Archive of Our Own

Clint had never been a good sleeper. Or at least, not in his memory. There were hazy bits way at the back of waking up next to Mama under warm blankets when Papa was away and Barney was poking him, but he'd never focused on those after everything went to shit because what was the point in remembering something so impossible to return to? And then, in later years sleep had been a hazard, filled with unpredictable alcoholic fury at home and then unexpected and unreasonable demands in the circus (sometimes for things he also never looked at; compartmentalization was absolutely his friend). And on missions, well. Undercover was synonymous with unsafe, and most of the time he just plain didn't sleep more than catnaps for the duration, except if he was with Coulson, or sometimes later, Natasha. If they were watching his back (literally--being in the same city didn't count), he could usually get a few hours.

At the ends of missions he'd always paced and climbed, burned adrenaline with calisthenics until his body shook, sparred with baby agents or, if he couldn't find a sanctioned partner, picked a fight at a bar somewhere if it came to it, and eventually, if he was lucky, found a reason to hang in Coulson's office until he could sleep.

The missions where he wound up off the roster for a couple of weeks with an injury serious enough to leave him drugged in a medbay or infirmary (or once, memorably, under the identity of Jakob Kurtz in a hospital in Turin where he had to somehow maintain a German-speaking cover under the influence of morphine until Coulson could get there and spirit him away) were, and this probably said something completely fucked up about him, usually the ones in which he got the most rest. Enforced and narcotic-assisted, by and large, and that was better than nothing, but also because when he was stuck in a hospital bed, Coulson would come and sit with him, reading him the paper or whatever best-seller was in the gift shop or the menu for tomorrow's lunch (or, on the best days because they meant he thought he was up to hearing it, mission reports), and Clint would drift away under his voice until he lost the thread.

Now, though, he hadn't slept for real, or at least, for any length of time that anyone could possibly count as more than dozing off in a chair, in over six months. He'd moved on automatic for the first thirty days, working cleanup and reporting for medical and psych, watching That Bastard pop out of sight to Asgard for punishment and moving his shit into Stark's asylum once it became clear that the political interactions of the WSC and SHIELD and the US Military and who the hell knows, NATO? were never going to become working relationships again until the Avengers bugged out. Not that 'asylum' was officially what they were calling the tower, although Sitwell was responsible for dubbing it so and Clint was pretty sure it was completely apt, at least for him.

Thirty days was too long for any human to go without more than unsatisfying and unrestful catnaps, though--at least, one who wasn't Captain America (what the actual fuck, he shared a whole floor of a freaking self-sufficient skyscraper with Steve Rogers, for real; that Coulson hadn't lived (fuck) to see this was criminal, seriously)--and once everything started to sort of settle into a shape that kind of looked like the new normal, he figured that eventually he'd crash. Biology demanded it, and he had Nat, after all; she was willing to let him lie down on her bed with his head on her thigh as she petted his hair and answered every question he had (it turned out, though, that he didn't have all that many that didn't boil down to, what the fuck happened to me and to Coulson, and how did I let it, Nat? And that one, she was willing to answer, but didn't have anything that helped). He went and lay there every night for a week, sleepless, until it was clear that wasn't going to work (and that she was suffering for it, too, because if he was awake, so was she), and then he sighed and tried something else. Surely, eventually, he would have to sleep, right?

But it never happened. He'd tried everything--he'd run until his legs burned and his lungs felt sore from the exertion, which, it turned out didn't actually take all that long in his current shape. He'd sparred and boxed, shot hundreds of targets to ribbons, picked half a dozen fights with increasingly burly and numerous civilians in increasingly seedy neighborhoods. He'd even considered going out and finding an anonymous hook-up so he could fuck himself into exhaustion (as opposed to his now-standing condition of exhaustion? Well, logic could suck it), but as most of his jerk-off material for the last nine years was a guy that was dead now, and also he hadn't slept properly in coming up on 200 days, but who was counting, it wasn't surprising that he couldn't even get it up--although, to be fair, there was some chance that was because most of his familiar fantasies involved the aforementioned dead guy, and rubbing one out over a corpse was too far for even his admittedly seriously screwed-up psyche to live with.

That he was actually putting it in terms of rubbing one out over a corpse was probably just more evidence he was never going to be okay, but he was setting that aside for now. One foot in front of the other, as the saying went; he was hanging onto that because he also couldn't manage to produce one fucking tear over Coulson, which he was pretty sure he needed to, and just, that had to happen eventually too, right? Because not having Coulson in his ear was killing him one hour at a time, and the man deserved for him to mourn like a regular person, for fuck's sake..

Of course, that problem, the no tears problem, was probably a result of training, deliberate and otherwise. He'd spent half his life on one op or another, undercover or in a nest where clear eyes were critical, and the other half needing to see to his own security at all cost, with crying high on the list of liabilities. He was trying not to beat himself up over it and telling himself it'd come when he was less exhausted, maybe. Maybe.

In any case, trying to increase his already suffocating exhaustion by hooking up with someone only to be unable to perform seemed like an exercise in futility, so he stopped thinking about even making an attempt and sat in his chilly living room trying with his sluggish brain to figure out what the hell he was going to do that wouldn't get him grounded for good. Because that would be stupid, for one thing, but also would be a waste of the skills he'd learned elsewhere but honed with Coulson--with Phil, damn it, he was going to call him Phil because death superseded protocol, the end--he could at least try to use to atone for the whole shitshow that had gone down around him and because of him. And try to play nice with the team that had formed around his death, so he watched movies with the team and went for dinner a handful of times and generally tried not to be a pain in anyone's ass.

And wished he could fucking sleep.

He'd tried, once--years ago, not because of this whole mess--to take a prescription sleep medication. Not only had it made him a zombie (not a huge difference over right now, he was pretty sure, but it was kind of inexcusable in a guy that just slept ten hours), but he'd turned out to fall into the group who got up and walked/ate/generally tried to go about their business while asleep. Given his skill sets, that was something that couldn't happen again, and he was almost certain that being restrained would end incredibly badly--that was more true now than ever.

Actually, psych had agreed with him on that, and written up an order against offering him sleep aids in general after a second try went even worse; that they were aware he both wasn't sleeping and couldn't sleep also meant that for the time being, he was only marginally on any roster--he was there when the team assembled, and he didn't miss unless he was dead (or unconscious, which mercifully had happened twice; it didn't count as sleep but Christ, at least it kept him down and out for a couple of hours here and there), but as far as SHIELD was concerned, he was in that gray space between active and inactive: there, but never called on to do a damn thing (which, that probably wasn't actually helping, but he really did see their point). Hell, at this point his body was so fucked up he kept catching colds, which it turned out was actually even more annoying when you still couldn't sleep, and he started needing to carry a lot of grappling hooks so that he was never climbing without a line--too much risk he'd miscalculate or slip, and while Steve was putting up with him being a basket case okay, he wasn't likely to tolerate shitty work.

It was kind of too bad he hadn't ended up with a morphine drip at some point in the whole exercise; at least he knew he stayed down with morphine, and then he maybe could have imagined his way to Phil in some kind of opium-laced dream.

He sat there in his apartment at three in the morning, in the dark, lights out like maybe miraculously he'd sleep (ha!), and let that thought roll around in his head for a while and tried half-heartedly to convince himself this was exactly as pointless as remembering his mother and brother tucked in with him on a chilly night, then licked his dry lips and said, "Um, AI guy? JARVIS?"

"Sir?" If an AI could be surprised, this one sounded like it might be. Weird. Well, except for how Clint had never said anything to him before because what the fuck, computer butler.

"How independent are you and am I supposed to just ask you for things in regular English?"

"You may ask in whichever language is most comfortable for you, although there will be a slight delay in response should I be required to locate and assimilate a new dictionary. However, if you mean, are colloquialisms acceptable input, I refer you to the instances in which you have seen Master Stark interact with me."

"I haven't actually been around him that much, or paying attention anyway, but. So, that's a yes."

"It is, and while I prefer when people limit their expression by means of vulgar gesture to those situations which truly call for a crass response, I am comfortable with many modes of input. As to your previous question, I suppose I would need additional parameters in order to answer it for you. My apologies, but as you and I have not worked together previously, I have little frame of reference for how you typically frame a question or in what order you might gather intelligence."

"Wow, Stark gave you a lot of words. Do you report to him if I ask for stuff?"

"I do not, unless there is a compelling reason to do so. In that event, I will tell you unless I believe telling you would represent a danger."

"Yeah, lot of words. So, can you help me with what I guess is a medical procedure?"

"I surmise you do not wish to make use of the excellent medical facilities at the disposal of SHIELD agents?"

"You surmise right."

"Then it depends on the procedure. I could, for example, direct the 'bots in minor surgical processes; I could not, or rather, would not, assist you in any major changes or self-harm."

Clint thought about that and the previous couple of sentences for a minute. "You think I'm going to ask you to help me off myself."

"Your behavior indicates significant stress and minimal improvement despite great effort, as well as a near-complete inability to achieve sleep. It's not an unsupportable assumption."

"Kay, yeah, I see that. No, I want..." Clint blinked as a better idea came to him. "Wait, first, I think in the after-action report there was something about Stark using you to jack into the carrier's databases."

"There was. I have been removed from bridge access, but I still have limited access to other areas. Why do you mention it?"

"Do you have access to field reports from agents--past ones, I mean?"

"To a degree. The indexing system is fairly well-guarded, so I am only indirectly able to access a given report. Perhaps if you were to state what you want to find, I could suggest a strategy?"

"It sounds stupid."

"Agent Barton, based on my observation of your persistence in trying to move past the damage inflicted on you by a legendary god, your several coping strategies attempted so far, and what I know of your part in the battle and its lead-up, I seriously doubt you are stupid. In addition, please keep in mind that I have many times assisted Master Stark in achieving impossible goals; I do not think wild ideas should be rejected out of hand. Now, you were saying?"

"Fine, okay. I've tried everything I can think of to sleep--you saw that, right? And nothing is getting me more than half an hour? But sometimes I've slept okay with some non-sleep-aid chemical help--morphine, specifically--and Phil, that's Agent Coulson, reading to me. I know it's pathetic, but just, I think if I were a little drugged, which was what I was originally thinking, but then I thought also if I could hear him... okay, see, it sounds even stupider out loud."

There was a pause, and then JARVIS said, "If you find the notion comforting, I am willing to help you make an attempt. I assume you want me to find stretches of field reports dictated by Agent Coulson?" His tone changed slightly, as though he were musing. "It would have to be random stretches which don't necessarily tell a whole story, since it appears I am unable to access reports arranged such that they would. Would that suffice?"

Clint felt every muscle in him unclutch a little at the tiny possibility of this working (which hurt; every muscle in him was way, way past the point at which a massage was very indicated, but he didn't think he could stand being touched), and tried to think through whether there was anything more specific he wanted or needed to add. "Uh, nothing that you can tell ahead of time is about New York, or sections that are commendations for anyone killed in action? I don't think that would lead to soothing dreams at all, if I even get as far as dreaming. And only things that a level-seven can hear," Clint said. "I actually--there might be things that are classified above my pay grade, and I'm not asking you to get me those. Just anything level-seven and below. Is that in the parameters you can do?"

"I believe it is." JARVIS paused again. "I wonder if an attempt with the voice in your ear, but without chemical assistance, would be worth trying."

"Oh, eventually, sure. For that matter, eventually I'm hoping maybe we can wean me off bedtime stories entirely? I just--honestly, I don't think I can get there without help at first, and I'm more than a little worried if I try and fail I won't be able--I just don't think that's going to end well."

"I see. In that case, I've found a medical supplier willing to part with a minor amount of oxycodone. Will that suffice?"

"Already? Jesus, you should make sure to work at like 15% capacity when Stark asks for crazy shit because with this efficiency he could be really, really dangerous."

"I make a concerted effort to ensure appropriate precautions come into being in those cases. As I am now; I would not assist you were I not confident I could manage potential outcomes. To return to the question, will oxycodone suffice?"

"Dunno. It's always been morphine--in a vein, not anything that comes in a pill--when it was in the hospital, and I've never really taken the shit they give me when I leave."

"I see. Well, perhaps we can make the attempt. I would prefer not to facilitate the use of something quite so strong as morphine unless other substances fail, although it is true that the synthetic opioids metabolize similarly and may be nearly indistinguishable to some patients. May I acquire the drug?"

Clint rubbed his gritty eyes with the thumb and first finger of one hand. "You're not going to be offended if I say this is the most hilarious drug deal I've ever been party to, are you?"

"I am not. I was, in fact, making note of it myself so that if you eventually are willing to share this story, I can offer a rendition to Master Stark. Again, that would be, if you are willing."

Clint felt a distressingly unfamiliar grin stretch his face, just a little. "You're on. Can we... can we try this tonight?"

JARVIS gave a little hmm. "I believe I will have sufficient materials on hand by approximately five-thirty. Would you like me to ask Miss Romanov to be present?"

"Can you? I mean, of course you can. Yes, please, but make sure she knows it's okay if she doesn't want to."

"I believe she will want to. She's been quite concerned, I fear--not angry at you, but worried for you."

Clint crinkled his nose, but of course she was, and what was he going to do, command her not to worry? There had been people in her life that would make such a demand of her and enforce it, and he wasn't that guy, so. He nodded. "Well, still."

"I shall notify you when all is ready. Perhaps, meanwhile, a warm shower and some soothing scents?"

"For this? What, you'll make it smell like a hospital?"

"I suspect that is not soothing to most people, but given what we are trying to accomplish, I suspect an attempt to replicate something similar would in fact be appropriate."

Clint stood and headed for the bathroom, trailing his fingers along the wall because he was, truly, so exhausted he felt like he could fall on his ass at any time. Not fall asleep in any helpful way, mind; if that seemed at all likely, he wouldn't be sweet-talking Tony Stark's computer into more or less hitting him over the head with a hammer.

He turned on the shower and stripped without bothering to close the door--Nat could let herself in, and she'd most likely barge on in here anyway when she did, so no use putting up a barrier.

The heat of the spray felt good, and one of the things Clint did have to say for Stark's digs was that there was apparently literally no way to run out of hot water. He wondered how that fit into the whole clean and green thing, but then, if there was no energy waste and the water was recycled, he guessed maybe it did? He thought idly about that while he stood in the spray for a long time, slowly aware that the steam was acquiring the astringent scent of hospitals everywhere. When he finally turned off the water and pushed open the curtain to grab a towel, Natasha was standing there shaking her head and holding up a hospital gown. "He says we're going for maximum authenticity," she said. "Come on, you have ass cheeks to hang out the back of this thing."

"You just want an excuse to ogle," Clint said, offering a half-hearted grin as he scrubbed the towel through his hair and down his chest. They'd had this conversation before, under more legitimate medical circumstances, and it felt, if not good, at least not bad to fall into familiarity with her, which only increased his hope that the familiarity he was trying to build would work.

God, please, it needed to work.

Natasha smirked. "Oh, no. I have no need to make an excuse for that. I look at your ass every time I want, which is exactly what you have in mind with those pants so no complaining." She held up the gown again. "Do you mean for me to just get you set up, or do you want me to stay?"

"Your call. As much as you want, and nothing you don't. Hell, you don't have to be here now--"

She rolled her eyes. "Clint, if I didn't want to help, I would simply have avoided responding promptly. Have you and JARVIS worked out all the logistics?"

Clint shook his head as he stuck his arms in the arm-holes.. "I'm too fucking tired to logisticize anything, and he seems pretty on top of shit, but if you have suggestions, bring 'em. Right now, I wanna lie down, get high, and listen pathetically to my dead boss read me a story."

"Clint." She shoved the gown the rest of the way on and went behind him to tie the neck. "You know I know about trauma. We all do--everyone that lives here, anyway, and everyone that has ever been promoted above level four at SHIELD. If what you need to get through the day is to get high and have your dead boss read you a story, then that is not pathetic. That is practical."

"Yeah, I doubt everyone would see it that way." Clint turned to face her. "I'm not sure I see it that way."

"Yes, well, you're wrong. Which should feel perfectly normal to you, and that's a start." Natasha grabbed his hand and pulled him toward his bedroom, where she pushed him toward the bed and went to get a chair from the dining area.

"You can just lie here with me, you know. We've cuddled up a lot of times."

"Maximum authenticity," she said. "He'd be sitting here to read, and now JARVIS has a point on which to focus the sound." She set the chair next to his bed, and glared at the bed until he got in it.

Clint felt dizzy and prickly, and resisted the urge to scratch, but met her gaze. "JARVIS? This work?"

"It does," JARVIS said. "Miss Romanov, will you need a second chair?"

She looked at Clint, then shook her head. "I rarely stay when he reads to Clint."

"When he used to," Clint corrected.

"Maximum authenticity," she corrected back. "I'll be a distraction, and we've already tried seeing if my presence would help--no, Clint, I'm not angry or sad or anything else like it. You need what you need. I believe I already said this. I'll sleep on the couch." She turned to go.

"Perhaps before you do, you could play nurse for a moment?" JARVIS suggested. "I was unable to quickly locate an appropriate source of an injected narcotic, and while it would be relatively easy to use the pills to create one with some chemical manipulation in one of Master Stark's laboratories, I was concerned he would note the use and ask. Maintaining Agent Barton's privacy seemed a higher priority than getting an injectable, although if you'd like, I could still--"

"No, it's fine." Clint didn't want to wait and fuck with things and (oh hell no) have Bruce decide this was a shitty idea (it probably was) or have Stark try to improve it or, oh, whatever Thor would do, if he ever came back from Asgard. And Cap. Cap would probably just be all disappointed-face for his inability to cope as well as he had, and then Clint would have to hit him and things would probably go downhill from there because smiting an American icon and Phil's personal hero would probably just make Clint feel worse anyway. Yeah, this train of thought was leading nowhere good; it wasn't like any of them treated him badly, and they all knew he was struggling and obviously were trying to give him space, just--right, he should move on.. "Pills are fine."

JARVIS hmmed agreement. "They're on the kitchen counter."

Natasha went to get the bottle, coming back with two pills and a glass of water.

"And perhaps you would take the bottle away with you as well," JARVIS said.

"Dude, I said I wasn't looking to do myself in," Clint objected after he swallowed the pills.

"Of course, sir, and I would call for emergency services if you were to try in this state. However, I merely wish to safeguard against inadvertent overdose whilst you are, as you put it, 'high' by removing the potential. Miss Romanov?"

She looked at Clint, then glanced at the ceiling. "I don't know how Stark made such a responsible being," she said, "but I may wish to subscribe to your newsletter."

"Noted." Clint snorted at JARVIS's dry tone, but the guy had a point, and as he hadn't eaten anything useful in a while, he was already starting to feel the drugs. Or it was psychosomatic; either was fine.

Natasha left the room as Clint lay back and closed his eyes.

"JARVIS?" he asked a second later.

"Sir."

"You said, if I tried something 'in this state.' Does that mean there exist states... not that I'm trying to work out a way, um. Just curious."

"Perhaps we can discuss this later," JARVIS said. "For now, I've located several hours' worth of material, and as your body is already showing signs of relaxation, I'd like to begin." The lights dimmed and various low-level sounds came up, the ambient noise of a hospital operating around him. With his eyes closed, despite that he knew it wasn't real, Clint felt both the anxiety of being in the hospital and, as Phil's voice started to play, the sense of peace he got from him, and even though it felt weird to be lulled by stories from a dead guy, still, it felt like home.

Story of his life, seriously.

"It's a good sim," he said. "You're good at this." He didn't want to open his eyes and ruin the feeling of Phil being right there, close enough he could touch him if he wanted to, and he heard his voice slurring heavily.

JARVIS paused the replay for a moment, as though in response to hearing Clint speak, Phil had looked up, and Clint felt heat behind his eyelids as tears pricked up. He reached up and wiped his eyes without opening them as the reading resumed, and in far less time than he'd hoped he was asleep.

When he woke, it was all he could do not to reach for Phil. He froze, forcing himself not to, and stayed right where he was. A moment later, the reading stopped, and Clint heard a passable creak and shuffle, a door opening, and additional footsteps, and he opened his eyes to look at the clock. "7:24. That was an hour and, what, 45 minutes?" He felt quite a bit... well, better was probably overstating. He felt less awful.

"No. Miss Romanov came in a few minutes ago, which roused you; however, it's as well; I've recycled nearly all of the content at least once, although as I'm putting segments through at random, some you'll have heard three or four times, perhaps. We considered waking you earlier, but opted against. It's been nearly fourteen hours." JARVIS paused, then added, "I've commenced additional identification of material,since once you relieve yourself and eat a meal, it is my recommendation you sleep some more."

"Eat a meal." Clint frowned, trying to remember the last time he'd actually done anything that regular people would have called that. Mostly, he grabbed something from the shared kitchen or had a smoothie or, and this was pretty common, just dug into his enormous and long-hoarded stash of MREs.

"Perhaps you've heard of it," Natasha said from the doorway. "It's where you select a food option, prepare it, and then ingest it on purpose." She pushed the door further open. "I've done the choosing for you."

As she said it, Clint caught the scent of bacon and waffles, and he blinked back sudden tears. "Phil used to make this for me," he said.

"I know. We're still going with maximum authenticity, until you're ready to deal."

"Authenticity should mean I don't know it's not real, shouldn't it?" Clint scrunched up his face up. "There's probably a psych paper in this."

"There may be a psych dissertation in this," Natasha said. "Also, stop trying not to cry. You love him, and you miss him." She said this matter-of-factly, and Clint felt more tears gather as she sat on the edge of the bed next to him. "The food can be reheated."

"Waffles are better fresh. Also, I thought you thought love was for children," Clint pulled her in against him despite his intention of getting up..

"It is, but evidence suggests it is also, against everything I was taught, sometimes for adults." She rearranged them so his head was against her chest and gave him a minute, then let him up. "Come on, then. Fresh waffles. I have the good orange juice, too."

Clint set his feet on the floor, remembered he was wearing a hospital gown, and sighed, heading for the bathroom. "Be right there." He closed the door, ostensibly to grab the bathrobe off the hook, then sat down on the floor to hug his knees to him for a minute.

Finally, he got up, used the toilet because now that he was in here, his bladder thought it was a pretty good idea, blew his nose, and went to find the waffles.

He was finishing the third one--what the hell, he was actually hungry, which was weirdly surprising, when something struck him about what Phil had been 'reading' to him while he was half-asleep. He squinted and tried to chase the memory, but it was too fuzzy. Something about... a helmet and a parachute?

He tried to remember more, but of course, the harder he tried, the less clear the memory got, and finally he shook his head and finished his waffles, chasing them with what had to be a profoundly unhealthy amount of bacon.

"What?" Natasha said. He realized she'd been watching him.

"Nothing. Just, a weird feeling." He wrapped an arm around his own stomach. "I don't... It's nothing."

She side-eyed him, but let it go. "Brush your teeth," she said. "You're going back to bed."

"Dunno if I can."

"We'll help again. Then there will be more food." She paused. "Clint, you still look like shit, and I need you to not look like shit."

He raised his eyebrows. "I've looked like shit in your presence more times than you can count."

"Mission shit isn't the same. Black eyes, bloody bandages, those things are just your body, not you."

"Pretty sure my body is me."

"It's a philosophical debate worth having, but you know what I mean. I need you to sleep, if you can. Try? For me?"

He pursed his lips, then nodded. "JARVIS, are you ready?"

JARVIS was silent for longer than usual before answering. "I am, although it seems I have attracted some small degree of attention at SHIELD. Unexpectedly." There was another pause. "I have downloaded as much as I can without triggering a higher-level alarm. As it is, you may find yourself with some explaining to do."

"Perhaps Stark can do the explaining," Natasha said, her brow creased with concern.

"That'd be pretty unfair," Clint said. "I mean, he's probably done a hundred things he got away with, so it's probably fair in the grand scheme, but I didn't tell him I asked his AI to snoop. My music to face."

"Sure, but you're in no shape." She stood and kissed Clint's forehead. "But I love you for trying to…"

"Be a responsible grownup?" Clint shrugged. "Except for the obvious recent exception, I do mostly try, Nat."

She dropped one more kiss, which mostly told him she'd been a lot more worried about him than she'd been letting on because Natasha wasn't exactly dripping with affection most of the time, and it was mostly when she was experiencing a lot of relief that this sort of thing bled through. "I know, and that still wasn't your fault, and right now, your focus is needed elsewhere. Here are your pills. Go to sleep. I'll go deal with SHIELD while you're out."

Clint took the pills she'd evidently been hiding in thin air because where had they come from? And swallowed them with the rest of his orange juice. He expected them to take longer to work this time, taken as they were on a full stomach, so he saw Nat to the door and closed it behind her. "Is it a problem, JARVIS? Do I owe you?"

"It's my pleasure to be of assistance, Agent Barton. I'm certain Miss Romanov will resolve the problem; meanwhile, I've amassed some two hundred hours of listening material. If you'd like to take another soothing shower, I shall run general analysis to exclude materials you don't want to hear, and by the time the medication kicks in, I shall be prepared.

Clint nodded. His reflexes still felt slow, although whether that was still a matter of weeks of sleep deficit or the drugs or the full belly, he didn't know. Didn't care. He brushed his teeth, grimacing because orange juice and mint were not friends, then took a quick shower as the hospital smells filtered back in. He didn't bother with the gown this time; his eyes felt heavy and it occurred to him that JARVIS might actually also be delivering something in gas form to help him relax, but he didn't care about that, either. All he wanted was to hear Phil's voice again as he crawled back into the bed, which JARVIS had evidently directed bots or, wait, did Stark have staff? He must have staff. Anyway, someone had been directed to remake while he ate (crap, that thing was efficient; with Stark's brain going eight million miles an hour and this kind of backup, it was honestly amazing he hadn't made more trouble than he had), and he lay there, eyes closed, and pulled the blankets up around his chin, waiting.

As the lights dimmed, he muttered, "Can you find the one about the helmet and the parachute again?"

And then he fell asleep before JARVIS could answer.

This time Phil had stopped talking by the time Clint came back to mostly-conscious. He blinked his eyes open and looked at the chair. "Agent Barton," JARVIS said immediately. "I'm afraid I was unable to access the file you requested." He paused. "In fact, Miss Romanov would like to discuss the matter with you."

"Why d'you call her miss and me agent?" Clint asked. "She's an agent too."

JARVIS made a sound Clint wasn't sure how to interpret, then said, "I shall update my files. Her original file on my servers indicates her name to be Miss Rushman, and I fear that when the name was changed, I did not consider the honorific."

"It's all right," Natasha said from the doorway. "I kind of like it, JARVIS. It's not like you don't know I can kill you with one hand tied behind my back."

"No, I remain entirely aware of your skills. I'm relieved to learn you aren't offended."

Clint looked at Natasha, who hadn't said any such thing, but she was smiling. "Clint, get up. We should talk."

Clint rolled and groaned. "You know what? Can we talk here? I guess being up for five years makes a guy sore."

She shook her head. "You'll want to be up. Come on." She turned and went back to the living room, so Clint sighed and stood, pulling out a drawer for underwear and another for soft sweatpants and a t-shirt. He felt a little grimy again, showers notwithstanding, but he was pretty sure that was an effect of metabolizing the drugs? So he decided to ignore it for the moment. Nat had definitely seen him in worse physical shape.

When he ambled out, squinting in the bright morning light, she was at the table. She looked up at him. It's not quite ten, in case you're wondering. You stayed out nearly as long the second time." She held up a tablet. "Sit."

"Stand up, Clint. Sit down, Clint." Clint shook his head. "Have you always been this bossy?"

She grinned at him. "Baby's learning to bitch again! Fine, don't sit, but don't blame me when you fall on your ass. You asked JARVIS to find you something."

"Yeah. I fell asleep--why did it matter?"

"He couldn't find it. It's classified against you--and me. Us, specifically."

"What? I mean--"

"Digging was a little harder than we wanted it to be, but fortunately JARVIS has what I believe Stark would call mad skills."

"Why, thank you, Miss Romanov," JARVIS said.

"What're you, sucking up to Stark's staff now?"

"Of course not. I never suck up; I persuade. But we're off task."

Clint watched her eyes shutter, which means she was about to tell him something he wasn't going to want to hear. He held up a hand, pulled out a chair, and sat. "Okay, shoot."

She watched him sit. "Good call. All right. There exists a subset of the level-seven files which are explicitly protected against you and me."

"You said that already."

"They came into being five days after the battle."

He didn't ask what battle; there was only one they called that. "Okay?"

"They were the source of the material you asked about."

"That's impossible. The material was Coulson reading to me. He can't have been reading to me from an after-action report produced after that, unless they started shuttling all his stuff or some of his stuff in there?"

"Nothing in the file is older than the battle."

"What?"

"JARVIS? Can you explain your methods?"

"I can make an attempt, although it may be that the shorter and less technical version will serve better. No offense, Agent Barton; I have no doubt you could understand the material, but you are not at your best and it is quite technical."

"Whatever. I'm stupid with the sleep-dep these days anyway. None taken."

"I am able to measure a number of qualities of the files in the sequestered folder. I am unable to access their contents directly, but I can see that, for instance, none of them are perfect matches to previously-existing files elsewhere in the system. I can further see that there is a long and nearly uninterrupted string of entries, although it is only more recent files which met my criteria for your experiment."

"So, someone is building files with Coulson's voice, starting recently, in a folder that's hidden from me."

"Precisely. I was able to glean content from the files initially because I did not use a standard searching algorithm. The algorithm I did use has been blocked, so I am not able to locate additional content, but it turns out there are several clips in what I had downloaded last night which appear to have originated in these files. There are no acknowledged files outside the folder which were created after the Battle of Manhattan and which contain a voice recording matching Phil Coulson, and the dates of your clips, which it did not occur to me to check before we began, are, as you may have surmised, recent."

Clint watch Natasha's face while JARVIS was explaining. Her eyes were still closed off, so she'd drawn her own conclusion and was waiting for him to draw his. "So, the helmet and the parachute..."

"I was unable to reconstruct that file from the original source; however, I did use my own internal recording of your apartment, which I would ordinarily have purged this morning but as we were experimenting with a sleep therapy, I had not yet, to re-acquire the material; fortunately, it seems it has not yet occurred to SHIELD that a secondary recording might exist. When it does, I anticipate Master Stark will be ordered to return it."

"Oh, that should go well."

Natasha smirked.

"While we have it, though, I have copied it to a private server which it is my belief SHIELD would not find quickly. The sound quality is less than pristine, of course; I was playing it into the room for your benefit, not mine."

"Play it back?"

Natasha held up a hand. "Clint, what do you want to hear?"

"Phil," he said immediately. "Look, unless you have a better choice, here's what I've got so far. There's an LMD. Or, there are recordings that are inexplicably being used to convince someone Phil is still doing his work--WSC, maybe? All we have are recordings, either way, but that's all we had before."

"Or," Natasha said, "SHIELD likes secrets."

Clint blinked at her, trying to work out what kind of secret would be relevant here. It struck him all at once, so hard it took his breath. "Wait, fuck. Seriously? You think, seriously?"

"It's possible. JARVIS says the recordings match in ways much more sophisticated than voice alone, and he finds no evidence SHIELD has been successful in creating an LMD that would fool him. Also, he's unable to locate a body."

"He'd have been cremated, though." Clint's voice shook. "It's not as though people like us go back to families for burial, especially with potential alien shit in our chest cavities. That movie got made a long time ago."

"My efforts to locate additional information are being increasingly blocked," JARVIS said. "However, my best guess, at this time, is that Agent Coulson's death was, as they say, prematurely reported."

Clint stood fast, his chair crashing backwards to the floor. He was suddenly breathing hard, and all the tears he'd been unable to cry for six fucking months were crowding in, dropping hot out of his eyes as his face screwed up. "Motherfucker," was all he could manage before he stepped far enough to the side not to impale himself on a chair leg, and dropped to the floor. He turned, leaning back against the table leg. "Mother. Fucker. If that's--why would he--Nat, is this--I can't."

She arranged herself next to him, tight against his shoulder. "Do you want to find out?"

"With what? If it's locked against me and you, and JARVIS can't get in..."

"If I may suggest...?" JARVIS began.

"Go for it." Clint pulled his knees up tight and hugged them.

"Perhaps I should play back the material that Clint heard the first time. The two of you know him much better than I do."

"Do it." Clint's throat had gone dry and he was still dripping tears that felt so hot he wasn't sure why they weren't burning him. His nose was running now, too, and he wiped at his face impatiently as the playback began.

--Agent Ward's skill with a parachute allowed him to retrieve Simmons, and the helmet is now on the way to the Sandbox. Efforts to develop a less worrisome vaccine, scratch that, antiserum have so far been unsuccessful, but Agents Fitz and Simmons continue to work as it's likely that additional artifacts will turn up in time, and a better understanding of Chitauri infectious biology can only be of use. Medical followup will be required for Agents Fitz, Simmons, and Ward after--

"The next segment that played was from a 2002 action in Argentina, and I have not found additional segments which match this one." JARVIS fell silent for a moment, then added, "If you were to ask my advice, it would be to involve Master Stark at this time."

Natasha leaned away and forward, putting herself in Clint's line of vision, blurry though it was. He wiped his face again. "Clint? What do you think?"

He let his head drop back against the table leg, looking up at the underside a couple of inches away. "I say we offer Fury a choice of which nut he gets to keep. Yeah, bring Stark in if he's up. I think we're gonna need him."

He was pretty sure JARVIS actually sighed with relief, and what the hell, how did an AI have so much personality? It made it harder to believe that an LMD would be detectable, but it also said a lot about exactly what Stark could do, and yeah, they were gonna need him.

Stark arrived three minutes later, grease-spattered and rumpled; he'd obviously been in the lab. He was barefoot and had half a smoothie in one hand, and when he saw Clint and Natasha on the floor, he blinked. "JARVIS said there was an emergency. And I get that when your chair falls it's startling, sudden, maybe a little distressing, but--"

"We think Coulson's alive," Clint said.

"Oh?" Stark gulped down the rest of his drink and set it on the table, then sat down to lean against the other table leg facing Clint. "Who's we?"

"Us and JARVIS. We have tape. It's recent. It's not--" Clint felt his face crumple again, and damn it, he didn't actually want to cry at Stark, but apparently his body was under the impression that now he'd started, he ought to just keep sobbing. Because that was a completely reasonable response to events. He shook his head and glanced toward Natasha.

"We made an attempt, yesterday, to help Clint sleep by piping in the sound of Agent Coulson reading to him. Which he used to do when Clint was in the hospital."

"Oh, is that why it smells like antiseptic in here? I was going to fire the help. Maybe now I won't, if you actually want it this way.. Do you actually want it this way? Because I'm happy to--"

Natasha cleared her throat. "Stark, focus. JARVIS acquired the recordings by searching SHIELD's databases for strings recorded by Coulson which met whatever criteria Clint gave--"

"No KIA reports, nothing to do with the battle," Clint supplied, "and nothing that a level seven couldn't hear."

"Yeah, okay, so?"

"So apparently that was just broad enough to include some pieces of text that were explicitly classified against us, personally. Available to level sevens, except us."

"So go find the rest," Stark said.

"I am unable," JARVIS put in. "It only worked because someone overlooked the concept of a hacker--that would be you, sir--"

"Hey!" Stark pointed a wagging finger at the ceiling. "I am many things, but hacker sells me short." He glanced at Natasha and added, "But you were saying?"

"The concept of a hacker, programmer, or all-around genius such as yourself, sir," JARVIS paused and gave a little cough, which made Clint grin a tiny bit. "asking for material without a specific focus and without the name of the inquiring entity attached. When I went to download a larger sample, they'd already found and blocked the hole. I was initially surprised to find they had not reported here, but when Miss Romanov went to investigate, she found that no one was making any such attempt. My supposition is that they hope whatever was found was meaningless to the individual using it, and that they mean to put up a better smokescreen shortly to cover whatever it is that Agent Coulson is doing alive and overseeing parachute jumps and Chitauri artifacts."

"Stark," Clint said, snorting a ton of snot back into his nose and wiping his sore face with his palms, "You gave your AI a lot of words."

"Yeah, yeah, he had to compete with me and I'm not exactly the pithy and to the point type, right? So anyway, now you figure Coulson is out in the field somewhere and he didn't tell you, which is obviously important to you--by the way, that's shitty, which I know because Pepper told me because apparently I am unbelievably awful about shit like that--and you need an all-around genius to tell their firewall to bite you."

"That's about the size of it," Clint agreed. " Need to figure out who, besides that dickface Ward, he's with. Ward and FitzSimmons, which, what the shit, I cannot believe anything, or anyone put those two in the field." Natasha had gotten up while Stark was taking, and handed him a tissue. He got up to blow his nose, and Stark got up, too.

"Dickface? Okay, I'm pretty sure this is someone I need to know. Also, who's Fitzsimmons?"

"Fitz and Simmons," Natasha explained while Clint blew his nose again. Ugh, crying sucked. "They work together."

"Oh, wait, I think I know them. Know of them. Wondertwins, inseparable, extremely enthusiastic chick, boy that's afraid of germs?"

"That's them."

"Huh. Okay, so hack the firewall, find Dickface and the Twins--ha, that sounds like a whole set of genitalia, and I always like that--and see Where in the World is Coulson SanDiego. On it. J, got any estimates I can work with? Hey also, Barton, you look like shit, but you look like functional shit which is a huge improvement. Cap'll be pleased. Also, me too. J?" He tapped at the wall that separated Clint's kitchen from his living room, and it went transparent and filled with diagrams.

Clint frowned and tried to figure out whether there was an appropriate response to that, and decided against when JARVIS started displaying code up one side of the wall. He looked at Natasha. "It's him, isn't it? I mean, I'm not crazy?"

"We're all crazy by fairly objective standards," she said. "But I think you're about to be a lot better. Or at least, a lot less fucked up."

He sighed. "It's good to have goals. I'm going to go take my thousandth shower of the day and suit up. I feel like this is going to end in a mission, don't you?"

"I'll go tell the others."

Clint watched her go, stood and watched Stark fuck with lines of arcane text for a few minutes, then went to the shower as promised.

This was the weirdest day of his life, including the ones involving alien gods with magical accessories.

When he came out, Stark was arguing with someone in his kitchen and Natasha was back, holding his quiver. "Cap's a little upset," she said. She examined him critically. "You're underweight and a lot grayer than you were, but you look better. Stark isn't wrong."

"Thanks. I mean, not for all the, you know, crushing my ego, just, for helping with the stuff and just, anyway."

"Always." She glanced over her shoulder. "Whole gang's here, so you know."

"Awesome." Clint peered around the corner to see Steve watching video of a parachute rescue, so that was promising, and then, suddenly, of Phil talking to that asshole Blake, and he gasped, then took a breath, steadied himself, and reminded himself his steadiness was one of the things that made him valuable on the team.

Six months ago, he would have said it was what made him valuable, full stop, but he knew he hasn't been carrying his weight for a long time, and still, they were all here and ready to help. It was like... okay, it felt like the obvious thing: family. He assumed. He hadn't had one of those as an adult, but this reminded him of taking on the world with his brother and a garbage bag of their stuff, and it made him feel strong, which in itself made him feel a little wobbly in the knees. "So, do we have a plan?"

Stark waggled his eyebrows because of course he does, and Steve nodded sharply.

"The rest of the team is some kid named Skye, who has no other references so we think she's some kind of CI, and a woman I've heard whispers about, Melinda--"

"May? May is with him?" Clint wasn't sure whether to be glad he's had that kind of help or worried that she was never going to let anyone past her.

"You know her?"

"We do," Natasha said. "She won't tolerate your bullshit, Stark, and she won't slip up about anything."

"Who said anything about slipping up? I'm reading you in, obviously." Stark waved his hand in a vague circle at the wall of images and code chunks. "According to your record, you're cleared to know. Jet's ready when you are, and--"

"And Fury will definitely notice this change if he was already looking for it," Clint said.

"Yeah, but what's he gonna do, hack me?" Stark snorted and leaned back, clasping his fingers to stretch overhead. "Meet ya there; I fly solo."

"Why? Why do we need Iron Man?"

"We don't, unless Cap decides to strangle him for dishonoring the truthy, justicey American Way or something. Then it might be useful."

"I'm not going to strangle him," Steve said. "You just like the power."

"True! Very true. Anyway, coordinates for their current assignment are on your tablet, and even if someone decides to change their orders because of one pesky little incursion, well, once I'm in the air, I'll have them. Oh, hey. That's actually why we need Iron Man. Flip side!" He wandered out the door, and Clint looked around at the rest of the group.

Bruce shook his head. "You don't need me on this one," he said.

"Emotional support, maybe?" Clint argued.

"Nope. When everyone in the room is pissed off, hurt, and/or scared, that's not going to end well on this bus of theirs."

"May has them on the Bus? Jesus." Clint shook his head. "How the hell is this secret?"

Natasha skimmed through the compiled information. "None of the pieces really are. Just the sum, with everyone involved carefully aware Coulson was KIA in New York."

"How very Furyish," Clint said. "God damn it. Nat, you and I need to find a way to put ourselves back on more active status. Well, maybe you. I think Fury and I might not be friends any more."

"See?" Bruce pushed off the counter he'd been leaning against and made for the door. "I'll be here coming up with a better way to put you to sleep if it ever comes up again," he said.

Clint wasn't sure what to do with that, and by the time he came up with, "Thanks?" Bruce was in the elevator and gone. Which left him, Nat, and Steve. And JARVIS. "Hey JARVIS?"

"Sir?"

"Thanks for all this. All this stuff, I mean, finding what I needed." He'd meant the recordings, the narcotics, all that, but as soon as he said it he realized JARVIS had also found him Phil. Well, the same sentiment applied. "Will you be coming with us?"

"I am always, to greater and lesser extent, present in the Iron Man suit. Would you rather I not engage?"

"No no, I'm glad. I'm--um, thanks." Clint shrugged, then glanced at Steve and Natasha and headed for the jet.

It was one of Stark's, nothing like the Quinjet except in that it was a flying machine, but Clint had flown it quite a few times, and he was halfway through the checklist by the time a suited-up Steve and Natasha boarded. "You really think we'll need the whole shebang?" he asked Steve as he stowed the shield.

"No, but I find it makes people not very inclined to resist," Steve said. "Except Tony, but he does it to be contrary."

Clint snorted at that, and Natasha patted his hand on the stick. "Ready?"

Clint ran down the last of the checklist quickly--he was pretty sure JARVIS oversaw all this shit anyway, but the habit was ingrained for a reason--and nodded. "Let's do it."

He lifted into the air and double-checked the coordinates. It wasn't that far, actually, although the bus was heading away from them, so catching up was going to be a thing. Still, Stark didn't make shitty planes, and Clint wasn't looking to dawdle.

Even though, on consideration, he wasn't exactly sure what he was going to say to the man when they saw him in the flesh.

Well, he'd think of something. He always did.

Natasha studied him from her seat, but said nothing.

"What?"

She shook her head and slipped between the seats to go back and talk to Steve.

Clint just kept flying south and west. Stark reported in periodically, noting that their target was continuing toward its predicted destination, and JARVIS added commentary twice regarding the status of the records at SHIELD. All in all, it was as trouble-free as it could be, and Clint wondered if they were overdoing it.

Hell, when May landed and then didn't just take right back off when he came down next to her, he was pretty sure they were. But they'd come this far, and what was he going to do, go back home? No, he was on a mission, even if it was personal, and he was going to see it through.

The bus's rear hatch opened as the four of them approached, and May stood, arms cross, hip cocked, at the top of the ramp. "Why are you following my plane?"

Clint stopped a step off the bottom edge of the metal. "Looking for Phil."

"Looking for?"

"Found. He's here, May, and if you want to check the records, you'll find I'm authorized to know it. Also, I'm level seven, which isn't news."

"Yeah, I'm going to say all of that's meaningless because you have Stark. Who is, by the way, the least unobtrusive tail I have ever ignored." Her expression was blank, but she hadn't made any move to stop him coming aboard, so he stepped up onto the ramp. He glanced back at Natasha, whose face was as blank as May's and then at Steve, who was standing at parade rest over his other shoulder.

"Can I come up?"

"Just you?"

"They're basically here for backup," Clint said. "We're a team, which Phil knows because he made us one." Stark chose that moment to land with a clang behind him, and Clint rolled his eyes. "Sometimes we're a kind of showy team, which isn't his fault."

Stark popped open his faceplate and immediately started talking. Shouting, actually, hollering into the bus. "Hey Agent, just so you know, I'm sure you're in there and listening, I just want to tell you I haven't told Pepper about this yet but when I do, you might want to be ready with, wait, what is the appropriate apology gift for letting someone cry and think you were dead and stuff? Normally I'd ask Pepper, but you see my dilemma. Anyway, come out come out, Birdbrain needs you, also I might have convinced your plane it can't take off right now so you might as well get it over with, also, I think I have abandonment issues here, new team, chopped liver, ugh." He dropped the faceplate again and took up a space next to Natasha.

May barely maintained her straight face. Nat, Clint was sure, was unmoved, but then, she was used to it. Clint shrugged at May and took another step up the ramp.

"You know I can't let you just show up," she said. "Our ops are covert, and certainly you understand operational secrecy."

"Yeah, but you know there's nothing you to do to make me unknow what I know." Clint shrugged again. "It was the thing with the helmet that got me here."

"Oh?" She didn't give away anything, but behind her, Clint saw someone else moving closer, and when he glanced over, it was Simmons.

"Yeah. This one, nose-diving, and there I am listening to Phil's old reports and I hear all about it."

"That report wasn't old!" Simmons said.

Clint offered up a grin, fake as hell but not like this kid would know that. "Yeah, I know. That's why I was a little startled to learn Phil had dictated it."

"Well of course," Simmons started before May shot her a look. She paused, then frowned at him. "I don't believe we've been introduced, Mister...?"

"Barton," May said. "Agent Barton is here because he thinks Phil Coulson is on the bus."

"Well. Oh." Simmons looked like she was going to say something else, then twisted her hands together, then stilled. "Well, then I suppose he's working from incomplete information, isn't he? Our personnel list is classified."

"Nice," Clint said. "True, even. But I'm on the cleared list, which I found because of you and your little skydiving stunt."

"Oh, well then." Simmons beamed at him, then glanced at May again, then paused, confused, and frowned.

Stark's faceplate tipped up again and he stepped up just in front of Clint like he was preparing to be in the way if May decided to kill him. Which probably wouldn't actually work, but was kind of touching. "Jesus, lady, stop torturing the kid. And the girl. Hey, girl, Simmons, is it? How'd you get this gig? Want a better one? I can build you a lab that would make you and--what's his name, the other kid? Well, both of you, it'd make you think you'd--"

"Stark." May's face was even stonier than it had been.

"Among other things, I suspect I'm rather older than the age at which it's appropriate to refer to me as 'girl', but setting that aside, I believe I'm needed here," Simmons said carefully. "We're needed here. Fitz and I, and while I'm certain that's a lovely offer, still, a lab is no place to see the world, I've found."

"I do okay."

"Yes, but you're a superhero, along with Agent, you are Hawkeye, aren't you?"

"His arms give it away, don't they?"

"Just a bit. It's really very subtle," she said, looking around Stark at Clint. "I'm sure you're much more than beautiful arms."

"Uh. Thanks. Maybe you could find Phil for me now?"

Simmons looked at May again hopefully, then sighed. "Agents May and Ward have authority over bus access," she said. "I do not."

Stark clanked up the ramp a few paces. "So, you work for Agent--for Phil Coulson. Well, we all do, or did, sort of. Although, I was more a consultant, too much paperwork to lasso me into anything more, what can you do, no paperwork for genius, right? Right. You feel me, don'tcha?"

Simmons blinked at him as though she was really itching to study something about their interaction, and Clint laughed. "It's okay, kid. He's this way with everyone. Hey Phil, Stark's hassling your--"

He stopped short when Phil stepped out of deep shadow and dropped the foot or so onto the ramp from one side. Clint hadn't even seen him, which was saying something, but then he was just there, real, with bags under his eyes and his tie a little askew, and Clint couldn't figure out how to finish the sentence.

"Not just him, is it?" Phil asked. "That's hassling my team."

Clint opened his mouth, then closed it again.

"Barton, report."

He nodded once, sharply. "How long have you been standing there?"

"Long enough to observe that Agent May doesn't think you have an appropriate reason to board my plane. What brings you?"

Clint stared. "Maybe, um. You're real."

"Come again?"

"Maybe I should come up to explain. But you're real? May says no, though. About coming up, not about your actuality."

Phil looked at him for a long moment, his face giving away how confused he was by Clint's statement although surely that was only apparent to Clint and maybe Natasha, then nodded. "May, it's on me if--it's on me."

Her lips quirked, and she turned away, bringing out a hand to catch Simmons's arm and drag her with. Clint walked the rest of the way up the ramp and stopped, uncertain.

Phil approached from his side, stopped a couple of feet away, and folded his arms across his chest. "Well?"

Clint's eyes burned, and he took a deep breath. "I needed to hear your voice, sir. Is what it boils down to."

"So you thought you'd show up, ground us, and pester--"

"What choice did I have?" Clint turned sharply, glaring, then looked away. "Your existence was classified. You don't exist in the record. Calling you up wasn't exactly on the table."

"My--what?" Phil paused and looked down the ramp at Natasha, having some kind of silent conversation with her, then moved in front of Clint. "Level sevens--"

"Have access to the reports you're filing, unless they're me or Tasha. Yeah."

"So, May's objection was..." Phil frowned. "I think you're going to have to start at the beginning." Clint nodded and formed his hands into fists at his side, trying not to reach out and touch, trying not to do anything rash. After a second, he gave up, reached forward, and gripped Phil's lapels.

"The beginning," he said as he leaned closer, "is that I'm not okay. I needed..." He leaned a little closer. "I needed you."

Phil didn't back off, didn't look confused, and Clint sighed and leaned the rest of the way in, brushing Phil's lips with his. It was a brief kiss, just a second of contact broken immediately, but Clint didn't pull away and to his surprise, Phil didn't either, although he did stiffen slightly. Well, Clint would take what he could get. "And then I heard you, and then you were real," he said.

"I was--what?" At the bottom of the ramp, Stark was offering a low whistle and Steve was shushing him.

"You were dead sir. And then you weren't. And I." Clint stopped. "I'm never going to tell this story in order, but I'd really like to tell it sitting down."

Phil stared at him for another minute, then stepped back and gripped Clint's upper arms with both hands. "I'll be right back." He walked down the ramp, conferred with Natasha for a moment, then dropped his chin to his chest and closed his eyes. He said a few more words, then shook his head briefly and moved to Steve, who stood at attention and answered a series of questions with yes sir and no sir. Stark, Phil didn't try to talk to. He just pinched the bridge of his nose with one thumb and forefinger, and said, "Tell Fury we'll talk," and then he came back up the ramp, moved off the side to manipulate the controls, and returned to Clint as the floor started to raise under his feet. "My office?"

Clint glanced down at Nat, who nodded and hand-signed a rendezvous later gesture, then looked back at Phil. Phil, who was fucking alive. "Yeah. Your office." He followed him through a common area of some kind and up a small circular stair, then stepped into his office and blinked. "Seriously? This is where all this shit went?" He gave a little chuckle even though this didn't feel funny, and shook hie head one more time. "Man, you know Stark is never going to shut up about Fury being a liar, right?"

"I feared as much." Phil lifted a pile of papers off the couch and sat down. "Clint? Barton? Report."

Clint pulled his sidearm out of its holster and set it on the chair, then took all four knives off his wrists. On due consideration he'd left his quiver and bow in Stark's jet, as he really didn't expect to need to shoot anyone on this mission and somehow he hadn't quite wanted to come here as Hawkeye so much as as Clint, so that only left the kusari in his breast pocket, and that wasn't bulky. He sat down at the other end of the couch and started talking.

Phil listened to the part about the running, the part about lying awake for hours every night, the part about thinking about what might make him feel like he could sleep, and the part about the security hole. Clint left out the parts about fighting and considering sex; Phil knew him pretty well and probably knew anyway, but he didn't want to explain that part. He just wanted-- "I didn't expect to find you," he finally said, low and quiet. "I just expected to listen long enough to make it to tomorrow."

Phil drew in a breath. "You weren't-- Was making it to tomorrow--"

"No, for fuck's sake. You and JARVIS. No, I wasn't going to NOT make it to tomorrow. I was trying TO make it to tomorrow. See how that's different? I needed you, but I've been doing without things I need my whole fucking life and why am I so mad, you're alive, I can listen to you any time, fuck, I'm a mess."

Phil held still for a long time, saying nothing, and finally Clint looked up. Phil shrugged. "I don't think you should do without what you need any more."

"Yeah, me either, hence the road trip. Air trip. Whatever."

"So, you needed me?"

"Yeah."

"Here I am."

Clint narrowed his eyes. "And by that you mean..."

Phil considered him for a moment. "I didn't know SHIELD had restricted the information from you," he said. "I assumed... I don't know what I assumed. I'd never woken up without you hanging around before. Except before, when you were a punk mercenary and we didn't work together. But since then. But I was in Tahiti for a long time, so I guess I thought you were busy, and we'd catch up, and then I needed to build this team..." He broke off. "They really didn't tell you?"

"Oh, no, they totally did and my brain has been torturing me for no real reason all this time--no they did not tell me."

Phil sighed. "Nick... gets ideas sometimes."

"I know, and some of them are pretty great. The team is pretty great. The team being a team, sticking together, all that, hell like just now, even, that's pretty great. But damn, sometimes." Clint noticed that now, when he should have been angry, because for fuck's sake, Fury, what were you even? now when he should have been angry, he was just resigned and kind of sad and maybe it was just that he was exhausted all over again which was definitely appropriate given everything, but was also still frustrating as fuck. Finally, he looked up. "Sometimes his ideas suck, sir."

"I think I'm outside your chain of command, Clint. You can call me by name. Which is just as well, given what happened on the ramp."

"Which was?" Clint knew he was being a pain in the ass, showing up here and then demanding answers when it was obvious Phil had thought he was the one that had been abandoned by his team, but he didn't think he could go any further without help. More help than he'd already had. Yeah, okay, he was a mess. "On the ramp, what do you think happened?"

"You kissed me. I let you. Then you stopped, which I also let you, not because I wanted to but because we needed to talk first. I assume you're staying."

"Until you kick me out. First?" Jesus, why had Phil ever put up with him?

Phil gave him a look Clint recognized, a look that was fond and a little confused and a lot exasperated. "I wouldn't have let you in the first place if--what are you hoping for?"

"No, no, you go first."

"You started this."

"Think that might have been you. When you pointed a gun at a god that likes to show up in a lot of places at once with all sorts of illusion fuckery in his game. Also, I don't know if I mentioned, I am a fucked up mess and I don't know if I can put any more feet in front of any more others right now."

"Ah, so now in addition to being the best marksman in the world, my favorite uncooperative sniper, a complete smartass I hate not hearing every day, and the guy that can come up with a plan to take down a flying fortress single-handed--no, don't you dare feel guilty; I'm commenting on the skills, not the motivation that was coerced--in addition to all that, you're a centipede?" Phil smiled. "Although, remind me to read you in on Centipede." Clint heard the way that was definitely a code word, but had zero intention of learning about more about it in the next little while, so he just let Phil continue. "Barton, you are a fucked up mess, but I've known since Zapotlanejo that I wanted, someday, well, something. But I figured it was just me, and I try to keep my pressuring skills in the interrogation chamber, not my personal life."

Clint scowled. "Coercion or not, that's hardly the only example you could--wait, Zapotlanejo? What happened in Zapotlanejo?"

"It sounds a little stupid," Phil began, "because you shot the bad guy, and that's what you do."

Clint nodded for him to go on.

"But you shot the bad guy with a gun because the arrow shaft would have been in my way for half a second in dealing with the other guy because I was right there, and you were still a thousand times more comfortable with a bow--"

"I'm still a thousand times more comfortable with a bow," Clint put in.

"and also gunshot gave away your position."

"No big deal. Went back to the bow, moved fifty feet, took out the cleanup crew."

"I know. I remember. I told you it sounded stupid, but when I looked up at you after, something had changed." Phil shrugged. "That's what happened in Zapotlanejo. You?"

"Me, what?"

The fond-and-exasperated look came back. "I'm assuming the impulse to kiss me wasn't brand new half an hour ago?"

"Uh. No, but I can't pinpoint a day. Roughly? Probably around Kuči?"

"That's nearly ten years ago."

"I was patient. Or chickenshit."

"I see."

"Yep. Also, I want it on the record that 36 hours ago I thought you were dead and also I didn't have your office to nap in for six months, and I think I am handling what I'm really hoping is not a psychotic break incredibly well."

"Noted." Phil considered that for a minute. "We haven't talked about Tahiti yet, but honestly, I know exactly what you mean about that. Tahiti was...well, we'll have time for that later."

"Bullshit. I plan to never again in my life count on having time for a damn thing later. Carpe all the diems, man."

Phil pursed his lips for several seconds like he was trying to figure out what to say, which was, frankly, uncharacteristic; Phil always knew what to say--and how to say it, actually. He knew how to disarm criminals with flour because he knew what to say to get in position without a lick of warning. Clint said nothing, and waited. Finally, he began, "I'd tell you, but I don't know what there is to tell. Something happened, in Tahiti, but I have no idea what, and my memory is so damaged and distorted--all I know is, I feel different. Melinda says it's because I am different. Blake says he doesn't like the new me. And me? I just don't know if everything now is some kind of complicated dream." He shrugged. "That'll have to do for now. So, we've established this isn't new."

"We have." Clint wanted to know what kind of dream this was for Phil--he was dreaming a whole new team? But he didn't push. He just asked, "Now what?"

"It depends. You want to worry right now about how we probably have a couple of hours tops before the might of SHIELD descends upon us?"

"Nope. Don't give a fuck--that's the kind of thing I am all over worrying about tomorrow. Also, I sort of think if that happens Nat will point out that the next likely move if they descend with any vigor is or someone to call Bruce, and you know what? How much footage have you seen? Because it turns out Big Green is totally a team player if he knows the score going in."

Phil raised his eyebrows. "And he'd play on the team for this?"

"Bizarrely, I think I'm his favorite. But he listens to Steve, so if Steve's on your team, so is he. And Steve--you know this. Steve is a shit-ton more loyal to people than to agencies, thank everything. Long answer short: Yep."

"Then I think we should see about that sleep you're short. Come here." He opened his arms and Clint blinked, then scooted across the couch and into them, which, it wasn't like cuddling was one of their usual things, but then he didn't exactly hate it, either."

"I'm not, technically, short sleep right now," he confessed, settling onto Phil's chest and relishing the strange and perfect sensation of Phil's arms closing around him even though they were perfectly safe, at home, uninjured, and definitely not experiencing any exigent circumstances. "I slept round the clock when JARVIS and you and Nat helped."

"So, you want to get up?" Phil ran his fingers through Clint's hair.

"Uh, no. Just full disclosure. I want to stay here forever."

Phil hmmed. "I went looking, you know, when I woke up."

"Looking for?"

"You. At the time I thought I was looking for a record of capture or--or worse, and then it turned out..."

"Nat clocked me."

"I know. I found the video. I just... I thought I'd missed my chance, you know?" Clint snuggled in tighter against Phil's chest; his voice had broken just a little, there. "And then you were, against all odds, all right."

"Oh yeah, my odds were way worse than yours."

"Okay, against most odds, although I don't really know that the phrase is meant to be comparative." Phil huffed a little chuckle. "But if we're carpe'ing all diems, I should say this: I was and am unbelievably proud of you."

"Aw, sir, you're gonna make me blush." Actually, he was going to bring back the tears, and Clint lifted his head to twist and look him in the eye. "I mean, not sir. Phil? I've been calling you that in my head, but my mouth has a difference of opinion."

"You'll adapt," Phil said.

"Damn straight." Clint put his head down again, and Phil shifted, bringing them closer to horizontal on the couch.

"We could move this to the bed," he said after a moment. "It'd be more comfortable."

Clint looked up again. "Won't that freak out your ducklings, if we go traipsing--"

"Bed's in here."

"I'm in." Clint flailed a little to get himself upright, then offered Phil a hand and pulled him close when he stood up. "I mean, unless we have to get there before I get to kiss you properly."

"Barton, you have never in your life concerned yourself with propriety."

"Not what I meant by proper, you know that, come here." Clint brought his hand up to the back of Phil's neck and leaned in to brush their lips together again, then sighed and opened his mouth to kiss Phil for real.

Phil made a little noise Clint set aside for now, although he was really going to need to hear it again later, and let him, opening for him and letting him lead the way, letting Clint surge forward with his tongue and pull back to tug and nibble until they were both gasping.

"So, bed, you said?" Clint asked, pulling back to pant. He dropped his chin and let his head fall forward, brow to brow with Phil.

"I did, but it turns out I'm quite comfortable here, come to think of it."

Clint chuckled. "I am not having sex with you for the first time standing in the middle of your office. Wait, okay, that would be hot, and it's not like I've never thought about it, but I feel like that--"

"Requires urgency of a completely different kind." Phil nodded and turned away, grabbing Clint's hand to pull him along.

Clint looked down at their clasped hands and smiled as undid his tie with his other hand and looked back over his shoulder.

"What?"

"Nothin'." Clint squeezed and then let go, stepping forward and unbuttoning under the tie as he mouthed along Phil's jaw.

"Scar," Phil said, voice strained but hands busy ditching his jacket.

"Yeah, I thought probably. Shirt?"

"No, it's okay, just--" Phil stepped back. "Will it bother you?"

Clint tried to formulate an answer for that. "Yes, because jesus fuck, some guy ran you through like that guy in the Firefly movie only from behind--actually, two guys, but that's neither here nor there--like, hey, great way to die, and there's nothing about that that's okay. But I mean, is it going to gross me out and make me not want..." Clint caught Phil back toward him and wrapped both arms around him. "Fuck, no. If you're good, I'm great."

Phil wormed his hands back up and started working on Clint's vest. "You really needed a tac suit to come here? A t-shirt would have been--"

"Shitty first-date attire?"

"Were you coming here for a date?"

"No, but once I was here it turned out I was, so retrospectively."

"I see. Well, tac suit: not much better."

"Why? It's basically what you're wearing, for a different kind of tactics."

Phil snorted and ripped off the vest, then kissed Clint again. "You're ridiculous," he said when he pulled away. His voice was fond, and Clint shuddered. "What?"

"Nothing. I just. You sounded like you sound when I'm in the hospital. I didn't know it was, I didn't know you were thinking, shit."

Phil shook his head. "No idea what you mean, Barton. I don't think anything different in the hospital than I do anywhere else. I think I want you well, safe, with me..."

"I just want you, no conditions. Well, no. Alive and talking, but we have that already. Everything else is gravy. Like, gravy." Clint finished opening Phil's shirt and leaned away to let the light in so he could see. He looked at the scar for a long time, then slipped the shirt off Phil's shoulders and shuffled to the side to look at his back.

"Satisfied?"

"Horrified, but yes, satisfied. Will I hurt you?"

Phil shook his head. "So far it hasn't slowed me down much. Or--well, it does, but it's healed," He dropped his chin to laugh at himself. "You won't damage me, is what I'm saying."

Clint nodded, then pulled off the t-shirt he did have on, under the vest. "Okay."

"Okay?"

"What, was I supposed to argue?"

"No, but I guess I thought you might. You sometimes do."

"Only when you're wrong, babe." Clint quickly glanced toward the bed to check the distance, then hooked two fingers into Phil's waistband and walked backward toward it. "Which isn't very often. For example, a few minutes ago, you suggested the bed, and I have no complaint." He sat and let go of Phil's pants, then bent and unlaced his boots, kicking them off and turning to lie down.

Phil watched him lie down, toeing off his shoes while Clint worked on his boots, then smiled softly. "As many times as I've stood by a bedside with you--"

"Get in here." Clint reached toward him, and Phil nodded and lay down next to him, reversing their earlier positions so that he was cradled on Clint's chest. Clint wrapped both arms around him and smiled when he felt the sensation of motion under them. "May must have decided I can stay."

"Could be taking you to Fury for him to flay you."

"Could be. Guess we oughtta make sure we don't waste time." Clint squirmed onto his side and down, kissing Phil softly. "I feel like a giant sap every time I look at you, by the way. Everyone's gonna see it."

"Bullshit," Phil said. "You have a better poker face than that. You never let me see that you wanted this, for instance, and I was watching you on purpose. Also, I'm pretty sure it'll be obvious going both ways anyhow."

"You mind?" Clint's hand was stroking up and down Phil's back, the pads of his fingers catching against the scar going both ways. The first time, Phil tensed; the second, he relaxed against Clint and started toying with the hair on his chest.

"Not even a little." Phil turned and reached back over his shoulder to flick off the lamp, then came back to Clint, leaning up for another kiss.

"I like seeing you," Clint said.

"As if you can't in the ambient light," Phil answered. "But this is better for napping."

"Is that what we're doing?"

"Oh, probably. Eventually." Phil grinned. "Before that, I have some other ideas."

Clint chuckled and maneuvered Phil on top of him, straddling him, chest to chest and face to face. "Me, too."

Clint bracketed Phil's face with both hands, lifting his head off the pillow to kiss him, then pulled them both back down and kept on going. It felt so good he was seriously considering the possibility it was still a narcotic-generated dream, but Phil felt solid under his hands and above his body, and honestly, would he have imagined the ugliness of that scar? Or the wild scenario of Phil living mostly on a plane with a new team? Or Stark and Steve suiting up just to show up and stare down Melinda May on his behalf?

(actually, he set aside for later consideration the topic of what would happen if May and Rogers actually got into a scuffle; it would probably be worth selling tickets and also might break SHIELD)

Finally, his lips buzzing from kissing and stubble-burn, he decided to just stop worrying about it and instead do something about the way Phil was moving against him.

Phil lifted away. "Welcome back."

"Hmm?"

"You were thinking. I decided to just stick with kissing for the duration."

"Good call. I stopped thinking, though."

"Yes, I got that. Now stop wearing pants." Phil had his weight on his elbows, and he ground down against Clint to emphasize the point.

Clint shoved a hand between them and started working his way out of his pants, which was way harder than it would have been in jeans, damn it. Phil pulled his knees up and unbuttoned, then dragged down a zipper and started shoving his waistband down. It was hurried and sloppy, but when Clint felt the weight of Phil's cock hitting the back of his hand, he didn't care. He stopped fucking with his pants and wrapped his fingers around Phil's shaft, using his other hand on the back of Phil's head to bring him back down.

"You--" Phil started.

"We'll get there," Clint said. He let go long enough to get the last button and open his fly, but then the temptation of getting back to Phil was too great. He tugged at his lower lip with teeth gripping just hard enough to pull, then rolled them, landing between Phil's thighs and quickly sliding back to lie on his belly and start nuzzling at Phil's balls while he maintained a lazy stroke with his fingers.

"Jesus, Clint, get back up here."

"Yeah, in a minute."

Phil grumbled something that turned into a moan as Clint sucked one of his balls into his mouth, then Clint felt Phil's abs flex as he lifted onto his elbows and looked down. "You're terrible at following orders."

Clint met his gaze and grinned, then gave one more good suck and pulled back. "Not a new problem. Also, I thought I was out of your chain of command."

Phil rolled his eyes and took the moment to hook his hands under Clint's arm and drag him back up, then shoved his open pants down around his thighs. "There."

Clint laughed, took both cocks in his hand, and squeezed, then pulled his knees up to hold him up and saluted with his other hand. "Sir yes sir."

Phil's cock jumped against his, which made both of them hiss, and Clint laughed again. "We're having way too much fun with everything but fucking, Phil."

"I don't know, we seem to be making progress. For example, a minute ago you still had pants on." Phil reached down to grab a handful of Clint's ass, and added, "And while your pants are worth looking at while you're wearing them, this is definitely better."

Clint pushed forward, sliding his cock along Phil's in his hand, and settled his weight back down, speeding up his strokes until they were both arching and kissing wherever they could reach between panting gasps and urgent thrusts.

It was awkward, with both of them still halfway wrapped up in pants and neither of them prepared to let go of the other again for anything, but soon Clint was biting his lip and holding his weight all the way up with his free hand so he could look down between them and see himself come.

Phil's cock pushing into view through his fist as he spurted all over both of them was the hottest thing he'd ever seen, and Clint glanced up at Phil. "Please?"

Phil smiled. "Anything you want, Clint."

Clint scooted back again, and fuck the bedding, their pants, and everything, wrapped his mouth around Phil's cock, took in as much as he could, and swallowed hard.

Phil half-sat up again, belly muscles flexing and straining as he came, and then he dropped back, breathing hard, onto the bed. His hand came up and stroked Clint's hair, and Clint smiled and slid his lips back up Phil's softening cock, pushing off and landing next to him on his side. "So, I kind of liked the talking," he said after a second.

"Oh?"

"Oh. It's--I want this? But I'd have been okay with not getting this if I just had you in my ear again," he said. "Obviously. So yeah, I think I'm never going to have a problem if sex with you is chatty. Or even shouty. Except for the problem I already had where sometimes you talking about incredibly mundane things like lines of sight or artifact authentication makes me think bad bad things."

Phil pulled him in tight and spoke into his hair. "I think we can work something out," he said.

"Unless Fury throws me in the Hulkproof fishbowl for finding you," Clint said. "But it'll be worth it."

Phil snorted. "For one thing, I'm pretty sure Thor broke that thing for good. For another, if it happens, I know a billionaire and a couple of other geeks. I bet we could get you a comm unit if we really tried."

Clint chuckled. "Can you imagine, putting Stark and Fitz in a room with Banner? Jesus." He chuckled again. "We might need a new fishbowl to contain the fallout."

"We might." Phil petted Clint's hair some more, then reached over him and dragged the other side of the blanket up and over them both. "Either way, wherever May's taking us, right now, I could use a nap. You?"

Clint was already halfway asleep, feeling safer than he'd felt since childhood. It was kind of scary, but worth it.

– – – – –

Epilogue:

"Ten minutes to wheels down," May's voice said, over the comm speaker in Phil's office.

Clint woke and lifted his head quickly, then grimaced and swiped at the scaly stickiness on his belly adhering him to Phil. "Where d'you think we are?" he asked.

Phil smiled softly again, a look Clint hoped to see at least one million more times in his life, and shook his head. "No idea. Want to go find out together?"

"Yeah, kay." Clint rolled over top of Phil, kissing him as he went, and managed to stand despite his pants, then glanced down. "Got anything I can wear? Because there's 'not ashamed' and then there's 'walking around with come everywhere', and I'm guessing the latter is inappropriate in at least some settings."

Phil hmmed again, and when Clint turned, was taking a moment to enjoy the view, for which Clint stuck out his tongue.

"You do that, I'm going to start getting ideas," Phil warned. He shoved his pants the rest of the way down and stood, then went to the little washroom and dampened a cloth, wiping himself down and then handing it to Clint. "I'll see what I can find."

Ten minutes later, exactly, the wheels hit the tarmac, and Phil, in another identical suit, and Clint, in his own t-shirt and Phil's oldest sweatpants, were standing, arm in arm, at the ramp.

Behind them, the other girl, the hacker who Stark hadn't met yet (it was only a matter of time, and Clint was pretty sure Phil was going to have at least one conniption as a result) said to Simmons, quietly , "Forget his arms. Look at that ass. Go AC."

"AC?" Clint asked, equally quiet.

"Skye likes nicknames," Phil replied.

"And you definitely don't encourage her."

Phil looked at him and cracked the tiniest of smiles. "Of course not, Clint. You know I have no room in my life for backtalking rulebreaking smartasses. Never have."

"Uh-huh." Clint leaned toward him, letting their shoulders brush. "So, where are we?"

"Just south of Yuma," May said, stepping up on Phil's other side. "We have a situation with an agent who's missed three check-ins after what was supposed to be a weapons buy. Natasha's meeting us here in case of trouble."

"And Fury?"

"Said the weapons in question might have some kind of dirty power system." May looked over at them. "He thought we might end up needing to call Stark to have a look. Maybe get his AI to do a little analysis."

Phil gave a little nod, and Clint grinned as they started down the ramp. All he'd wanted was Phil's voice in his ear, but this? He was okay with this.