be dead now if it wasn't for him," Clint rasped, grasping at the last strands of his dignity as tears streaked his face. "Sometimes I wish he hadn't saved me at all, then maybe he'd still be here."

"It's too late to change it now," Steve reminded fatalistically, gently rubbing his back in small, slow circles. It was like an anchor, holding him fast from the brink and Clint drew in a handful of steadying breaths. "The only thing you can do is your best in his place. You owe him that."

"You're an asshole," Clint decided without malice, scrubbing the last of the tears from the corners of his eyes.

"Yeah," Steve nodded in sad agreement.

And just like that Clint had pulled it together. The nightmares didn't let up, nor the stifling guilt, but the penance kept him moving and breathing. He could drag himself out of bed every morning with the belief that he was obliged to stand in Phil's place now, to make sure things got done the right way, to protect the Initiative, to do everything Phil would have done if he were still there.

He went back into SHIELD for the first time the next morning. He was technically still on medical leave until he passed his psych evaluation but he was cleared for desk duty. He checked in with Sitwell, who looked surprised to see him and then set to work closing out all of Coulson's files. It was months worth of paperwork and SHIELD was shorthanded as it was. Clint tackled the mountain of bureaucracy with a fervor, dotting every i and crossing every t and hating every minute of it. As punishment went, he couldn't honestly say that he couldn't think of anything worse. But that didn't matter, he slept a little better, though only a little. He stopped feeling sick every time he ate. He still didn't attend his psych appointments but the New York office was in such a state of chaos no one had the time to do anything about it.

Twenty minutes on a roof with Captain America had done more for him than three weeks sitting in therapy. Clint was, for the first time, starting to see what everyone meant when they call them "the Greatest Generation."

"Sir, your blood pressure is elevated," JARVIS interrupted his musings.

"It's called stress, Jay," Clint answered with a sad smile. On the screen Natasha had slipped to the floor, her back against the door and her lips moving, no doubt offering words of comfort. His ears had been ringing at the time so he hadn't heard.

"JARVIS, could you back the tape up to where Nat sits on the floor and then unmute the audio?" he requested. "I think I'd kind of like to hear what she said this time."