Chapter title from You Can Close Your Eyes by James Taylor.

Clint's never been to a funeral before.

SHIELD agents and personnel who die don't get funerals. They're too obvious, and too open. Instead, they are remembered by their friends and colleagues in quiet moments, usually accompanied by a raised glass and bowed heads, perhaps a toast of some kind. Surprisingly, Clint's never been too close to anyone who's died. He's known agents, some on a first name basis, but he would count few of them as true friends. They're associates, no more.

He accepts the folded flag they press into his hands numbly, and doesn't speak to anyone on the way back to the road. They didn't know him anyway. They were Barney's friends. Barney's associates. Barney's fellow soldiers. Clint drives to a motel and doesn't pick up his phone when Natasha calls. He feels cold. Empty of everything but a pale horror and disbelief, and under that lies a screaming, roaring grief he can't face yet. He strips down to his boxers and a t-shirt and falls asleep. He can't cry, not yet. He doesn't dream.

He wakes up very late in the afternoon. He doesn't leave the room until the day after that, when he gets hungry. He drives to the local diner, eats something he doesn't remember later, and goes back to the motel. He can't bring himself to do anything more. The number of missed calls on his phone increases, but he doesn't notice.

When someone knocks on his door sharply, he opens it to see Natasha. She looks angry until she takes in the state of him – scruffy, unshaven, not too sweet smelling – and then she pushes him back into the room and pulls off his shirt. "This place has a shower," she says, unzipping his jeans and pushing them down his hips, taking his boxers with them, "you should probably take advantage of that." She has to get down on her knees to pull his socks and shoes off, and she gets him to step out of his pants as well before she turns him around and propels him toward the bathroom. "Shower," she says firmly. He lets her push him in and turn the knob. He gasps when the water hits him, painfully hot, but Natasha's shut the cubicle door so there's nowhere to go. He hears her leave the bathroom and stands there in silence until he grows accustomed to the heat and the water no longer burns his skin.

He seems to feel every drop of water that strikes him, and when he shivers, he feels the goosebumps race across his arms. He's hot and cold at the same time now, and his throat starts to close up and his eyes squeeze shut of their own accord. He's glad for the cover of the shower as he sinks to the floor and starts to cry.

x

"Feel better?" Natasha asks calmly when he emerges from the bathroom, towel around his waist. She's lying on his bed reading a magazine, and she lowers one leg over the edge and hooks the strap of the backpack she brought with her with her foot and flings it at him. He only just catches it. "I brought you some spare clothes."

"I don't deserve you."

She lifts her eyes from her magazine and smiles, just the faintest quirk of her lips. "Tough. You've got me anyway."

The smile he gives her in return is a cracked, broken thing, but it's the most positive thing he's done in days, and he has a feeling that Natasha knows it. "Orders?"

"Coulson told me to get you back where he can see you by tomorrow," she says, sitting up and stretching. Clint's smile gets a little bigger, and she nods at the bag he's holding. "Change," she says. "Do you want to visit Barney's grave before we leave?"

He stalls as he's pulling a fresh pair of jeans out of the bag. He dresses while he thinks, and nods when he's done. "Yeah. I think so."

"You want to go alone?"

He has to think that one through as well before he answers. "No. Do you mind?"

"Not at all," she says, getting to her feet. "Shall we?"

He drives them to the cemetery and leads her to Barney's fresh grave. The headstone is white, like the many others around it, with Barney's name in stark capitals at the top, and the dates of his birth and death at the bottom. May 18 1972. January 15 2011. He kneels down in front of the stone and traces the numbers with his fingertip. He wants to tell Natasha that he thought he'd have time, that they'd both have time to catch up on each other's lives properly, to get to know each other again. Instead, he says, "Nat?"

"Yes?"

He looks over his shoulder at her. "How do you deal with death?"

She waits for him to get up and then steps forward to press her shoulder against his. "Absorb the impact," she says quietly, "accept the loss, move forward."

"Not move on?"

"Moving on implies leaving it behind. Death is part of what we do. We can't ignore it or pretend it isn't there. I don't forget the deaths of those I considered important, but I can't keep them in my mind all the time. I remember them when my mind turns to it – it's not like they will ever go away because I can't think of them every moment of the day – and move forward." She looks up at him with a blank expression. "Does that help you?"

He puts an arm around her shoulders and leans his cheek on her head for a moment. "Yeah," he says finally, staring down at Barney's gravestone. "Thanks, Nat."

"Don't mention it." She puts an arm around his waist and moves him gently around. "Come on, we have a plane to catch. And Clint?"

"Yeah?"

"If you ever refuse to answer your phone to Coulson or me again, I will break at least two of your bones."

x

Coulson doesn't say a word when Clint sees him on the Helicarrier, just after getting back with Natasha. He just taps Clint's arm and beckons for him to follow. Clint expects a dressing-down when he steps into Coulson's office, because not answering the phone is a big offence as far as anyone from SHIELD is concerned. There's a good reason Clint panicked when Coulson didn't answer his in Malibu.

Coulson sits behind his desk and motions for Clint to take the chair in front of it. Clint resists the urge to hang his head like a schoolboy as Coulson leans his elbows on the desk and steeples his fingers. It's difficult to meet his eyes, but Clint manages it. For about three seconds. When he looks away, Coulson sighs and leans back in his chair. "I understand that this was difficult for you," he says quietly, "but I hope you understand how much you worried us."

Sometimes Clint thinks he'll never be done apologising to Coulson for the mistakes he's made. "I'm sorry," he says. Coulson waves a hand.

"The blame is at least partially mine. I should have known you would want to be alone and established that before you left."

Clint looks up and frowns. "What? No – this was my fault. I should've picked up and I didn't, and I caused trouble. It's my fault." The words echo in his head – his fault. It's his fault. There are always things he should do that he doesn't, and it ends badly, usually with people hurt. It was his fault. He knows that.

Coulson gives him a long look Clint can't quite decipher, and he ducks his head and clenches his fists. Sometimes he really hates not being able to read Coulson. "Barton," Coulson says.

"Sir," Clint says, not looking at him.

"Barton, look at me." Clint lifts his eyes reluctantly and meets Coulson's steady gaze. "It wasn't your fault. You're my agent. I should've anticipated your reaction to the loss of your brother and taken steps to –"

"Barney," Clint interrupts, and frowns. "Sorry, I didn't mean to –"

"It's fine, Barton," Coulson says. "It's fine."

He's silent for a long moment, and Clint looks down at the floor again, swallowing around the lump that's appeared in his throat. "It's not fine," he whispers. He hears Coulson get up, but it still surprises him when he kneels on the floor in front of the chair to meet Clint's eyes.

"I'm sorry about Barney," he says, and there's something about the tone of his voice – not pitying or sympathetic – that makes something in Clint break. He feels tears in his eyes, and he squeezes them shut, mortified. "It's okay," Coulson says, and Clint looks down to see him holding out a handkerchief, of all things, and of course he carries a handkerchief. It's such a Coulson thing to do. He takes it and presses it hastily to his eyes, but the tears keep coming. He can't break down and bawl in front of Coulson like a child, so he just keeps his eyes closed and tries to stop, but it's like trying to hold water in his hands.

Coulson's hand rests on his knee where he'd held out the handkerchief, and he doesn't move. Clint ducks his head, but it's futile, and he screws up his face when his shoulders start to tremble. "It's okay," Coulson says softly.

"No," Clint manages to say, voice hoarse, "it's not, it's not, I should've…done something, I don't know, told him I…I thought I'd see him soon, when he got back…I thought…"

"It's okay," Coulson says again, and, "you can talk about him if you want to, you know."

"I don't have anyone left now," Clint whispers, only still talking because it's keeping the tears at bay, "I guess you'll have to update the paperwork. No more next of kin."

"Is there anyone else I could put down?"

"No. The only ones I care about are you and Natasha, and you'll know anyway if I get myself killed. Fuck," he scrubs at his eyes with the handkerchief, and then the heel of his hand. He sniffs and hands it back to Coulson. "Sorry."

Coulson takes it and straightens, the hand on Clint's knee transferring to his shoulder. "You have nothing to apologise for."

Clint snorts. "There's always something," he mutters.

"Barton." Coulson waits until Clint looks up at him. "There are some things you never have to apologise for. Grieving the loss of a brother is one of them."

Clint swallows and nods as Coulson goes back behind his desk. "Thanks, Phil."

"Any time, Barton."

Clint pins down what he's feeling when he's alone in his room that evening, about to go to bed. He's feeling a little better, he realises. And he feels okay about having a small breakdown in Coulson's office, which is strange, because usually he's so careful about keeping himself under control. But something about the way Coulson reacted, so calmly, with no fake sympathies or false gestures, is comforting. Nothing's changed. It's the same with Natasha – her reaction was totally unruffled and no-nonsense. She didn't pretend to know anything about Barney or their relationship.

The empty space on the next of kin line matters less, suddenly. He'll be okay. It still hurts, and he still writes Barney's name on scraps of paper and traces the lines of the letters and numbers on his gravestone in his mind, but he'll be okay.

x

"What's that?" Clint asks Coulson, eyes narrow and curious.

"Nothing," Coulson says calmly, tucking the something into the inside pocket of his jacket. Clint makes a mental note and shrugs as if it's no big deal. But he knows how to break into the lockers on the Helicarrier, even though Coulson's is a little more secure than most. He finds Coulson's spare jacket inside it, and the inside pocket isn't empty. He waits for Coulson to come back from the gym, freshly showered and crisply suited, and when Coulson turns the corner and sees Clint leaning against the row of lockers with three cards held between the index and middle fingers of his right hand, his expression darkens.

"The SHIELD policy on respecting people's private property is strict, Barton," Coulson says, snatching the cards from Clint when he gets close enough. "And if you think I'm not writing you up for this, you've got another thing coming."

"I was curious," Clint shrugs, unrepentant, "and I knew you'd never tell me on your own. Which is dumb, because I think it's pretty cool, actually." Coulson raises a disbelieving eyebrow and Clint grins. "Hey, who doesn't like Captain America? I got the comics when I was a kid sometimes, when I could afford it." When I could steal them goes unsaid, but he knows Coulson understands. Pocket money to an orphan was a foreign concept, after all.

Coulson looks slightly mollified, and he turns his attention to the cards. Clint doesn't know how many are meant to be in the set, but Coulson has #1, #5, and #10. All three feature Captain America striking poses that should by all rights make him look like a complete idiot, but just make him look like a hero. Clint wonders what the man was actually like. "At least you didn't damage them," Coulson says after checking them over, and Clint snorts.

"You have such a low opinion of me."

"Well, it does mean that you can only impress me," Coulson says, smiling slightly, and Clint laughs.

"True. Those are really old, right? I've never seen cards like that before."

Coulson hesitates and gives Clint a measuring look, but he must decide Clint is actually interested because he nods and says, "They're vintage. From the first set ever marketed, while Cap was actually alive."

"Cool," Clint stands aside so that Coulson can get into his locker and replace the cards. Clint doesn't miss the way he inspects the lock. "I didn't break anything," he says, "just picked it."

"You have too much time on your hands," Coulson murmurs, and closes the door. Clint follows him as he walks to his office.

"So how come you only have three?"

"I'm collecting them."

"Why now?"

"Why the interrogation, Barton?"

"I'm interested, sue me. Why now?"

Coulson sighs, but answers. "You've heard about our operation in the Arctic Circle?"

"I heard we found some old HYDRA tech out there, from way back."

"Back to its original creator, actually. The tech we've unearthed has come from Red Skull's personal inventory."

"No shit," Clint grins. "What does that have to do with your cards?"

"How much do you know about Captain America's death?"

"Uh…that he killed himself saving the world, pretty much, right? Drove a plane into the sea to stop it dropping bombs along the east coast?"

"He drove Red Skull's personal plane into the Arctic Ocean, saving millions of people at the cost of his own life."

Clint isn't slow on the uptake. "You started collecting vintage Captain America trading cards because SHIELD might be getting close to actually finding his body? Holy shit."

Coulson shrugs and says something Clint doesn't quite catch.

"Huh?"

"It won't be my first set," Coulson admits after a moment.

"What d'you mean?"

They reach his office, and Coulson lets them both in, closing the door behind them. "I collected the cards when I was younger," he explains, "the comics too."

"So…" Clint sits down as Coulson does, tilting his back on two legs and ignoring Coulson's disapproving look. "What happened?"

Coulson gets a pinched sort of look. "My cousin burned them."

Clint raises his eyebrows. "What, all of it?"

"Yes."

"Wow. Did you really piss him off or something?"

"Or something," Coulson agrees. "We didn't get on."

"No kidding," Clint mutters and laces his hands behind his head. "So you've decided to start your collection again from scratch?"

"Well, I decided that I could probably leave out the Captain America bed sheets," Coulson smiles faintly and Clint laughs.

"Bed sheets? Really?"

"I was ten," Coulson argues, and Clint raises his hands.

"Hey, no hating from me – I didn't even have bed sheets for most of my childhood." He grins when Coulson nods. "So how come you like Cap so much? Teasing aside."

Coulson starts going through his in-tray with a small frown. "I…read the comics when I was a kid. Pretty much since I can remember. I was probably given my first one by someone as a present. There isn't a tragic backstory. I didn't project anyone onto him. I just liked him. Standard hero worship, really. Like you said, everyone likes Captain America."

"Not everyone," Clint tries to lean his feet on Coulson's desk and gets his toes smacked with a pen for his trouble. "Barney –" he barely stumbles over the name, "– wasn't really a fan." He's been talking more about Barney than he used to, he knows. He thinks it's his way of trying to reinforce the fact that he exists. Existed. If more people know, the more their time together feels real. "What did you like so much about Cap anyway?"

"He was a good person," Coulson replies without hesitating, not looking up from his paperwork. "He always did what was right, no matter what the cost was to himself. He stood up for people who couldn't stand up for themselves. He didn't believe in prejudice or intolerance. He was everything a true hero should be."

Clint narrows his eyes and watches Coulson, who still refuses to look up. When Clint stays silent, his ears go slightly pink, and when he sees, Clint grins. "You model yourself on him, don't you?"

Coulson tilts his head, still not looking up. "To a point. I've had to do things that are considered, at best, morally ambiguous. SHIELD frequently operates in shades of grey, and there isn't room for the sort of blind heroism Captain America embodies in my line of work."

Clint pauses, and then smiles crookedly. "Hey, Coulson. Hey," he says when Coulson doesn't look up, "Phil." Coulson raises his eyes and Clint grins. "I think you're a pretty good hero."

Coulson huffs air through his nose, as close to a laugh as Clint's seen him get. "Thank you, Barton."

"Your birthday's in July, isn't it?"

"I'm still not telling you how old I am."

"Eighth, right?"

"Natasha's sworn not to help you hack the system to find out, you know."

"I'm totally going to deck the Helicarrier in Captain America bunting. I'm going to get you a Captain America cake."

Coulson glares at him. "You do so, and I will send you to the Arctic Circle to freeze slowly."

Clint laughs and tips his chair back on two legs. "Phil, what would Captain America say?"

"I'm sure he'd understand." Phil rolls his eyes and then frowns, skimming the file he's just opened.

"What is it?" Clint leans forward, curious.

"Fury's got a task for you," Coulson says slowly.

"A mission?"

"Surveillance. Do you remember Dr Erik Selvig?"

"From New Mexico? Sure, I remember. Fury mentioned something about putting me on his tail."

"Boss has him working on an artefact SHIELD's had since Captain America went down. It's very important and very classified. He wants you down there keeping an eye on it."

Clint raises an eyebrow. "Sounds boring."

Coulson narrows his eyes. "You're going. With any luck, you'll be there until my birthday is past."

"Aw, you don't mean that," Clint laughs. "Don't I get a choice at all?"

"No," Coulson decides, flipping the file closed. "You're going."

Clint laughs, then thinks for a moment. "You really think I'll be there till July?"

"I'll be checking up regularly, don't worry."

Clint pretends he isn't relieved, but he's pretty sure Coulson can tell anyway.