A Man and His Toy Soldiers

by AssistedRealityInterface

Summary:

When Fury assigns Agent Coulson to nanny two of the most mysterious, legendary agents within S.H.I.E.L.D. after a mission gone wrong, he finds himself way in over his head with two people's safety weighing on his shoulders. Hawkeye and the Black Widow are the best agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.; no one doubts this. But Coulson has to teach them how to be human, and he finds that being the best agents that a place like S.H.I.E.L.D. can breed is more of a hindrance in this matter than he thought. The question for all of them remains; when does the logical choice give in to the humane one? And how hard a choice is that to make?

Notes:

So this is the fic I've been blathering on about in the notes for The Altruist and the Anachronism! I don't know why the hell I felt the need to elucidate on Clint, Natasha, and Coulson's relationship in what I am sure is yet another long and complex epic. I wanted to take a stab at writing threesomes and then it got really out of hand.
I don't know what to say about the first chapter except I may have written a portion of it after watching Rocky and Bullwinkle. This might explain a few things.
At any rate...bear in mind, this will be long, (not as long as as AatA, but close), and also deals heavily in discussions of PTSD, mental trauma, sexual violence, and all kinds of torture later on. Also there's a threesome as the main pairing. If that actually bothers any of you.

Chapter 1: New Partners

"Agent Philip Coulson. Age thirty-four." Nick Fury laid out the file on his desk and raised an eyebrow. "Exemplary record. Number of saves in the field, consistently level-headed and by the book...and yet." He looked at the man sitting across from him. "You're here asking me to put you in the office."

"Not the office per se, sir." Coulson said quietly. "But in a less combative role. I'm getting...well, a little older."

"You're only thirty-four." Nick said, amused. "But I understand your concern. You weren't trained from birth to be a soldier. You're a nurturer at heart, agent."

"...Thank you, sir." Coulson said. Nick chuckled warmly and shook his head.

"You don't sound too thrilled with that. Believe me, it's meant as a compliment." He told him. "Listen to me, Coulson. The truth is, I know you're not cut out for the guns a'blazing tactic--not every man is. I've been waiting for you to swallow your pride and admit it, I'll be honest."

"Well, here I am, then." Coulson said, resisting the urge to sigh. "So, what do you need from me, sir?"

Nick gestured to him before steepling his hands and interlocking his fingers, surveying him carefully.

"To go back to my original point...you're a nurturer. You heal people. You help them. You take care of them. And that's something, especially when you're surrounded by the sort of broken freaks that S.H.I.E.L.D. attracts." Nick told him. "Face it. We're all a bunch of windup toy soldiers, and some of us don't stop, even when we're losing our parts."

"Very bleak metaphor there, sir." Coulson murmured. "But you're right." His gaze flickered to Nick's missing eye for a second before he schooled himself and shook his head. "So what does that have to do with me?"

"I know the agents have been discussing my little "Avengers Initiative." Nick said. "I hear all the gossip." He took two more files out of his desk and laid them down on the table.

"The Initiative, of course, has to start from within S.H.I.E.L.D.; with people who know how the government operates. We are technically a government institution, after all." Nick tsked. "So I found two broken little toy soldiers who seem perfect for the job." He pushed the files towards Coulson.

"...Sir?" Coulson gently edged him forward. Nick smirked.

"They're all yours. From this moment on, you are officially partnered with agents Hawkeye and Black Widow, also known as Clint Barton and Natasha Romanov." He put a hand on Coulson's shoulder. "Good luck fixing them up."

"...Do they know about this?" Coulson asked. His throat was suddenly dry, and he found that he couldn't really quite string thoughts together. Nick nodded.

"They do." He confirmed. "I've transferred your things over to your new apartment that you'll be sharing with the two of them. They're waiting there for you." He explained. "I suggest you hurry, agent. Widow doesn't like being somewhere she doesn't know, and she might take it out on your records."

Coulson had hightailed it out of his office faster than Fury could blink. He just shook his head, amused, and put the files away. Coulson could get the stories from the agents themselves.

"Hill." He called out. Within the blink of an eye, Maria was by his side, a slip of a shadow next to him. He sighed.

"You know I hate it when you sneak up on me." He chided her. Maria shrugged.

"Sorry, sir. I was waiting for you to finish discussing things with agent Coulson." She told him. "What do you need me for?"

"Could you draw me up some paperwork that puts agent Coulson as the leader of the Avengers Initiative forces?" Nick asked. Maria blinked.

"But, sir...isn't that your project?" She asked. Nick nodded.

"The leader of the forces. Not the Initiative itself." Nick told her. "What it means is, well...to be frank?" Nick laughed. "He's their nanny now."

"...I see." Maria said. "I...will get right to that, sir." She promised, leaving the room as quietly as she had come. Nick watched her leave before shaking his head, smiling in response to a joke only he understood.

...

Coulson sighed and got in his car, resisting the urge to slam his head against the steering wheel as he pulled out of the parking garage and headed home. The instructions--left on his seat, just to prove Nick could break in there if he wanted, because he was, quite frankly, insane--led him to a small knot of houses that looked entirely incogruous, a mile away from base. Only Coulson, or any other S.H.I.E.L.D. agent living here, knew them as the S.H.I.E.L.D. housing for the agents who had been selected to work at the main headquarters. 

He pulled into the last one on the left, making his way up the driveway as he noted two other vehicles. One was parked neatly beside him in the driveway; a small black corvette. Sleek, stylish, and pristine. Coulson approved.

The other was parked drunkenly across the innards of the garage, haphazardly placed and just asking to tip over. It was a well-beaten up motorcycle that was teeming with probably illegal modifications--but damn if it didn't look cool.

Coulson disapproved. Mainly because whoever had parked it there had parked it so he couldn't get to the fridge.

He just sighed and got out of his car, taking his keys with him as he made his way up the walkway to the house. It was small and simple; a two-floor unit, weathered enough to look cozy and pristine and uniform enough to mark it as a S.H.I.E.L.D. house, for anyone who knew how to look for that sort of thing.

Coulson went for the doorknob, and was geniunely surprised when he felt it turn easily under his hand. 

"You would think agents would know better than to leave a door unlocked..." He mused, speaking more to himself than anything as he made his way into the house.

He immediately tensed as he crossed the threshold. Someone was behind him. Had to counter. Had to--

"We do, generally speaking," a soft voice purred in his ear, "but this time..." 

Coulson was vaguely aware of a gentle hand on his neck. Then, before he could counter or break the hold, he was gripped tight and twisted, flung back onto what felt like a couch. 

"I was interested." The woman now straddling him on the couch murmured, her voice sensuous and soft. "In you." 

There was silence for a moment. Coulson couldn't help but notice the woman's hair smelled particularly good. Like spices.

"...I took this assignment to get out of the sort of life that leads to me getting pinned to couches." Coulson finally remarked. "And could you turn on the lights?"

The woman blinked. From behind her, a dark, warm laugh enamated from the blackness of the room before a well-muscled arm reached out in Coulson's line of sight, flicking on a light-switch.

"Ouch, Natasha." The man tsked, pushing his sunglasses up on his head. "So much for getting to keel moose."

The look Natasha gave the man could have boiled the blood of a lesser person. As it was, the man--Clint Barton, Coulson corrected himself--just laughed.

"So, is this how you greet everyone, agent?" Coulson asked. Natasha shrugged.

"No." She said. "Just the people I like."

"...All right, then." Coulson sighed. "So, Fury told me you two both know about the reassignment--"

"He has a nice ass." Clint remarked. "Don't you think so, Nat?"

"Hm." Natasha mused. "From what I can see from this particular angle."

"...Anyways," Coulson said, fighting the urge to grit his teeth, "if you both know about the reassignment, then I don't need to debrief you on that--"

"Heh. Debrief." Clint snickered. "You could debrief me again, if you wanted."

"I am going to murder everyone in this room." Coulson whispered, in a voice so soft neither agent picked it up. Raising his voice a little, he continued, "but I am interested to know if he gave you any further orders."

"Truth?" Natasha murmured. "This is an "extended leave" for the two of us." She frowned. "Fury said we were being forced to relax." She grumbled. "He's doing it because he thinks we handled our last mission poorly."

"...Your records are impeccable, though." Coulson said. "Widow and Hawkeye are a legend--how could--"

"Poorly as in we left no survivors." Clint explained. Coulson just nodded.

"I see," he said, "so he's waiting to see if any effects of PSTD surface."

"Yep." Clint nodded. "You catch on quick, don't you?"

"Page eighteen, chapter seven of the S.H.I.E.L.D. handbook; "How to Deal with Mental Illness in Agents."" Coulson responded. "Fury is following basic procedures."

"...Holy shit, Nat, someone who actually read the handbook!" Clint said, sounding geniunely surprised. "Nick got us a unicorn!"

Coulson rolled his eyes. Natasha smiled. 

He stopped for a second to catch it while it was there--he knew it would be majorly impolite to say so, but the two of them had already commented on, well, more specific areas of his body--they didn't seem to be the type to care...

"You have a lovely smile, agent Romanov." He said politely. Natasha just stared at him as if he had slapped her in the face. Coulson winced. 

"Sorry. Was I too forward?" He apologized. "I just--"

"Aww. He really is a unicorn." Clint grinned, shouldering his bow. "Hey, question, a couple of boxes with these really big black discs in them kinda fell out all over the stairs. We were gonna wait until you--"

"My records!" Coulson wailed. Natasha did a quick roll to get off of the man, who was scrabbling up the steps and shrieking. 

"...So...those were pretty fragile, I'm assuming." Clint said, standing in the living room with Natasha. "Too bad; they made good target practice."

"I think he's going to kill you." Natasha remarked. Clint nodded.

"Yeah, probably," he agreed, "I'll order Chinese. That always cheers people up."

"Sounds lovely." Natasha agreed, stretching out on the other couch. "Clint?"

"Yeah, Tash?" Clint murmured, turning back to look at her. She closed her eyes and brushed a lock of hair away from her forehead.

"Do you think we'll be stuck here forever?" She whispered. "Because we're broken?"

"Aw, hell naw," Clint promised, "we're not broken, Nat. We're just a little chipped-up. That's why he's here; to pick up all the pieces."

He kissed her forehead, the first gesture of tenderness he had exhibited since they had arrived. 

"It'll be all right," he promised, "they'll find a place for us. We're still their soldiers."

"Yes," Natasha agreed softly, "and that means they will wind us down until we break..."

"Well, yeah." Clint agreed uncomfortably. "But he's here to make sure that won't happen, all right?" 

"...Okay." Natasha agreed. "Did they bring over our things?"

"On their way now." Clint told her. "Coulson lived nearby anyway, but our stuff took longer to transfer. Should be here by the time the Chinese is, though."

"All right." Natasha replied. "Could you order lo mein?"

"We're getting everything on the menu, babe. Tax dollars at work!" Clint cheered. Natasha couldn't help but smile. 

...

Coulson was not having a panic attack over his first-print editions of Billie Holiday's records. No, of course not. That had been met with a strangled sob. The panic attack came upon seeing his old Louis Armstrong records on the stairs.

Still, he was an agent of S.H.I.E.L.D. for a reason--he steeled himself, inhaled sharply, and did his best to organize the records and contain the damage. He may have been overreacting, but those records were one of his very few personal possessions--being a secret agent did not lend itself to a lot of mementos, but these had come from his grandmother, a huge jazz and big band buff. He didn't have a lot of his family left to care about...and these records were the one mark that he even had a family in the first place.

Coulson shrugged it off and picked the records up gently, putting them back in their boxes and bringing them upstairs. He frowned, observing the hallway. Three doors...

He opened them all, balancing the box on his free arm. The first door led to a bathroom, decently furnished. The second, to a closet.

The third, to a bedroom. And, if he had gotten the layout of the house memorized right...this would probably be the only bedroom in the house.

He sighed. He could deal with that later. The records needed to go somewhere safe.

He put them down carefully and set them on the dresser, making sure they were in no danger of falling off, before making his way back downstairs to Clint and Natasha.

...

"You two do know there's only one bedroom, right?" Coulson asked, sitting down on the couch opposite from the two of them. Natasha nodded, flipping through the channels on the television.

"The bed is big," she said, as if that settled everything, "We will be all right. I do not snore, or hog blankets."

"I do." Clint piped up cheerfully. Coulson just sighed. 

"All right, fine," he muttered, "I'll see what I can do about getting another bed..."

"Why do you worry so much?" Natasha asked. "It is not uncommon to share beds." She frowned. "Do we displease you?"

"Okay, for starters, it's only common to share a bed if you're...you know, in a relationship." Coulson explained. "And...no, that's not it--it has nothing to do with whether or not I like you or not, it's just...well...isn't that awkward?" 

"No." Natasha said, finally settling on a show. 

"She's right," Clint added, "it really isn't a big deal. Didn't you ever have to share beds or sleeping bags on a mission?" He asked. Coulson shrugged.

"Yeah, but not in a house." He said. "I just...didn't want you two to be uncomfortable."

"Your concern is nice," Natasha said, "but strange. How did you survive?"

"By caring enough about my teammates so that they would always have my back." Coulson said quietly. "Of course I'm going to have concern for you. Concern for a unit keeps it operating smoothly." He coughed nervously. "Besides, Fury put me here specifically because he wanted me to have concern for you two. In a manner of speaking."

"Understood." Natasha responded. "We are ordering Chinese. Do you eat it?"

"I'm not picky," Coulson replied, "but I do like Chinese, yes." He sat down on the couch beside her. She gave no indication that she even noticed. He sighed. "Agent Romanov..."

"We are partners." She said. "You may refer to me as Natasha. Or Tash. Or Nat. Or...or whatever nickname Clint devises this week."

Another hint of a smile crossed her face, and human warmth crept into her words. Clint just beamed and flopped down on the couch. 

"Yeah, don't worry about keeping up codenames or anything," he said, "we're here to not be secret agents."

"...All right." Coulson said. "When did you order the Chinese?"

"Ten minutes ago," Clint replied, "so it should be here in another five or so. Do we have plates?"

"Nope." Coulson replied. "Looks like we're doing the chopsticks-and-boxes routine..."

"Ah," Clint said ruefully, "a fine tradition among the agents of S.H.I.E.L.D." He frowned. "I hope they don't forget the chopsticks."

"With our luck, they probably will." Natasha said, flipping the station yet again. 

"And what a ray of sunshine you are, commie." Clint teased. 

Natasha slugged him. 

Coulson just sighed and went for the first-aid kit he always kept in his car.

Chapter 2: Record Player

Summary:

An allusion and a song. Chinese food is truly the food of the gods. Natasha doesn't really know how to be a normal person. Not that Clint does, either, but Natasha's even worse about it. At least in regards to polite conversation that doesn't involve organs.

Notes:

I really like the Great Gatsby, you guys. If you get why that matters, bonus points!
So this is sort of the start of Clint and Natasha and their extravaganza of issues-having! Coulson is definitely way in over his head. Not that he cares.
Chinese takeout is so amazing I can't even handle it, okay? And it's quick and easy and awesome. Also I like lo mein. Also, Natasha seriously needs hugs, and a lot of them. So does Clint, but he's scared to show it. So that's why Phil is there!
And yes, bedcuddles and fluff. I'm only human.

Thankfully, soon after Clint and Natasha's things were delivered, the Chinese came--with the promised chopsticks, luckily. Coulson had always enjoyed the memory of the time when, due to the sheer amount of Chinese takeout he had consumed over his years as an agent, he had been called in to instruct the newest Chinese ambassador on how to properly handle chopsticks. There was pride in cheap takeout, dammit.

They ate quietly in the living room, the television doing most of the talking for them. Coulson raised an eyebrow, observing. Barton ate like a lot of S.H.I.E.L.D. agents; desperate, ravenous, as if he was worried he wouldn't eat for another week. However, on the flip side, Natasha ate like she was worried every bite was poisoned. 

"Clint, you're going to choke on your mai fun if you keep that up." He scolded him lightly. It slowed the inhalation of the noodles and shrimp, but did not entirely stop it. Coulson counted that as enough of a victory. Now to try to win over Natasha...

"Natasha?" He said gently. "The food's fine. We know everyone who works there, in and out. It's a S.H.I.E.L.D. approved take-away. Don't worry."

"It is not where the food came from that worries me." Natasha said, licking her lips nervously. "I just...feel uncomfortable with it."

"...All right," Coulson began, keeping his voice neutral, "so what's wrong with it?"

"Nothing's wrong. It's particularly good, in fact." Natasha said, twirling a strand of lo mein around her chopstick. "I have no real problem with the food. It just reminded me of a story."

"Oh, that's fine." Coulson relaxed. "Uhm. You can share the story, if it would help?" He offered. "I'd rather you didn't starve."

"Nothing major." Natasha said. "An incident with a butterfly knife. Mishap. In the middle of the fight, things became complicated." She frowned. "He leaned forward. I tore." She lifted up the noodle in her hand, considering.

"It was wet." She remarked. "Hot. Wet and hot and the squelching..." She shook her head. "Unpleasant, really." 

Coulson and Clint both stared at her. 

"Did you know there are approximately ten feet of intestinal organs within the human body?" Natasha remarked. "Fortunately, I didn't slip. But they were everywhere."

"...Natasha, why don't you have some of the sesame chicken." Coulson said quietly, taking the plate from her and piling on some sesame chicken and white rice, scraping the noodles off. Natasha accepted it without a word. 

For awhile, they continued to eat quietly, Coulson and Clint shooting each other concerned looks from across the small part of the living room floor they had designated as the table.

"Intestines have a very distinctive smell." Natasha said. "Most organs do."

"Natasha," Coulson said sternly, "enough." 

"I don't understand..." Natasha tilted her head. "You are agents. Surely you have seen spilled organs before?"

"Yes, but..." Coulson sighed. "You don't talk about it when you're eating, Natasha. This is a peaceful time. You think about other stuff. Like how to apologize to your new partner that you spilled his carefully-organized, immaculately-maintained records." He shot a look at Clint, who stuffed an eggroll in his mouth and pouted.

"It was an accident." He mumbled. 

Natasha just blinked. 

"I have nothing else to think about." She said. 

Coulson sighed internally, keeping his slowly-creeping despair to himself. Sure, Fury said he had a knack for people, but this--this was a bit much.

"Well, how about I ask you a few things?" He mused. "Hm. Do you read, Natasha?"

"On occasion," she said, "when it's pertinent to the mission."

"Do you read anything for pleasure?" Coulson asked. She shrugged.

"There's pleasure in my work." She replied. "So in a sense, yes. I read for pleasure."

Oh yes, he had his work cut out for him.

"Natasha, that's not pleasure--that's the job. We do the job because someone has to, but if we start to take enjoyment from it, we usually end up becoming as bad as the people we're fighting." Coulson murmured. "Do you read any novels? Romance?"

"Useless," she responded, "full of negative stereotypes and unrealistic expectations."

"Science fiction?" Coulson asked. She shrugged.

"I work for a government facility that thinks digging a man out of the ice and reviving him isn't entirely far-fetched." She replied. "I am science fiction."

"...Anything?" Coulson said, trying not to get frustrated and halfway failing. She shrugged.

"No." She responded. "Is that a problem?"

"Well, not particularly...but it would help you take your mind off of things." Coulson told her. "Look, I don't have a lot of books on me right now, but how about I get my record player? Do you listen to music?"

"If Clint leaves the radio on." Natasha replied. "But I don't like his music."

Coulson chuckled. Clint puffed up, offended.

"Hey, not everyone has to be all high-brow and jazzy." He defended himself. "Sometimes, you just wanna listen to some Queen and go drinking, all right?"

"Yes, but not both at the same time. At least, not when you're driving." Natasha told him. 

"So, I take I'm going to be chauffering everyone." Coulson remarked. "All right, then. I'll go get the records. Hang on a minute..."

He left the two behind to go upstairs and fetch everything. It only took him a minute or two, after which he was downstairs again with the record player and a record. He put it nearer towards the wall and watched with amusement as both of them scootched over to be nearer to it, like five year olds eager for circle time.

"I didn't know those things existed anymore." Clint remarked. "You should sell it to a museum."

"It was my grandmother's." Coulson replied. "Don't care if it's the last one in America. I'm keeping it."

"Yeah, but it's kind of...y'know, dated." Clint said. "Does it still work?"

"Fine talk from a man who uses weapons made popular sometime back in the sixteenth century." Natasha remarked quietly. 

Coulson issued a sudden snort of laughter as Clint shot a murderous look at Natasha. She just tucked a strand of hair away from her face.

"Natasha, don't be mean." Coulson scolded her, despite the fact that he was still clearly trying not to burst out laughing. "Clint, I promise it works. Just wait and watch."

Clint nodded, the insult to his arrows forgotten, putting his chin in his palms and watching as Coulson set it up.

He took the record out, set it gently on the record player, and adjusted the needle. It took him a minute to start it up, but once he had, the player began to allow music to flow freely through the room. 

It was a soft tune; sad and sweet, with a touch of violin among the brassy saxophone and trumpets. The song wound its way throughout the house like a wisp of mist, touching everything it saw yet leaving no trace of its presence. 

A minute into the song, both Coulson and Clint stole a quick look at Natasha. She was crying. The tears flowed freely down her cheeks, but she betrayed no gasp or shudder of pain or sorrow. They let her be until the song had wound its way down, the mist of music dissipating from the house.

Coulson lifted the needle from the player and turned it off.

"Natasha," he said gently, "why are you crying?"

"I've never heard anything like that." Natasha replied. "It doesn't seem fair. How could I go through my entire life and never hear something that beautiful?"

"I don't know." Coulson responded honestly. "But better late than never, right?" He gestured to the player. "I could leave it on for awhile longer, if you wanted."

"Please." She whispered, nodding eagerly. Coulson nodded in agreement. 

Then, some stroke of fancy--or insanity, he wasn't quite sure which--overtook his reflexes, and he reached out to stroke away the loose curl that had fallen into her face yet again.

"I'll leave the record playing." He promised.

The three of them continued the meal in silence. Even after it was cleaned up and thrown away, things remained quiet. Coulson scratched out a list of basic amenities they would need for the coming few weeks, used to the music.

Clint and Natasha, however, were reclined on the couch, completely silent, side by side. They did not speak. The music filled the silence for them, giving voice to words they didn't quite know how to express. It was enough.

...

As the night waned, Coulson checked the clock and frowned.

"Okay, first rule of the household," he said, "if I'm here to...de-agentify you, then that means you're not going to have the sleep schedule of agents. You have to go to bed by midnight. Don't care what you're doing."

"But I don't wanna." Clint whined. Coulson shot him a look.

"Doesn't matter." He said sternly. "No more of staying up until eight in the morning and sleeping until nine at night. You go to bed at midnight, and we'll adjust waking up schedules as needed. Understood?"

"Not fair." Clint grumbled, but his resolve was cracking. The desire for a good night's sleep outweighed the psychological compulsion to argue with his superiors. Coulson couldn't help but smile at his efforts. 

"Will we all go to bed at once?" Natasha asked. Coulson nodded.

"Yes." He agreed. "Fair's fair. I won't stay up any later than midnight either." He shrugged. "I don't have to do much anyway; just file continuous reports on your progression of mental stability, or lack thereof."

"All right." Natasha replied. "So we should get ready for bed?"

"Yes, it seems so..." Coulson pointed to the clock mounted on the wall. "It's already twelve-thirty. I let you stay up a little later."

"Very well, then." Natasha remarked, her voice quiet. Without another word, she unzipped her top.

Before Coulson could even find the words to protest, she had stripped of it, tossed it aside, and was halfway through ridding herself of her pants before Coulson managed to snap, "Natasha! Stop it!"

"...What?" She asked, looking up at him, clearly befuddled. "Coulson, what's the matter?"

"You--you don't have to--" He didn't know what to say. Now they were both giving them that weird look, like he was the crazy one. "Natasha, we're in the living room, and--and Clint and I--"

"Clint has seen me either naked or close to being so on a number of missions," Natasha replied, "it is not a big deal." She frowned. "Besides, I have to, don't I? One should not sleep in leather."

"Yes, but--but, Natasha, don't you need privacy?" Coulson asked, feeling more like he was begging. He briefly reflected on the irony inherent in the fact that he was possibly one of the only men in the history of the world to ever attempt to convince the Black Widow to keep her pants on. 

"Not in particular." She responded. "My body is nothing to be ashamed of. It is another weapon, and if you wish to keep your enemies on edge, you display all the weapons at your disposal."

"It isn't a weapon," Coulson said gently, "it's your body. You have a right to privacy, and Clint and I shouldn't be allowed to intrude on you when you dress or undress."

"I don't mind." Natasha said, clearly confused. "Is this concern for teammates? It seems to be more trouble than it's worth."

"Not concern so much as respect." Coulson explained. "You should have a chance to at least undress in private--at least, when we're home, and not on a mission."

"If I'm not on a mission, then I should be preparing for one." Natasha told him. "Therefore, it doesn't matter. I should act as if I am always either on a mission, or about to undertake in one."

"No, you shouldn't," Coulson said sternly, "because the whole point of not being on a mission constantly is so you can handle whatever you had to do on the mission you just dealt with. You are here, in this house, with Clint and I, with the express purpose of dealing with a previous mission and its effects. You are going to relax, damn it, and you are going to deal with this mindset, because it isn't healthy!" Coulson snapped.

Natasha stared at him for a long minute. Her expression was unreadable. 

Without warning, she grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled him close, so close he could smell her breath--like cinnamon and the wet honey of crushed flowers. 

"I don't know how." She hissed, and there was so much desperation and pain in her voice that, for a second, Coulson despaired as well, realizing he was utterly out of his league. Fixing her would be like trying to repair a giant, five hundred piece toy with nothing but gum and a set of instructions in Sumerian. 

But he had to try.

"Ssh, ssh, ssh..." he soothed her, "you'll learn. I promise, it's really easy to learn how to relax." He murmured, keeping his tone light. "Go upstairs, Natasha. Go get changed for bed. Clint and I will be up in five minutes. Just go."

"But then I'll be alone." She murmured. "If you're on a mission with your partner, you should never be alone."

"This isn't a mission," Coulson reminded her, "but you're not alone. I promise. We'll be right down here."

Natasha stared at them for a minute more, her expression inscrutable. Then she nodded solemnly, still betraying nothing across her face, before making her way upstairs, as quiet as snow.

Clint and Coulson waited until she was gone, the click of the door signifying that she was beyond earshot, to sigh and sag against each other on the couch.

"She's been like this for as long as I can remember." Clint murmured. "Coulson?"

"Yes, Clint?" He replied. 

Clint laid his head on the agent's shoulder and closed his eyes.

"You're a pretty good man." He remarked. "S'funny. I never thought I would meet one who worked for S.H.I.E.L.D." 

"You're not so bad yourself." Coulson replied. "You took care of her, didn't you?"

"...Yeah." He agreed. "But I needed someone else to fix her."

"Understandable." Coulson said. "One broken person can't fix another."

"M'not broken," Clint protested, "the suits just think so, so I got kicked off active duty, and--and sent here--"

"You're not broken," Coulson agreed, "at least, not on the outside." He tsked and shook his head. "You've done enough, Clint. But trying to hold up a cracking vase on a crumbling pedestal is just going to leave both of them in ruins." He sighed.

"I don't know what I'm doing," he confessed, "but I'm going to fix you both. I promise."

"You and five other people before you." Clint muttered. "Maybe more." 

"Maybe," Coulson agreed, "but I have something the other five people before me didn't."

"...A nice ass?" Clint ventured. Coulson resisted the urge to roll his eyes. 

He took Clint's hand in his and squeezed it. It was gentle; a minimum of physical contact, but he still looked surprised.

"No," Coulson replied, "I have compassion. And concern for my teammates."

"...Huh." Clint said after a minute of slow consideration. "Yeah. That'll do it."

They stayed downstairs, at peace with each other, until Natasha called up for them. With that, they split up; Clint went upstairs, tossing Coulson's pajamas down before getting dressed in the bathroom, and Coulson got dressed downstairs, bringing his suit upstairs and hanging it in the closet before finally joining them both in the bedroom.

He had to resist the urge to chuckle at Natasha's pajamas; what the famously sensuous Black Widow wore to bed had been a hot point of contention among the various agents, and...well, it looked like no one was going to win that bet.

The big, baggy black shirt shifted around her when she moved. The loose flannel pants with cartoon kittens on them looked like they would have fit Clint better. And yet, coupled with her tousled hair and mildly bemused expression, it was oddly adorable.

"So, Nat sleeps in the middle, 'cause she's tiny as hell compared to us two, and we'll crush her if she doesn't," Clint said, nudging her into place as he clambered onto the bed, continuing, "if I sleep on the right, I hog the blankets less. You get the left, Coulson."

"Fine by me." He said, getting into bed. "Night, Clint. Night, Natasha."

"Night, Phil." Natasha said softly. When Coulson raised an eyebrow, a bit bemused by her using his first name, she actually smiled at him--just a little.

"You said this was not a mission." She reminded him. "Besides, you use our first names."

"...Goodnight, Barton. Goodnight, Romanov." Coulson said, sinking down beneath the blankets. Clint laughed. Natasha just nudged him gently before getting into bed beside them both, throwing her arms around them. 

"...Natasha?" Coulson asked, acutely aware of the last time a woman had been so intimate with him, (which was, of course, never.) 

"I don't dream if I get held by a man." Natasha remarked quietly. "Suppose you're like a cage. Holding me in and keeping the nightmares out." She closed her eyes. "Everything has its price."

"...All right." Coulson said. "Just give me some warning first, all right?" He rolled over in bed so that he faced her. "Might as well make sure you're comfortable..."

Clint clearly had experience with the routine. Coulson just went with what felt right. Before a minute had passed, all three of them were entangled in a unique blend of limbs that made Coulson's flesh crawl in an oddly pleasurable way. He sighed and yawned, grateful that Clint had had the foresight to turn the light off before they turned into a human piece of chainlink.

"Night, Natasha." Coulson said. "Sweet dreams."

She didn't answer. She was already asleep.

Soon after, both men followed suit.

Chapter 3: Grocery Shopping

Summary:

Coulson begins his mission. Clint is irascible. Natasha wants them all to just get along. Everyone sort of gets off to a rocky start.

Notes:

So this is where the initial responses to Phil begin to manifest...Clint's not a brat, he's just got issues. Natasha's willing to admit hers. He is not. Honestly, there's a lot at work here, and to elucidate means to spoil. So I'll simply say I hope you enjoy this chapter as a start to the rest of the fic!

The next morning dawned grey and quiet. Coulson was the first to wake up. He looked down at the other two and sighed. It was clear they were desperate for sleep, and it looked like nothing short of a third world war would wake them. He was fine with that; if they needed sleep, let them have it. He could make breakfast.

Disentangling himself from the embrace they had wound themselves into last night, Coulson got out of bed, dressed, albeit in a simple tee shirt and slacks, before putting on a robe over it.  Once he was dressed, he made his way downstairs and into the small kitchen. Unfortunately, takeout was not an option for every meal; thankfully, the house came with a stove. Enough supplies to make eggs and coffee, at least.

He started up the stove and began to fry the eggs, careful to make sure they didn't stick to the pan. The coffee machine burbled invitingly in the corner and began to start up, brewing the coffee. He closed his eyes and began to hum tunelessly, enjoying the morning. 

He had made a list of the basic things they needed. Taking the two of them to a store seemed like a good way to get them used to non-hostile crowds. Especially in the morning, where there would be less people. 

He sighed and glanced towards the stairs. They would have to actually be awake for that, though. And he didn't want to wake them too early...but then again, they would need things for lunch, and something for dinner, maybe--takeout was good for when you were working, but this wasn't going to be two weeks of pretending to be agents. If they were going to readjust, they had to strike a balance between "sane" and "S.H.I.E.L.D." As it was, the latter seemed to have completely absorbed the former.

Coulson frowned and drummed his fingers on the counter as he flipped the eggs. He had his work cut out for him. 

Once the eggs were done, he set them on plates and salted them. He poured himself a cup of coffee, then, after consideration, poured two more. They would need them, once they awoke--though he wasn't sure what they took in them...

As Coulson balanced the plates in one hand and the cups in his other, he turned around to leave the kitchen. 

Clint and Natasha stood in the doorway, so close that he almost bumped right into them. He congratulated his S.H.I.E.L.D. training as the only reason that he didn't just drop the plates and mugs.

"We heard breakfast." Natasha explained. "I am sorry we were not awake in time to help."

"Ssh, it's fine, it's fine," Coulson soothed her, "I was going to do it anyway. I actually like cooking." He proffered the mugs. "What do you take in your coffee?"

"Sugar." Clint said. "Do we have some?"

"A scant amount, leftovers...enough to supply at least a day's worth." Coulson said. Clint nodded, taking the mug from him and rifling through the pantries as Coulson focused on Natasha, adding, "And you, Nat?"

"Cream is fine." She said quietly. "But I believe any leftovers would have spoiled." She took the cup from him. "I do not mind drinking black."

"Just for today," Coulson said, feeling a bit guilty, "since we're going to the store after breakfast."

Both of them looked at him, utterly stunned. Coulson winced. 

"Clint, Natasha...you're both going to have to adjust." He told them. "We're not here to fake being agents for two weeks until they let you go back to it for real; we're all here so you two have someplace safe to calm down and get sane again."

"Sane?" Clint snapped. "Do you really work for S.H.I.E.L.D.?" 

"Somehow, yes," Coulson replied, rolling his eyes and sighing, "and believe me, there are times when I'm just as shocked as you are. It seems like everyone here thinks "by-the-book" means the book must be a weapon, and "standard procedure" equates explosions. Constantly."

"Unicorns find it hard to be in the presence of heathens, I guess." Clint shrugged. "Phil, seriously. We can't. Those other people shopping in whatever store we go to? Guarantee they're normal. Never killed anybody, never lost a partner, whatever." He shook his head. "We can't be that. It's not us."

"It doesn't have to be." Coulson said. He gave Clint a sharp look and shook his head. "I never said you had to be normal. I said you had to be sane. You are not just agents, you are people, and the more the person within you breaks down, and the more the agent in you takes over, the less chance you have of making it to thirty!" He snapped. "I want you two to live, and I want you to be able to do it well, damn it!"

The living room was quiet after his outburst. 

Then Natasha spoke up.

"He's right, Clint." She said softly. "I will go. We have to be...people again." She shrugged. "Even if we are not good people. Even if I believe we are better off being agents." 

"Why, then?" Clint snapped. "What's with the sudden one-eighty and preachy bullshit? Is it because you're only on your first cup of coffee, or what?"

"No," Natasha said simply, "it is because Coulson is our partner. You trust your partner and what they think is right. You know that. If Couson believes I am a person, then I will trust him, even if I don't believe it myself." 

She sipped her coffee. The room was quiet. 

"...Fine." Clint muttered. "But I'm not crazy. And I won't be normal, either."

"So what are you going to be, then?" Coulson snapped, exasperated.

Clint didn't respond.

Coulson just sighed and finished up his coffee, going outside to start the car.

"You're being unfair." Natasha said quietly. "I think you hurt him. And he wants to like us, very much." She paused. "Don't hurt him, Clint. I want to like him, too."

Clint still didn't respond.

...

After Clint and Natasha got dressed, the three of them drove to the store quietly. It was a smooth, easy ride; the store was twenty minutes away, but it had almost everything they needed. Besides, Coulson figured, Clint and Natasha could use some time in the car when not traveling to and from missions. Just a normal car trip would be nice.

They were about five minutes into the drive before Natasha spoke up suddenly.

"Do you have CDs?" She asked quietly. "Or just those vinyl records?"

"No, I have CDs." Coulson replied. "Why?"

She fidgeted nervously in her seat for a minute, looking subtly adorable. Coulson had to actively fight from cooing at the sight. He was a grown man, damn it.

"...I would like to listen to more of the music." She told him. "It was nice. I will not cry this time. I have become adjusted to the emotion."

"It's all right to cry at music, sometimes," Coulson promised her, "and you should never get used to something nice. Let it surprise you every time. It's more fun that way."

"I suppose." Natasha agreed, watching as he reached up and grabbed a CD out of a sleeve that was attached to the visor on the car. He put it in and pressed play, fiddling with the volume so that it was loud enough to fill the whole car.

Natasha closed her eyes to listen. She didn't say another word for the rest of the car ride, but she looked peaceful enough. Clint laid his head on the window and tried to look like he wasn't listening. Coulson humored him by not pointing it out.

Eventually, the three pulled into the parking lot of the supermart, Coulson killing the engine and opening the door. Natasha got out first; Clint took his time, putting his hands in his pockets and trying to look disinterested. Coulson just sighed. For someone whose file said he was twenty-eight, he was behaving much, much more like an eight year old would. 

"I'll go get the cart," he told them, "just stay here, don't break anything, and don't wander off. I'll be back in two minutes."

"Whatever," Clint muttered, "I know how to go into a store."

Coulson just sighed and went to get the cart. He caught Natasha shooting a glare at Clint, and he paused for a second. He didn't want to drive a wedge between the two of them--but how could he fix Clint like Fury wanted if Clint didn't even want to admit he was broken?

He went for the cart and decided he would have to wait this one out. Maybe Natasha would knock some sense into him. 

...

"Clint Francis Barton," Natasha murmured, the second Coulson was out of earshot, "you quit torturing this man. You're being cruel."

"He's being patronizing!" Clint snapped. "He thinks we're helpless idiots! Natasha, you know how strong we both are, and we--"

"He isn't being patronizing," Natasha interrupted him, "he's caring about us. Is that such a foreign thing to you, Clint? Did you forget what it's like when you are taken care of?" She shook her head. "This is not a bad thing. But you are fighting it every step of the way, as if this is something that should be fought. He isn't trying to take away who you are as a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, Clint. He just wants to make sure you remember there's someone human underneath it."

Clint just crossed his arms over his chest and looked away. Natasha sighed and laid her head on his shoulder.

"Clint, please give him a chance." She murmured. "For the both of us. He is a good man. He has...concern for us. He cares. I want someone to care about us again."

Clint continued his silence for a minute more. Then he sighed. 

"...For you." He mumbled. "I'll deal with it for you, Tash, because you mean a lot to me." He frowned. "But I'm not broken. He's not fixing me." 

"I believe sometimes you get so broken down that you cannot recall ever being whole." Natasha murmured. 

Clint opened his mouth, like he was going to protest, but before he could, Coulson interrupted them, pushing a shopping cart in front of him. 

"C'mon," he told them, "we're going in. Natasha, could you hold the list?"

"All right," she said, accepting it from him, "I will keep an eye on it."

The two of them followed him into the store, the automatic doors sliding open to accomodate them with a soft whooshing noise as they made their way in. 

Chapter 4: Archer, Heal Thyself

Summary:

Clint is not the most accepting person around Coulson. Natasha is very broken and very tired. Chocolate works wonders, but in the face of deep-scarring, long-standing mental trauma, even the food of the gods can only go so far.

Notes:

Don't be afraid to comment on this, people! I don't bite!
But yeah, haha, Clint is like that kitten in shelters who has been slapped around and kicked its whole life and fights you for the first five minutes, until you pet it gently and talk to it in a soft voice. Then it is a very sad, broken kitty. Natasha just goes right into sad, broken kitty who wants snuggles and softness as fast as possible, please and thank you. Fortunately, Phil was one step from ending up a genderflipped crazy cat lady, so he's good at dealing with them.
Anywho; cheetos are beautiful, okay? Someone did a study that they're the most addicting things on the planet. I'd buy that claim. It's why I eat them so rarely; one day you just decide to have a big bag all to yourself, and the next, you're snorting cheese dust off a coffee table in Vegas while Chester Cheetah injects Cheez Whiz into your veins.
Or something. I'm not entirely sure what that metaphor was supposed to represent.
Anyways, hope you all enjoy this chapter; please let me know what you think!

The flourescent lights made Coulson wince. He was used to the low, warm light of desk lamps, and he had forgotten how bright stores set their lights to be. Clint looked like he was wincing, too. Natasha was the only one who seemed relatively unpeturbed. Instead, she surveyed the area every few seconds before flicking her gaze back down to the list and studying it intently, her eyes narrowing as she studied Coulson's handwriting.

"Sorry it's such a wreck." Coulson apologized. "Don't worry about trying to translate it; the first thing we need is pop-tarts."

"...Why?" Natasha asked. Clint grinned.

"Finally, something I can get behind." He said. "And as to why, Tash, because junk food is good for the soul. Especially when it's got frosting."

"I figured you would like it." Coulson said. Clint turned to look at him, surveying him with what was a deceptively disaffected glance; Coulson, though, knew the other man was giving him a very thorough once-over. He just watched.

"Did you put cheetos on the list? I could eat cheetos until I bled cheese dust. Tash, put cheetos on the list." Clint said. "And I wanna push the shopping cart."

"I've got the cart, why don't you get the food?" Coulson offered. "It gives you a bit more freedom to pick what you like, if you've already got preferences." He turned to Natasha. "Is there anything you really want, Nat?" He asked. Natasha tilted her head.

"I usually eat what Clint eats." She said. "But I like apples."

"We'll get those, too." Coulson agreed. "Something nutritional has to go into his body at some point, damn it."

Natasha actually smiled. Coulson couldn't help but smile back. 

The moment was of course promptly killed when Clint came back--where had he gone so fast?--and plunked down an entire box of chocolate bars into the cart.

Coulson raised an eyebrow. Clint just stared at him, as if daring him to question it. 

Then Coulson chuckled, pushing the cart forward and beckoning to them both.

"It's S.H.I.E.L.D.'s budget, not mine," he told them, "and let's face it, Clint, you've done okay. You deserve some chocolate."

Clint hung back long enough to whisper in Natasha's ear, "You're right. Maybe this could work out."

Natasha didn't respond. Her eyes were on Coulson, quiet and considering. He didn't seem to notice, but there were a few subtle signs that, as an agent, he was well aware of her staring. She didn't look away. 

"Nat," Coulson called, "I need the list."

"Right," Natasha said, coming up beside him and displaying it, "we got...chocolate, really, but that was on the list. Sugar and coffee grounds are in the next aisle over. Fruit and vegetables appear to be four aisles down in the refridgerated section, and ice cream and cheetos are over on the other side of the store." She recited. "There are other things, but I cannot read them."

"It's all right, let's focus on that." Coulson said. "You and Clint take the cart and go get the ice cream and cheetos. I'll pick up the sugar, produce, odds and ends, and coffee. Meet you back here in ten minutes?"

"Understood." Natasha said. "...Coulson?" She suddenly asked, her face hesitant and querying all at once. Coulson blinked. 

"Yes?" He ventured, worry beginning to wind through his stomach. "What is it, Natasha?" 

"...You said we were not on a mission," she said, as if she was trying to piece it together herself, "yet we are here, doing these things, and...isn't this a mission?"

"No, Nat," Coulson comforted her, "it's just grocery shopping. Do you want to stay with me instead? Would that make you feel less like you're on a mission, or...?"

"I'm all right," Natasha said, "but I just don't understand. We are following orders. We are carrying out tasks. Is this not a mission?"

"It's just to get some groceries." Coulson told her. "This isn't like a S.H.I.E.L.D. mission--this is simple errand running. That's all. You don't need to do it if you aren't ready."

"It's all right," Natasha said, shaking her head, "I just wanted to make sure this was...normal."

"It is," Coulson soothed her, "it's just a quick trip to get some food." 

"...Okay." Natasha agreed. "We will meet back here, then."

She went off towards the other side of the store. Before Clint could follow her, Coulson beckoned him close and asked quietly, "Could you keep an eye on her? Make sure she knows this isn't a mission or anything serious. Please, Clint. I know you don't like me, but--"

"Hey, whoa. I never said I didn't like you," Clint interrupted him, "but that's not the point now. Yeah, I'll keep an eye on Tash. You just get everything together."

"All right." Coulson said, suddenly aware of a weight being lifted off his chest--it felt strange. He hadn't known a weight was there in the first place. He smiled with relief. "Thank you, Clint. Be careful. For your sake, too."

The look Clint gave him was befuddled but welcoming. As he disappeared off after Natasha into the racks and rows of food, Coulson began to hum quietly to himself, pleased, as he made his way towards the coffee beans. It was a good start--to both the morning, and the new life he had found himself in.

...

"You were being nice to him." Natasha remarked, pushing the cart as Clint surveyed the shelves. He shrugged.

"And?" He replied. "Jesus, you act like I crucified the guy on the cross before today, Nat. He's just...y'know." Clint gestured vaguely about. "You know, kind of..."

"Human." Natasha said. "He is very human still." She chewed her lip. "It is an accomplishment, then, to remain so human for so long within S.H.I.E.L.D. Does that not make him worthy of your respect?"

"Yeah, but he's...y'know, kinda weird." Clint shrugged. "He's buying us chocolate and taking us out for car rides. Like...who does that?"

"I don't know." Natasha said, shrugging haplessly. "It is strange. But it is nice. And he said it was because he has concern for us. Therefore...people with concern do it?" She hypothesized, her face scrunched up just a bit in thought. Clint nodded. 

"Yeah, I guess. But that's...fuckin' weird," Clint said, putting eight bags of cheetos into the cart. Natasha only took out three, but it was enough to make him pout futilely at her before continuing, "I get watching our back on missions, but...what the hell is this all for?"

"He could just like us." Natasha offered hesitantly. Clint snorted.

"Yeah, I doubt it," he remarked bitterly, "you're crazy, and I'm an asshole. What's there to like?"

"...Maybe it doesn't matter." Natasha said softly. "Maybe he just likes us."

"...Then he's got terrible taste." Clint replied. "Although, then again, I'm the one stuffing this cart with cheetos and ring-dings."

Natasha smiled. 

"You like him, Clint," she said, "you know you do. You just...are rough. Like me. Only on the outside, instead of the inside." She remarked. "Your insides are all raw, and they won't heal, because you keep them locked up. I let my rawness show, so it scars."

"...Are scars that much better, Natasha?" Clint murmured. "Is it really worth it?"

She stared at him for a second, and before her face smoothed over into a blank mask, the pain and sorrow that flashed across it was visceral and raw, tempered with confusion and mixed with regret.

"I don't know." Natasha said. "My head hurts when I try to sort this all out. It's too much at once..." She sighed. "Can we just buy some groceries?"

"Okay, babe," Clint comforted her, suddenly becoming soothing and gentle at signs of his partner's distress, stroking her back and kissing her forehead, murmuring, "ssh, ssh. C'mon, we'll go buy ice cream. You like raspberry sherbet, don't you?"

"Yes..." Natasha said, linking her hand in his. "Yes, I do. We should go." 

And so they did, continuing down the aisle together. Clint had taken the three bags of cheetos Natasha had put back and hidden them under his arm. Natasha let him take them anyway.

...

Having doubled back for a basket once his purchases started to weigh down his arms, Coulson meandered the aisles, putting more and more in to pass the time as he waited for Clint and Natasha. 

After ten minutes, he started to get worried. After twenty minutes, he idly considered calling in S.H.I.E.L.D. Then, twenty-one minutes after they had left him, he remembered that he was, in fact, a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, and could just go find them.

So he did just that. 

Basket in hand, Coulson crept around the supermarket, looking for his partners. He was quiet and measured, eyes scanning the aisles as he tried not to panic. They were all right. They had to be all right. They were clever, and resourceful--but what if they panicked, what if they reverted back to full-on agent mode and hurt someone else, what if--

"Hey, Phil!" Clint's voice was right in his ear, the shopping cart bumping against his back. "We got cheetos!"

He was alternately relieved and livid. Being spooked out of his wits was one thing, but getting snuck up on was just out of the question. Clint knew it too, damn him--he was grinning like he had just won the lottery. Coulson wanted to strangle him.

"Congratulations." Coulson said through clenched teeth. "I am incredibly pleased." 

"You don't sound pleased." Clint teased. Coulson glared at him.

"Do you know how worried you two made me?" He snapped. "I--I didn't know where you were, I thought, maybe, you'd been hurt, or, god forbid, gotten lost, or panicked, or--"

"Hey, Phil, chill out, okay?" Clint murmured. "I'm sorry. We got a lot of stuff, though." He offered the cart forth hesitantly, as if unsure of Coulson's reaction. "We're all ready now, right?" He asked. "We can go?"

"...Don't do anything like that again," Coulson sighed and shook his head before adding, "although I admit I probably shouldn't have sent you two off on your own without knowing if you could handle it...just..." He grunted, frustrated, and gave Clint a look. "Don't sneak up on me either, damn it."

"You were totally spooked." Clint grinned and laughed. "You should've seen your face!"

"I will hide your arrows underneath the floorboards." Coulson snapped. Clint winced.

"Ouch." He mumbled. "Hey, did we really scare you that bad? You seem angry at us..." He trailed off. "Sorry. I know I've been kind of an asshole, but--"

"Sssh, ssh...I'm not angry," Coulson comforted him, "but...let's just buy the stuff and get in the car. We can talk there, okay? People are giving us weird looks."

"It's mostly Tash, but okay." Clint agreed. "I think the guys are staring."

"I will pepper them with bullets." Coulson replied, adding the healthy purchases, (the only healthy ones, he noted with rueful amusement) to the cart, before trundling it up to the checkout. "And it will be legal, and I will make sure their remains are never found."

"It's all right." Natasha piped up. "I can do it myself."

"Wow, I never thought you'd be the type to get all violent, Phil." Clint said, going to open a bag of cheetos; Coulson swatted his hand away and gave him a look. He pouted. "Nevermind."

"I'd prefer if people refrained from ogling my teammates." Coulson replied. "Besides, it's not violence. It's efficiency."

"And so the S.H.I.E.L.D. agent within you rears its head..." Natasha mused, coming up beside him. "Do not let it. Please. It is all right, Phil. I am all right." She put her hand gently on his shoulder.

"If you are here to protect us and help us, it is not with bullets, or violence," she reminded him, "because that is what all three of us are here to escape. Your words and actions are enough."

The two of them looked at each other for a minute. 

Then Coulson hugged her.

She was stiff, awkward, and seemingly confused by the whole process; for a second, she wriggled in his arms, as if entirely unaware of what to do. After a moment more, however, she seemed to understand, and relaxed in his embrace, leaning her head on his shoulder for a moment. 

"Okay," he agreed, "sorry. Got a little worried about you."

"That is a good thing, though." Natasha reminded him. "Also, we should pay for our groceries, I think."

"Oh, uh, right." Coulson pushed the cart forward and made his way to one of the self-checkouts. Better they not have to interact with a cashier, for fear of startling the poor cashier half to death. Or the entire way, come to think of it.

...

"So," Clint said, mouth full of cheetos as they left the store, bags in the cart as they made their way to the car, "do we have some kind of plan for today?"

"Well, there's always the things that need to be set up in the house--like, I don't know, the television, the showers, and so on. Plus, we need to clean the fridge and organize the cabinets..." Coulson trailed off, realizing they were both giving him blank looks. He sighed. Spring cleaning was going to be one trial after another...

"Cleaning?" Natasha asked. "Is there blood in the house? I did not smell any."

"No, Natasha," Coulson sighed, feeling very worn down already, despite it being barely past ten in the morning, "just dust and dirt and general clutter. We need to clean it up a little--we'll probably be living in this house for awhile, considering even after this little...whatever this is ends, Fury wants us to remain at headquarters."

"Okay." Natasha said. "If it is not blood or other incriminating messes, why clean it?"

"So the house looks nice." Coulson explained. "We're going to be living there for a long time, Nat. We want it to look pristine." 

"But we're just going to make it dirty again," she protested as Coulson opened the trunk of the car, briefly considering slamming it down on his neck and ending this for good, "and dust and dirt are not a bother. They cannot be traced back to us to hunt us down."

"Natasha, this is just so our house is more comfortable to live in, okay?" Coulson said, trying not to scream. He understood. He did. She needed help. But that did not make it less frustrating. "We're just cleaning so it's a better place to live. We live there. It's a safe place. But we want to keep it at least semi-clean, too." 

"...I don't understand, but all right," Natasha said, climbing into the car, "if you say so." She paused. "Do we need to go find other things, then? Like, things for the home."

"Like...?" Coulson prompted her. Now he was curious; he wanted to see what she knew.

"...I don't know." Natasha chewed her lip. "Our dorm rooms had beds. And blankets. But we have a bed." She brushed a strand of hair away from her forehead. "I would like more blankets, though. Clint hogs them all."

"Ow, and here I am loading everything into the car for you." Clint sighed dramatically and clutched his chest. "Jerk."

Natasha smiled. 

"She's right, though, we could use a few more blankets." Clint agreed, taking one of the open bags of cheetos with him as he got into the car. Coulson sighed and loaded the rest of the groceries up in the back, shutting the trunk door and pushing the cart to the side of the parking lot before climbing in. He normally hated doing that, but damned if he was leaving Clint and Natasha alone in the car.

"There's a general supply store a few miles up the road." Coulson said. "Do you want to go home and put away the groceries first, or go now?"

"Well, there's ice cream in here," Natasha said, "ice cream melts."

"All right, we'll head home." Coulson agreed, pulling out of the parking lot and leaving. He let the two of them sit in the back quietly for a little while before he sighed and turned to look at them. "I have to give you two credit, though; you handled yourselves pretty well in there." He shrugged. "I don't know what I was expecting, but...I guess I just worried."

"It is not unlike being in the headquarters." Natasha said. "All the fluorescent lights and pale hallways match up perfectly."

"...Right," Coulson agreed, "I suppose. But this was just a start, anyway. We'll move on to different places later."

"Start to what?" Clint piped up. "Jesus, what are you, Supernanny?"

"You know what, at this point, I might as well be." Coulson replied. "I'm trying to help you, Clint. You don't need to be afraid of me."

"I'm not scared of you!" Clint snapped, puffing up immediately as his skill at combat got called into question. "I could kick your ass with one hand behind my back, and--"

"I didn't mean physically." Coulson interrupted him. "You're afraid of me because you don't know what to do with me. You want help, but god forbid you acknowledge you need it." He let his temper get the better of him for a second as he added, "And you know what, you are scared of me. Because you don't know what to do with yourself."

Silence. Natasha watched Clint for a moment before snuggling close to him, a silent comfort. Clint's face was like stone. 

Coulson grabbed a cheeto from the bag in Clint's grasp and ate it, wiping his fingers on the steering wheel and sighing in annoyance. That was exactly why he never ate those damn things.

Chapter 5: Fix You

Summary:

Clint is broken and hurt and scared. Natasha just wants someone to care. The two of them have Coulson, but they don't know how to handle that quite yet.

Notes:

Thank you so much for the comments! They mean a lot to me. Especially since I know this is kind of a weird and obscure pairing and just...I don't know it makes me happy. Thank you.
Clint isn't very good at this. Mind you, it isn't like Natasha's perfect at it, either, but she's at least trying to accept it. Clint's got far too much pride to do that.
They're just honestly very broken and confused, and I'm sorry if that's frustrating--there's no clear-cut resolution yet. Give it time; it will happen. Sort of. But for now, well...enjoy?

They made it back home in about fifteen minutes, hitting relatively little traffic on the way. Natasha had pleaded with him to put on a record, and he had obliged--however, it hadn't appeared to pacify Clint any. The archer still wasn't speaking to him as they made their way into the house, bags in hand. Natasha smiled apologetically at Coulson, who remained relatively unperturbed. He had gotten the upper hand on Clint...at least, for the moment. Let him think about what he had said; let him grapple with it for a bit. He needed the time to do so.

"I will take care of what goes in the freezer." Natasha offered. "Clint, could you put the packaged foods away? I think the cabinet above the coffee machine is probably the best place to put them."

"Nh." Clint muttered, taking the bags and starting to sort through them. Natasha sighed.

"I'll take the fruit and vegetables." Coulson offered. "Thank you, Natasha, you're being very helpful."

The look on Clint's face could have boiled blood and stilled raging oceans. Coulson just put the groceries in the refridgerator.

The three of them worked in silence for a little while, until finally, all the groceries were put away. Coulson checked his phone.

"No messages from Fury or Hill," he told them, "and nothing S.H.I.E.L.D. related in my inbox. We're all right." He massaged his temples and thought. "I think there's some cleaning products up in the bathroom. I can handle that--I'd rather you two not handle chemicals you've never dealt with."

"I am an expert in over fifty poisons and chemicals." Natasha defended herself. Coulson managed a wry smile.

"But from the sound of things, it looks like you've never used Windex before." He reminded her. "It's fine, Nat. I just want to get things done quickly. There'll be time for learning it all the next time we clean, okay?"

"All right..." She agreed. "Should Clint and I do anything?"

"Yes, I think..." Coulson looked around, asking, "how about Clint cleans out the bedroom, if you'll work on the living room. Just move the couches about, make sure nothing's stuck under them, make sure the lamps work, and dust a little." He told her. "I'll get you a feather duster, if we have one."

He didn't have time to address Clint, as the archer had already stormed upstairs. Coulson resisted the urge to sigh and start binging on the ice cream. That was for emergencies. (Though, he conceded, Clint seemed to be a one-man constant emergency.)

"...He is hurting..." Natasha murmured, sounding genuinely miserable and despairing as she looked at the stairs, as if she was trying to will Clint into coming back down. "I do not understand, Coulson. You are here to help. You said you care. Why is he not listening?"

Coulson sighed and shook his head.

"He is listening, Natasha," he said quietly, "it's just that he doesn't like what he hears. This is new for him, in a way that it isn't for you. It's not just that he has to get better, but he has to acknowledge there was a problem in the first place." He shrugged. "It's a lot of pride, I think. He just doesn't want to seem weak."

"He is not weak," Natasha said firmly, "he is the strongest man I know, and I love him."

At that, for some odd reason, Coulson's heart felt pierced by something vicious and searing. He shook it off as best as he could and let her continue.

"But...I suppose I understand. He is afraid. He is not the one protecting me anymore. We are not in an area in which he can protect me, really. This hurts his pride and makes him scared...and when he's wounded like that, well, Clint goes on the defensive." Natasha murmured. "Please, Phil, he needs you. We both do. Please...please help."

"Ssh, ssh, ssh..." He whispered, soothing her as best as he could, shaking his head as he took her hands and held them gently. "Natasha, that's what I'm here for. I'm going to help the two of you. I promise that I will do everything I can, with all the strength I've got." 

She fell into his arms, then, and he felt terribly weak for holding her close like he imagined a lover might. Then again, he was only human...

"You're going to be safe," Coulson promised, murmuring softly to her, his arms around her waist, "you and Clint both. He knows that, too. I know it'll take awhile, Natasha. I'm not going anywhere. It can take as long as it needs to."

"Don't leave." She whispered, her voice soft and desperate. "Everyone else left, and they just--they took, and they took, and the pieces--I have nothing left to give, I'm sorry, I'm sorry--"

"Ssh, ssh. Calm down, Natasha." Coulson soothed her, stroking her hair. She flinched at the touch, and he pulled away, worried he had overstepped a line. Frantically, she nuzzled her head into his outstretched hand, as if she thought she had insulted him. He didn't acknowledge her panic; he just continued to play with her hair as he had before, so as not to put her on the spot. 

"You're going to be all right," he promised, his voice softer and more gentle than he had ever heard it, "and I'm not going to leave, or take anything from you. I want to give you a good life, Natasha. You deserve that. You're human."

"I just want to sleep," she begged, "I just want everything to stop, please...just for a little while."

"I wish it could, Natasha," Coulson said softly, "but the truth is, the world is going to go on with or without us, whether we like it or not. We just...have to keep moving with it."

The heartbreak and despair on her face was too much. He just sighed.

"But, for awhile...just sleep." He murmured. "C'mon. Let's get you into bed."

"I'm sorry," she mumbled, closing her eyes and slumping against him, "I have to clean, I know, I'm so sorry..."

"We can get it done later." Coulson promised. "You did good today. You handled yourself so well, Natasha, and I'm very proud of you. You've done enough for one day." 

"Okay," Natasha said, in a soft whisper that sounded more like a sob, "okay."

He picked her up and held her in his arms. She was surprisingly light as he situated her in his embrace; he hadn't been expecting that, for some reason. He was relatively strong, sure, but he had never assumed he could carry her...

Coulson sighed. No point in dwelling on it. He had to get her up into bed.

That decided, he made his way up the steps and into the bedroom, Natasha still in his arms as he stepped inside. 

He had forgotten Clint was in there. Stupid mistake, really. 

The archer looked at Natasha, half asleep in Coulson's arms. Then he looked up at the other man, their gazes meeting for the first time all day.

There was anger there, sure. But there was pain and bewilderment and sorrow, and an overwhelming sense of loss that made Coulson feel more pity than anything. 

"She's mine." Clint said. "She's mine, and you can't have her."

"You can't, either." Coulson replied. "Natasha belongs to no one but herself, Clint. You know that."

"I protect her," Clint snarled, "and you don't." 

"Well, I do now." Coulson said. "And I'll protect you too, if you let me."

He set Natasha down on the bed, tucking her in as best as he could, turning around in time to feel Clint's arms pressed against his, pushing him up against the wall. Natasha didn't so much as stir.

Coulson let Clint pin him to the wall. He was not stupid or careless; he could have broken the hold easily, even with the archer's strong, muscular arms to contend with. But he would let Clint vent a little. He seemed like he needed it.

"You don't know the first thing about me," Clint spat, "or her, or--or anything we've been through, or--or just, just shut up, and go away, and stop--just stop, I hate you--I hate you so much, leave me alone, I--I just want it to be me and Tash again, forever, just leave--"

"I don't know much about the two of you because there isn't really much to tell, is there?" Coulson said softly. "You're a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent. That's your life. That's your entire existence. And you know it. Same with Natasha. The reason I'm here is because you two don't seem to be able to differentiate between being a person and being an agent." He reminded him.

"And," he continued, reminding Clint with his tone that he was an agent as well, "I would think, after spending about fifteen years of my life as a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, I've seen and done just as much gruesome business as you two have." 

"I am not broken," Clint snarled, sounding more like he was convincing himself than telling Coulson, "and you aren't going to help me."

"Well, that doesn't make a lot of sense." Coulson remarked. "If you weren't broken, you wouldn't worry so much about getting help or not." He shrugged despite Clint's grip on his arms. "I know you and Natasha...are, well...close. I don't want to break you two apart. I just want you two to get better. That's it. That's all. I'm here to help, Clint. Just...let me do it."

"No." Clint growled, his voice desperate and harsh. "There's nothing for you to help with. Just...stop. Just fucking stop."

"No," Coulson replied, "there's nothing underneath that shell, is there? It's just Hawkeye, the cocksure, brash archer, and that's part of the problem, Clint--there's nothing for me to help because there's nothing there." 

He broke the hold Clint had on him, and in less than ten seconds, they had completely switched positions. Coulson pinned him to the wall, his grip tight as Clint struggled underneath him, his eyes alight and his face vicious with rage.

"Who are you, Clint?" Coulson asked. "Who do you think you are? Is there anything to you aside from S.H.I.E.L.D.? What happens when you break, Clint? When you, the finest toy soldier in the bunch, breaks down--who's going to notice? More to the point, who's going to fix you?"

"I DON'T KNOW!" Clint screamed. 

There was silence in the room after he had spoken. Coulson privately marveled that Natasha had yet to wake up. 

"I do." Coulson said. "I'm going to fix you. Whether you like it or not. I know, Clint. I know. You're hurting. It's okay."

"It isn't," Clint hissed, "it's never okay, not ever, just--just go, you can't, don't--"

"Ssh," Coulson murmured, "it's going to be okay. Even if it isn't right now. It's going to be okay. You're going to get better."

"I don't want to," Clint said, his voice soft and sullen all of a sudden as he drew away from Coulson, "I don't want to. I'm fine the way I am."

There was another moment of silence. Coulson just waited. 

"...I...I'm scared." Clint confessed.

Coulson was aware of how much it had taken Clint to admit that. He didn't acknowledge it, though; Clint wouldn't want him to.

"You have a right to be scared," Coulson agreed, his voice gentle, as if he was soothing a frightened animal, "you've been through a lot. You've done a lot. And no one has helped you. It's okay. Being scared is fine. But you can't just stop." He admonished him. "You have someone with you now. You don't need to be scared." 

He smiled; a sweet, genuine smile that made his face feel more at ease as Clint stared at him. 

"You've got partners," Coulson promised, "you and Natasha both have a partner now. It doesn't just have to be the two of you anymore. There's no reason to keep being scared. You aren't alone anymore."

"It was better that way," Clint muttered, "hurt less."

"I bet," Coulson agreed, "but that's because you'd never known anything but hurting, Clint." He told him. "The only reason you hurt now is because things are going to get better. And they're not yet, which makes you want them to, and I know it's scary, but--but ssh, ssh. It's going to get better. You'll be okay. Natasha will be okay. I'll see to it."

"Why, though?" Clint demanded. "What reason do you have for doing this? This is--this is crazy, and stupid, and dumb, and we're both--we--"

"You both need help." Coulson interrupted him. "You're my partners. I help my partners. I take care of them. That's my reason. Because you deserve it, Clint. Even if you don't believe that yet."

Clint stared at him. Coulson just watched him.

He collapsed like a rag doll, exhausted and spent, and as Coulson sank down beside him, on his knees as he kept a hold on Clint and made sure he was fine, he noticed the tell-tale sheen of tear tracks on his face. 

"M'so fuckin' tired." Clint murmured. "Phil?"

"Yes?" He asked. Clint laughed bleakly.

"You're really stupid." He said. "You take on some impossible, crazy mission that you know is going to practically kill you, and you just...sorta smile through the whole thing." 

Clint smiled brokenly, and the pain in his grin made Coulson's heart ache. 

"You're a lot like me." He murmured. 

"That isn't always a bad thing." Coulson said gently. "You're a good man, Clint. I believe in you. I trust you. And I know you can get better."

"...'Kay." Clint said. He was too exhausted, emotionally and mentally, to respond further. Coulson understood.

"...Can I go to bed?" Clint murmured. "Y'don't need to carry me. Can get up m'se--"

"Ssh," Coulson said, "it's fine. Let me help you, remember?"

Clint didn't protest as Coulson bundled him up into his arms and put him down gently on the bed, tucking him in just like he had done for Natasha. 

"Sorry I can't clean now." Clint mumbled. Coulson actually laughed.

"It's fine." He said. "The only thing in here right now are really my records, anyway..."

"I'll be careful with 'em." Clint promised. 

"I know." Coulson said. "And I will be careful with you. I promise."

Clint closed his eyes, then, but the shine in them before he did spread like the warmth of a fire throughout Coulson's heart. 

He just pulled the blankets up around them both and stroked their hair, turning off the lights as he made his way downstairs, shutting the door behind him with a soft click.

 

...

 

Downstairs, Coulson slumped into a chair and sighed.

Clint was totally right. He couldn't handle this. The two of them were far beyond his level of capability, and he...

He was the only one they had.

Coulson grit his teeth. It didn't matter, then. He was all they had, and he would live up to that, damn it. He was going to fix the two of them, even if it took the rest of his life.

As he promised himself that, his phone vibrated--a message. Coulson opened his phone to find a text from Fury.

"How are they?" The message read. 

Coulson sighed.

"They're going to be okay." He typed in. 

A moment to send the message. Another moment later, and his inbox had a new message once more. This one read; "Are you going to give up?"

Coulson frowned and shook his head. Even Fury thought he couldn't do it. No matter. They needed to be saved, and he was the only one they had left. 

So with a smile, he typed in quickly, "Never." 

He sent the message and left his phone on the counter, standing up and grabbing his jacket and wallet. Natasha had wanted more blankets, and he might as well go pick some up while they were asleep...

Chapter 6: Blankets

Summary:

Coulson goes to get blankets and comes back to a psychotic clusterfuck. Cleaning is hard to do when you've got agents to take care of. Phil does his damnedest, though.

Notes:

So I just really like Phil a lot, okay? He's easily one of my favorite characters. I just...love everything about him; the sense of duty and dedication to his job, his total ease when confronted with the complete clusterfuck that is his life, the general sense of badassery and quiet power, and the way he just does everything is amazing, okay? So yeah.
I feel like this fic isn't going by fast enough, haha. I'm so sorry. It speeds up a little once you get past the first two days; these are the rough adjustment period points where Phil's just throwing up his hands and going "I literally cannot handle this level of PTSD and sexual tension." And then he does, quite well, in fact. People are very strange about their limits.
Clint is still a huffy butt. Natasha is just...ugh. I want to cuddle the shit out of her a lot all the time in this fic. I want to hug all three of them all the time, honestly. I just want to hug all the Avengers. A lot.
Speaking of, ohmygod so cloooose I'm so excited!! I figure AatA's canon is going to be completely decimated by the movie's existence though, haha. Like I care.

Natasha stirred first, but just a little. Her eyes opened wide, searching the room. It was dark, the shadows muted and soft as a small bit of light crept in through the window. It felt...strange. It was not a crushing, choking darkness. It was safe. 

She snuggled closer to Clint and drifted off again. Waking up safe was a strange feeling, but not entirely unpleasant. Truth be told...she really liked it.

As she fell back asleep, she felt Clint's arms wrap around her, holding her close and tight.

...

Coulson swore, frustrated, as he hit his hands on the wheel and tried not to scream. Of course he would be held up in traffic after shopping. Of course. Because the universe, it seemed, did not care if he got home in time so that he wouldn't make Clint or Natasha--or, god forbid, both of them--freak out.

Coulson sighed and looked up ahead. The accident seemed nasty--no one was hurt, but it looked like he would be here for awhile...

He slumped in his seat and massaged his temples. He just hoped the two of them were tired enough to sleep until he got home.

...

The next time that both Clint and Natasha stirred was about a half-hour later. Both of them had the first conscious thought that they wanted a cup of coffee.

In silent agreement with each other, they made their way downstairs, their hair mussed and sticking up at odd angles, their bare feet shivering at the contact with the hardwood floor. In their half-asleep state, neither of them noticed the silence throughout the whole house. 

Clint brewed the coffee; it was more reflex than anything, at this point. Natasha watched him, her head tilted slightly as she listened to the house around her over the sounds of the whirring coffee machine. Since she was listening, she was the first one to pick up the problem--the sound, or, more to the point, the lack thereof.

"...Coulson?" She called out hesitantly. "Coulson? Are you there? Phil?"

Clint paused in his coffee-making and looked around, his eyes wide. He tried not to look nervous, but it was written all over his face and in the way he suddenly gripped the counter.

"...Yo, Phil?" He said, his voice echoing throughout the house. "...You there? C'mon..."

Natasha bolted from the room suddenly, her footsteps resounding like thunderclaps as she ran throughout the rooms of the ground floor, checking in every one. Clint, bolstered by her panic, ran upstairs and started checking all the rooms. He wouldn't admit he was scared, but it was all right; he didn't have to. The panic was clear on his face.

"Clint!" Natasha screamed. "Clint, he's gone! They took him! They killed him! Clint! Clint!"

Clint practically vaulted down the stairs to Natasha's side. She was standing in the living room, looking outside with wild, panicked eyes.

"The car's gone, they kidnapped him, Clint, Clint--" She gripped the windowpane and leaned her forehead against it, shaking. Clint took her into his arms despite his own panic. He would hold her. She had to know she was safe.

"Ssh, Nat, ssh," he murmured, "it's okay. It's okay."

Natasha curled closer and began to tremble, shaking her head. She put her hand against Clint's chest and frowned. 

"You're scared, too." Natasha whispered. "I can hear your heartbeat going faster." 

"I know, I know," Clint murmured, "I'm worried, too. But I want to be there for you..."

"Okay." Natasha nuzzled his neck and closed her eyes. "I'm sorry. I need to--we need to--" Her eyes narrowed and she tensed, determined. "We have to go find him! What if he--he's hurting, Clint--"

"Baby, there's nothing we can do." Clint whispered. "We just have to wait. If he's not back soon, we'll call Fury. Hush, Tash. Hush..."

Natasha shuddered and buried herself deeper into his embrace. Clint held her tight and tried not to let his face betray how frightened and panicky he was. He wouldn't even let himself admit it--after all, to admit that, of all people, the unflappable, goody-two-shoes agent had made him worry...no, Clint Barton just did not do that.

He couldn't stop himself, though. Not entirely, anyway. So he let his heart thud against his chest so hard it hurt, and his stomach clench as if he would be violently ill, and his limbs tremble and quake as sweat beaded up on his skin at the thought of Coulson being gone. 

No. Not him. Please. Please, please, please. He couldn't stand it. Coulson had promised. He had said he would take care of him. Coulson had...had really cared, and that scared Clint so bad it made him want to throw up and cry, but he didn't want him to stop, ever. He wanted him to come home.

As Clint broke down into tears and bawled, silent sobs wracking his body as tear trails glistened on his cheeks, Natasha pulled herself out of his embrace a little and began to wipe away the tears, her lips soft on his skin as she kissed his cheek.

"M'scared," he said, his voice hoarse with pain, "m'sorry, Nat, don't mean to scare you, just--I want--I want Coulson to come home, I--I just, he..."

"Ssh," Natasha said, running her hand through his hair and murmuring gently, "let it all out. I will care. Coulson said concern for your partner is important...and you are more than my partner, Clint." She soothed him. "I'm frightened too. But we will be strong together."

"We will be," Clint promised through a throat clogged with tears, "I promise, Nat, I just--oh, god, I--I hate him so much, I just--why would he leave now!? How could he? How could he!?" Clint raged. Natasha flinched as Clint's anger increased.

"He did not mean to, I am sure of it," she said gently, "he will be back soon. Whomever has taken him will pay. And we will have our Coulson back."

"Our Coulson, huh?" Clint snorted, amused. "Yeah. He really cares, doesn't he?" Clint murmured venomously. "I mean, leaving as soon as we let our guards down and all."

"Clint!" Natasha snapped. "Don't you say that! He didn't mean to leave, I am sure of it! Coulson will return!" Her eyes narrowed. "But if you keep up this act, then eventually, he may not want to."

Clint pushed his way out of her embrace and went to sulk on the other couch. Natasha just sighed and massaged her temples. She was panicking and frightened, and now she had a peeved Clint to deal with. She would try to keep her cool, but it wasn't easy.

"Clint..." She sighed. "Please. You need to give Coulson a chance. You need to be good to him. Just...let him take care of you. Just for a day, even. Just see what it's really like, and then judge if that's what you want..."

"Oh, and you will?" Clint snapped. "Please, Nat, you're such a hypocrite! You don't know what to do with him either!"

"I will do it," Natasha said softly, "but not alone. I want my partner to be with me."

Clint turned around to look at her. Her eyes were wide and guileless; she was not deceiving or manipulating him in any way. She just wanted both him and Coulson beside her.

Clint sighed and went back over to the sill, gathering her into his arms and kissing the top of her head.

"Nat, dammit." He muttered. "He...he's just..."

"You said you were scared because he cared for you." Natasha murmured. "If you conquer your fear, things will not be so bad anymore, right?"

"Right." Clint agreed. "I...I think." He swallowed. "Easier said than done, huh?"

"Of course," Natasha said, "but no matter how broken, we are S.H.I.E.L.D. agents, and more than capable of handling any situation. Including this one." She reminded him. Clint nodded.

"I...I guess so." He murmured. "We can...we can do this, maybe." He swallowed again and hugged Natasha tight. "I just...Nat..."

He sighed and let the matter drop, unsure of what to say. The two sat there in relative silence for awhile, save for their soft, panicked breaths. Eventually, however, even those died down. They were beginning to calm down now, and assess the situation as agents. They were calm. They were capable. 

And all that was promptly thrown out the window the second Coulson's car pulled into the driveway.

...

Coulson sighed and massaged his temples, picking up the bags and unlocking the car doors. It had been two hours since he had gone out. He just hoped Clint and Natasha were still asleep; he wouldn't want to frighten them. 

He hadn't even made it halfway through the door before promptly being pounced on. There was screaming, hysterical tears, and someone pulling him into a hug so tight he felt his ribs groan in protest.

"Where were you? Where were you?!" Natasha was demanding, getting right in his face. Coulson's mouth was agape, and he was entirely unsure of what to say. There was such fear on her face; pain and fear and loss, and it was all so real. Coming from the stoic, composed Natasha, of all people, it genuinely shocked him, and as such, he just continued to gape for a second or two.

"You promised." Clint's voice, searing with hurt, was right in his ear, and Coulson winced. That brought him back to the current situation, and he sighed. 

"You're right." He said gently. "I did, and I'm sorry. I meant to go get more blankets for your nap. I was worried about you, and if you'd be warm or not." He held up the bags. "See? I wasn't abandoning you. I was getting something for you. I promise. Calm down. It's going to be okay."

The two of them didn't look entirely convinced, however. Coulson sighed and reached for the bags, putting them in front of him with slow, deliberate gestures. He gestured to the couch. 

"Lay down," he said gently, "lay down and close your eyes. It's going to be okay. Just lay down, please."

They both padded over to the couch, still clearly sulking. They laid down like he had asked, but their eyes were on him, baleful and watchful as they glared at him. Coulson sighed. He had to convince them to trust him somehow, but they were both obviously still so frightened. 

He knelt slowly, carefully, and took the blankets out of the shopping bags. He had gotten one in a deep, rich purple for Clint, a stark crimson one for Natasha, and a cream-colored one for himself. He showed them the blankets, trying not to smile with triumph as their eyes widened.

"For us?" Natasha whispered, her eyes wide as her hair fell into her face. Coulson nodded.

"Yes, for you," he promised, his voice soft and soothing, "for all of us. I didn't know what your favorite colors were, so, uh...I admit I guessed." He confessed. "But I don't think I was too far off the mark." He smiled. "Do you like the colors, then?"

Natasha hesitated for a moment, fidgeting. Then she asked, "Did you really go to the store just to get those?"

Coulson nodded. Evidently they still needed to work that one out--that was fine. Anything that would help them.

"Yes, I did," he told her, "I went to the store to get blankets because you two had said we needed more, and you were napping. I thought it would be best if maybe I could run into the store, get you two blankets, and get them to you in time so that you could have them for the rest of your nap. Unfortunately..." Coulson sighed. "I hit traffic."

"I see," Natasha said, her tone shifting a little, "and you left while we were napping?"

"I wanted you two to be warm..." Coulson murmured. "I didn't leave because I wanted to scare you or because I hate you. I just thought I would be back in time to give them to you for your nap, and I wasn't. I'm so sorry." He said. "Please, Natasha, Clint...I didn't mean to frighten you."

They both looked at each other for a minute. 

"The color is nice." Natasha finally said. "I quite like red."

"Purple's cool." Clint mumbled, not looking at him. "I guess you do keep your promises."

"Always." Coulson said, and the honesty and roughness in his tone seared them both. They didn't show it, though. Coulson understood anyway, and so he smiled.

"Would you like the blankets now?" He asked.

Both of them nodded. He waited a minute, to see if they would come and get them from his hands. Neither of them moved. They continued to watch him.

It took him a few more moments of awkward staring before it finally clicked. He could have laughed, but it would have simply confused the both of them. He just shook his head and smiled, picking up the blankets and going over to the couches. 

Clint was sprawled out over the one beneath the window, cuddling the throw pillow and curling up against the plush back. Coulson was gentle with him, less willing to be physical than normal; he only touched him if he needed to, since Clint still seemed to be skittish about contact. That was all right.

He tucked the blanket around his shoulders and over his feet, taking his time and making sure Clint wouldn't catch a chill through a gap in the blanket. 

He murmured tunelessly the entire time; he wasn't listening, but all Clint and Natasha heard was a soft litany, repeating, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to, forgive me, please," over and over. 

If they hadn't been exhausted, they would have told Coulson that they knew, they understood, and they had forgiven him. That could wait until they woke up, perhaps.

He tucked in Natasha next, a bit more at ease as he ran his hands over her, situating the blanket around the contours of her body. She seemed to crave touch and contact, and he was more than happy to reciprocate; she loved every moment of it, and to see her that at ease with no more than a soft touch was a comforting, clear sign of his effect on her. The scarlet blanket was soon wrapped tightly about her, making sure she would remain warm on the couch. He inched a pillow underneath her head a little more, stroking her hair before finally standing up and going towards the kitchen table. 

He did not leave their sight. Instead, he took a feather duster and began to idly stroke the walls, rubbing it against the corners and over the television. He did the same with the kitchen table. Coulson kept up a rhythm of cleaning, making the whole house neat--but only in the places where Clint and Natasha could see him. 

Even if, as it inevitably did, that meant he ended up cleaning the same thing at least four or five times, he didn't care. A clean house mattered much less to him than the comfort of his partners.

Coulson couldn't help but smile as he finally judged that if anything else got cleaner, it would become chrome; with that, he settled in on the floor in between them, closed his eyes, and fell asleep against the arm of the couch, ensuring he would remain near them until they awoke. 

Chapter 7: Ride the Lightning

Summary:

Clint and Natasha and Phil play a few rounds of poker. Natasha is really good. Clint is scared of lightning. Phil is also a very good cook.

Notes:

This hurts to read and write now.
For those of you who have seen the Avengers, you know why.
I am aching. I am sore and aching and fuck that movie, okay?
Anyways. Other topics. There is no room for despair in fanfic. Especially when it's canon despair.
My headcanon is that Clint is scared shitless of thunderstorms and lightning, because S.H.I.E.L.D. would send him out on missions during thunderstorms anyway, which meant he was up in high places, in his little nest, and fucking terrified of being struck by lightning. Like it's turned into a serious, "hide under the covers and sob like a baby" phobia at this point. He probably HAS been struck by lightning before, too. Ugh.
If this is a little short, I'm sorry; I'll update tomorrow. Trouble is, the next part of this is all three of their backstories, and there was absolutely NO other place I could've cut it off at. So it was either a medium-to-short chapter or a chapter that was approximately 10k. Oops. Tomorrow's update will be longer, I swear.
Yeah, Phil cooks. I have no idea why that's so precious, but it is.
And yes, Natasha is a genius at card games. It's the poker face.

By the time Coulson stirred again, it was three in the afternoon. He stretched out, blinked, looked around, confused; he couldn't hear breathing. Clint's snores weren't reaching his ears, nor was the shifting of fabric as Natasha tossed and turned. He tensed, standing up, all the exhaustion fleeing his limbs as he looked around, making his way out of the living room.

As he walked, part of him took in the fact that wherever he went, the house seemed particularly clean, but he tossed it to the back of his mind immediately, concerned about other things. 

"Clint?" He called, trying not to sound nervous, so as not to frighten the archer with his panic. "Clint, are you there? Natasha? Can either of you hear me?"

Silence. He grit his teeth and made his way up the stairs, trying not to panic or scream.

"Clint?" He called again. "Natasha? Are you two all right?"

Silence for a second more. Then, to his eternal relief; "Coulson? We are in the bedroom!" 

Natasha's voice was a balm over his panic, soothing his quickly-fraying nerves. Coulson smiled and made his way down the hall, turning the doorknob and making his way into the bedroom.

The bed was neatly made up with the two new blankets, and on top of them sat Clint and Natasha, playing cards. It was so human and so simple that Coulson couldn't help but sigh, relieved, and smile at them both.

"You're awake." He said, pleased. He ran his hand over the door for a second, observing. "The house looks very clean."

"We did not run the vaccuum, I am afraid," Natasha said, sounding apologetic, "because you were asleep, and we worried we would wake you. We did the best we could, otherwise."

"You did a lovely job, and I'm proud of you both." Coulson said gently. "Everything looks just fine." He paused. "...You two were all right without me?"

"Yeah, we're good." Clint said, laying down a full house. Natasha glared at him. He just smirked. "I mean, we knew you were there. It was different." 

"I see," Coulson said carefully, considering, "I'm glad you two were okay." He paused. "Well...we don't have any plans for the rest of the day...how about we just stay up here and play cards?"

"There's always room for a third person in the game." Natasha agreed. "Come, sit."

"Sure," Coulson agreed, "one second, though, I'm going to grab the blanket from downstairs..."

"Coulson, it isn't that cold." Natasha said, amused. Coulson nodded.

"Yes, but you went to all the trouble of cleaning the house; the least I could do is try to maintain it." He reminded them. 

He left the room as quickly as he could without looking suspicious, so as to allow them to puff up with pride. 

...

It was still quiet in the house, Coulson noted; even the birds outside were mostly silent, twittering only every so often. He sighed and grabbed the record player as well, considering it as a pretty decent option for noise, all things considered. He wasn't going to try to wrench too much out of either of them today; the music would fill the silence and relax them both. 

That settled, he carried both the blanket and record player upstairs, quietly making his way back into the bedroom. He put the blanket down first, settling it over the sheets and then turned back to the record player, putting it down on the large sill of the bay window before looking at the two of them, sitting on the bed and watching him.

"Do either of you want to pick the music this time?" Coulson asked. "I'm not picky, and I'm pretty sure I've listened to all of the records at least twenty times." 

"I wouldn't know where to begin." Natasha murmured. Clint nodded in agreement.

"Me either." He piped up. "Something quiet, though? Y'know, so I can focus."

"Is Natasha that good at poker?" Coulson said, impressed, as he knelt and began to rifle through the stacks of neatly organized records. He realized some of them were out of place, and for a second, his compulsive tendency to organize flared up in him--then, when he checked the label on the box, he realized that it was one of the ones that Clint had spilled. Upon realizing the archer had attempted to organize it for him, Coulson's heart skipped a beat. He said nothing, though, so as to preserve Clint's dignity; he just picked up a record and set it on the turntable.

"Yes, I am." Natasha said, pride unmistakable in her voice as Clint grimaced. "It is an easy game. All one needs is basic knowledge, some luck, and a carefully crafted neutral expression."

"True." Coulson agreed. "I guess it does stand to reason that you would be good at it..."

He set the record playing, and the low, quiet strains of bass instruments began to fill the room. The two agents on the bed closed their eyes for a second in an attempt to listen to the music, clearly pleased. Coulson kicked off his shoes and climbed on the bed to join them, sitting crosslegged on the mattress as Clint reshuffled.

As Clint handed him the cards, Coulson grabbed his wrist gently and murmured, "Thank you."

Clint knew exactly what he was talking about; as such, he huffed, grunted something to the effect of, "S'no big deal," and then promptly started to blush. Coulson chuckled, low and soft in his throat, and let him have his moment to be flustered as he passed cards onto Natasha.

The three of them played for awhile in there, the warm light of the lamp throwing shadows about as, true to Clint's complaints, Natasha won practically every hand. Coulson didn't mind, though; it took their cares off of everything else but the accusations of cheating and the continued insistence that yes, she really was just that good. 

When, about two hours into their game, a low growl of thunder rumbled throughout the room, Coulson couldn't help but jump. It wasn't that thunder spooked him, it was simply that he had been incredibly absorbed in the game, and getting jolted out of it had made him flail mentally for a second. 

"Coulson!" Natasha cried, her voice soft as she crawled across the bed and hugged him tight. "Hush, you're all right. It is just thunder. Do not be frightened. We will be safe."

He was touched, truly. A little amused, too, but mostly touched. He just shook his head and smiled, giving Clint a careful, comforting look once he realized the archer seemed to be on edge as well.

"I'm fine, Natasha," he soothed her, "I'm not scared of thunder or lightning; I was just very into the game and it made me jump, that's all. I'm all right."

She looked confused, but relieved. She patted him on the head, nuzzling a bit closer; Coulson suddenly realized she was trying to mimic the way he stroked her hair to comfort her and got a bit choked up, unsure of what to say. 

"So you're all right with thunder and lightning, then?" Clint asked. He looked a little nervous himself. Coulson didn't blame him; the archer had spent plenty of time in high places during a thunderstorm. Being struck by lightning was a legitimate fear for him. 

"I am, yes." Coulson murmured. "It's all right if you aren't, Clint. I won't make fun of you. Neither will Natasha."

"I'm not scared!" Clint defended himself. "Being scared of lightning is stupid, it's just--"

A harsh crack, like the sound of a whip, and a crackle of electricity filled the sky, turning it green. Clint screamed and fell off the bed in an attempt to get away from it, the blankets tumbling about him and entangling him as he curled up in a ball and shook so hard Coulson could hear his teeth clacking together. 

"It's just lightning, but you've been out in thunderstorms before, trying to get a target, haven't you?" Coulson said gently. "Clint, it's fine. Do you want to go play downstairs?"

"No!" Clint snapped. "I'm not a baby, Coulson. I'm fuckin' fine."

Another rumble of thunder made him grimace and clutch the blankets closer. He was shaking so hard his hands could barely hold the blankets up around himself, but when Coulson tried to help him with them, Clint glared at him and edged away. Coulson tried not to sigh. Pride was a pain in the ass to work around.

"Well, it's almost six o'clock. I need to go make dinner. Do you two want to come downstairs with me?" He asked. 

"We're...actually making dinner?" Natasha said, incredulous. "I do not know how to cook..."

"It's all right, I do." Coulson promised her. "You two can come down and watch, if you like. I think it's important if you learn how to cook, at least a little."

"...We can still play cards, right?" Clint asked. Coulson nodded.

"That's what the kitchen table is for." He said. "Do you two want to come downstairs or not?"

The naked relief on Clint's face about being allowed a "manly" way out of the situation almost made Coulson laugh. He managed not to, however, and instead led them both out of the bedroom and down the steps, the bed behind them a total mess thanks to Clint. 

Both Clint and Natasha sat down at the kitchen table as Coulson went into the kitchen to start dinner while the rain poured outside, fat drops landing on top of the roof like bullets, loud and insistent. All three of them tensed every so often at the sound; a lifetime spent in the field was hard to disassociate from real life, and bullets were never a good thing. 

In the end, it was Natasha who had the idea to get the record player and put it on in the kitchen, right on the table beside them. Coulson smiled at her, pride clear on his face; she smiled back. It was a small smile, but it was something, and he couldn't help but want to hug her. 

Still, he knew the dangers of going too fast, too far, and as such, just said quietly, "Thank you, Natasha. Wish I'd had the idea myself."

"The thunderstorm seems to put us all on edge." She replied. "I do not like to see you or Clint in distress."

"I'm fine!" Clint defended himself. "The only thing putting me on edge right now is you winnning every fucking hand, dammit!"

"It is not a shame to be frightened, Clint." Natasha said. "That is part of being...human. To be frightened sometimes. Right?" She asked, and Coulson jumped the second he realized she was actually asking him.

"Well, yes," Coulson said, "and you have a reason. You're an archer; you're up high a lot, a good target for lightning. Neither of us think you're weak, Clint," he added, an epiphany suddenly striking him, "nor does it make you useless or a liability."

Clint didn't say anything. He just nodded, shrugging his shoulders as Coulson sighed, relieved. It was something. Hell, he wasn't getting much else--to be totally honest, Natasha was easier to fix than Clint. She at least seemed receptive to his help, and had simply been waiting for someone to care, despite the vast multitude of problems she had to tend to--Clint seemed like he was going to be dragged kicking and screaming into admitting he even needed it, and kicking and screaming towards actually getting it. 

Coulson made his way into the kitchen and began to rifle through the cabinets. He had started simple; pre-made things that only required a few ingredients and a stove. Anything major and time-consuming would probably end disastrously. 

That said, he took out the package of stir-fry beef chunks from the fridge and opened the bag of mixed vegetables, setting them both on the counter as he hunted for the box of rice.

The pot was set to boil and the rice was opened. The pan was hissing quietly as Coulson added the slivers of beef and vegetables, and Clint and Natasha were watching him intently from their position at the table, cards entirely forgotten as Coulson hummed, at peace.

He hadn't made dinner in a long time. He hadn't made dinner for someone else for even longer. Truth be told, Coulson did enjoy cooking--it was simply that S.H.I.E.L.D. and cooking didn't seem to mix, considering being a secret agent was possibly the most all-consuming job on the planet. 

He was happy. 

It was a simple, sweet sort of happiness, but it was written all over his face. Clint and Natasha watched, entranced, as he hummed to himself, mixing everything together and adding soy sauce, his hands alive and his eyes shining as he kept them on the pot and pan, making sure nothing burned. 

The card game forgotten, both agents focused on the delight on Coulson's face as he finished making the rice, letting it sit as the vegetables and beef hissed, signaling that they were fully-cooked. He put the vegetables and beef into one bowl, the rice into another, and carried both of them into the dining room, still humming.

"...I will get bowls." Natasha said, heading into the kitchen as Clint nodded, mumbling something in agreement in regards to the silverware before disappering into the kitchen behind her. Coulson couldn't help but smile, amused, as they came back in with everything they needed for dinner, holding it up to him as if it was to pass inspection.

"Thank you, both of you." Coulson said. "Why don't you set it down on the table?"

They both did, watching him carefully as they set the plates down and took their seats, curious as to what he would do.

Coulson set two bowls down and took one of the spoons they had gotten, dipping it into the rice and putting it in their bowls. After that was finished, he spooned in the stir-fry mix and got himself a bowl full of the same, sitting down and taking a bite.

"Thank you." Natasha said quietly, tilting her head. "But where did you find the time to learn to cook?"

"Well, I wasn't always so supremely busy with S.H.I.E.L.D., you know." Coulson began, more than a little thrilled at her question; it meant she was curious about his past, and might, in turn, reveal some of hers. Maybe Clint might even divulge a little.

"Hm." Natasha thought. "So...what did you do, then?"

Coulson leaned back in his chair a little and prepared to tell her the story, as best as he remembered it.

Chapter 8: Storytime

Summary:

Clint and Phil talk. Natasha and Phil talk. Phil listens to both of them and tells them a little something in return. The past is divulged.

Notes:

Backstories. Backstories out the ass.
So, thanks Avengers movie for making this...not canon...even harder, but like I give a shit. Fanfic!
Anyways, I tried to combine Clint's comic-backstory with his movie one, because we don't really get a lot of elaboration on the movie backstory, which means I'm free to dick about with it.
And yes, that brother of his is real and a canon comics character, so woo! I guess.
Phil's is...well, I dunno, normal. Sad but normal. Sorta the point, though. But man, speaking as someone who's the first in her family to live in a nicer part of New Jersey and not grow up in Elizabeth...Elizabeth is not a good place. It's not terrible; it's no Camden or Paterson, but...it's not nice, either. Phil's the type to be able to survive and get out, though.
Anyways, I just...hope their backstories came out okay. Please let me know? I...I just don't know. But I hope they came out all right and everyone loves this chapter!

"I lived a pretty normal life." Coulson said, shrugging his shoulders. "I wish I could say I was more interesting, but the truth is, I'm an only child who grew up in the suburbs of New Jersey. My parents both died relatively young, but it was from lung cancer rather than, oh, I don't know, some kind of mission gone terribly wrong..." He shook his head. "I was only ten, so they sent me to live with my grandmother." 

"That's terrible..." Natasha murmured. "I am sorry about your parents. Dying for anything other than a mission's success is a sad endeavor."

"Dying for a mission is still a pretty horrible thing, though." Coulson said gently. Natasha didn't look like she believed him. He sighed and decided against pressing the issue.

"Anyways, so gran and I lived together up in Elizabeth." Coulson said. "It was still pretty close to the suburbs, so I didn't have any culture shock, but...it was a different life. A bit poorer, a bit greyer, but...I did have her. So I loved it. I just...I loved my grandmother." He smiled. "Those records were hers. She used to go up to the big band clubs in the city and watch them play...and I guess I just sort of kept her love for the music alive." He shrugged. "We didn't really have the money to afford any new cassettes or whatever, so...it was sort of natural, really."

"That is...sweet." Natasha murmured. "She cared for you, then?" She looked so confused that it ached a little. "So why did you go into S.H.I.E.L.D.?"

"They happened to find me." Coulson said. "Honest truth. I worked odd jobs to support my gran, but...eventually, it wasn't enough. We had to send her to the hospital, even if we were going to be in debt, effectively, for the rest of our lives." He sighed. "As it happened, she shared the room with a wounded S.H.I.E.L.D. agent. The man liked the look of me, and liked my devotion to duty; risking being in debt for the rest of my life for the sake of my family, that sort of thing." He closed his eyes and massaged his temples for a second. "So he offered me a chance; become his partner in S.H.I.E.L.D. and have gran's care paid for. I took it." 

Clint and Natasha were quiet. 

"...How did he die?" Clint finally spoke up. They both knew it was a simple inevitability; Coulson would still be with that partner otherwise.

"The wounds he got in the hospital proved too severe, and he died." Coulson said. "My grandmother died a week later. And S.H.I.E.L.D. hired me the day after that." He sighed. "It's been...what, fifteen years, I think..." He shrugged. "Anyway, I've been working mostly by myself or in a larger group since then. You two are honestly the first partners I've had in awhile."

"...I see." Natasha murmured. "I...I am sorry about your grandmother." She tilted her head and frowned. "What was her name, Phil?"

"Philipa," he told her, and there was a smile on his face, a well-worn joke that spoke of connections to family that Natasha simply could not understand, "and yes, my parents named me after her. My family wasn't one for original names." 

"That's interesting." Natasha said. "I...am not entirely aware how families work." She confessed. "I would tell you my past, since you have entrusted us with yours...but there really isn't anything to tell." She sighed and closed her eyes. 

"Tash, if it's too hard for you, just eat your dinner, okay?" Clint said, and the tenderness in his voice gave Coulson pause. He touched her shoulder gently. "Phil shared his 'cause his isn't too bad. You don't need to share yours. Not if you don't want to."

"I want to." Natasha said firmly. "I just... do not have much to say." She shrugged.

"I was born to a mother and father. I do not know who my father was. He and my mother were an assigned pair and nothing more. My mother gave birth to me and then departed for another mission. I was raised to fight and trained largely in the art of stealth and spywork. Sometimes, my mother came back." Natasha closed her eyes. "I hated it when she came back. It reminded me of a life I might have lived. With her. With my father." 

"...If you had lived that life..." Coulson took her hand and squeezed it. "You wouldn't be here with Clint and I, right?" He sighed. "It's not much, but it's something."

"I would not be here." Natasha agreed. "And I think that coming here was worth everything before." She sighed. "But if I had not been this way before, I would not have needed this..."

"True." Coulson said. "I guess...just be glad you have this now. Regardless of what came before." 

She actually smiled at him.

"I will try." She promised. "But...aside from that, my mother and I were not close. I was not close to anyone, really. It is just that...well, S.H.I.E.L.D. decided I needed a partner." She pointed to Clint. "He was...he was like me. They did not think he got along well with others, nor did he need them in combat. They thought we would either kill each other or request transfers the next day." 

"But..." Coulson cajoled her to continue. Natasha nodded.

"But Clint and I...I suppose we both fit together." She murmured. "Our broken parts meshed well and kept us from harming the other. So we protected each other...and for awhile, we did all right." She nodded faintly before biting her lip. "Then...something happened, and we...well, S.H.I.E.L.D. decided we needed a third partner." 

"I see." Coulson said. "Don't worry. You don't need to tell me what happened yet."

The relief on her face was agony. He just put his hand on her shoulder and looked into her eyes. He hoped the sheer thanks and relief in his heart were transferring over his gaze. 

"You did enough, Natasha." He told her. "Thank you for telling me. It took a lot of courage."

"There was not much to tell," she protested faintly, "but...all right. Thank you, Phil." she shrugged. "It was...the mark of a teammate. That's all."

They went back to dinner, then, eating quietly. Clint shifted in his seat, fidgeting, clearly on-edge. Coulson let him be, thinking that was what he wanted. Then--

"Don't you want to hear my story?" Clint said, voice sullen. Coulson tried not to smile--it would only confuse him.

"I didn't want to pressure you into answering anything if you didn't want to, Clint." Coulson said, his voice gentle. "You don't need to tell me."

"Yeah, well, if Nat's gonna..." Clint muttered. "Don't...don't forget about me, you know!" 

"Clint, I won't." Coulson promised. "You're my partner too, and I'm here to help you as much as I can." He couldn't resist adding, "but you need to accept that help first, don't you?"

Natasha sighed. Clint glared at him. 

"I don't need your help, but if you're just gonna slobber all over Nat, then, I guess--"

"Natasha is my partner and that is it." Coulson said carefully. 

The real truth was simple; he was enamored with the Black Widow, as so many other men were. 

The truth beyond that was that a relationship with her was an impossibility beyond reckoning with. 

He had accepted this in the span of two days and no more. Sure, part of him might grieve about it, but it was irrelevant. He was here to help her and nothing else.

Coulson sighed and shook his head. "I am listening to her, Clint, because she asks for me to listen. I am helping her not just because she needs it, but because she is asking for it. I can't help you if you don't tell me how you need help." 

"I...I don't need help." Clint muttered. "Doesn't matter."

"Okay." Coulson said. "I'll give you what I can, then. In the hopes that maybe something will make you realize you need the help."

"Fine." Clint said. He pushed his bowl away and stood up, leaving the kitchen. "M'not hungry. Going to go...do...somethin'."

He left the room and Coulson resisted the urge to scream. He massaged his temples and sighed, pushing back the headache brewing between them like a thunderstorm.

"Please don't be angry with him..." Natasha whispered, as if she knew of his frustration. "He...he doesn't mean to do this."

"I know he doesn't, Nat." Coulson said. "...Do you think you could tell me more?" He asked. If Clint wasn't going to tell him anything, Natasha might be able to. 

She nodded, brushing her hair from her face. 

"Yes." She said. Coulson tried not to rejoice at that so openly, but her trust in him was clear; it was in her eyes and in her slight nod of agreement, and the thrill that ran through him that Natasha trusted him was not to be denied. If only Clint's trust would become so clear...

"Could you perhaps show me what you do to clean up a dinner like this, then? While we do it, I mean." Natasha asked.

"Of course." Coulson said. "This must be the first time in weeks I haven't been eating out of one styrofoam box or another..."

"Same here." Natasha murmured, standing up and pushing her chair in, mimicking his movements as he picked up the bowls and cups, throwing away what was left in the bowls before putting the larger portions of leftovers in plastic containers and placing them in the fridge.

As they surveyed the table, Natasha sat back down and sighed. 

"I think now is the time to discuss Clint...at least, a little. Enough so you understand." She murmured. "You cannot help if you do not understand, yes?"

"That's about right, yes." Coulson said. "And, Natasha, what he said--"

"You are my partner. I know that." Natasha interrupted him. "You do not want me to rut against. It is...comforting. You and Clint do not ask these things of me. You are two of the only men who do not."

He took her hand and squeezed it tight. There was nothing else he could do. 

Natasha squeezed back before she finally opened her mouth to tell him about Clint.

Coulson listened silently as she began, hesitantly, as if she was afraid he would hear, "Clint did have a family, you know. He wasn't alone, as I was. He had...he had a mother, and a father, and an older brother." She frowned. "His mother and father were not...were not ideal, I do not think, but they did love him. They tried. His brother, though..." She sighed.

"Clint did not go into much detail. But his brother had taught him archery and marksmanship for almost his entire childhood. It was the day after he turned eight that his brother put it to use..." She sighed. "Clint walked in just as his parents were shot. I do not think they suffered for long."

Coulson's jaw dropped despite himself, and he felt his hands start to shake. Natasha blinked, as if she was holding back tears.

"He says he didn't cry, but I don't know if I believe him." Natasha murmured. "I hope he cried. I hope that helped." She sighed. "Anyways...he joined the circus with his brother, afterwards. They traveled for the rest of Clint's life with his brother, keeping him safe from the police. Clint himself didn't know what to do; he did love his brother, he said, and he was scared to turn him in...besides, he said his brother justified it with the fact that their parents weren't "good enough." Honestly, I think Clint believed that." She shook her head. "Even if he was right, it doesn't matter. He hurt Clint."

"I...I bet." Coulson said, his mouth dry. Natasha twirled a strand of hair around her finger.

"He found a mentor in the circus, actually; a man who made him a far better marksman than his brother, in fact, and the pride of the entire circus. His brother was jealous, of course. But he said nothing. Clint...Clint, for awhile, was happy, I think." Natasha mused. "I hope he was. But it didn't last. His mentor encouraged him to assist him in petty thievery, and when Clint refused..." Natasha choked back a quick breath that Coulson knew full well was a sob she had attempted to strangle as best she could. "He hurt him. He threatened to kill him. Clint was scared, Phil. Please...please don't blame him, he didn't mean to--"

"Ssh, Nat, of course I don't!" Coulson said, genuinely shocked. Evidently, dubious glances at Clint due to his past were not uncommon. He shook his head. "I don't blame him. If anyone had a reason to go along with it, he did..."

"But he didn't, Phil!" Natasha said, her voice bright and powerful. "He did not give in!" She frowned. "I believe he might have had to, given time. But...finally, apparently, the police had caught up to his brother...and they managed to catch both his mentor and his brother in one fell swoop." She sighed. "Clint...Clint had nowhere to go, so he fought. He managed to immobilize a few officers--he didn't hurt them, I trust him, he says he didn't and I know he wouldn't--and they saw he was scared, and they took him in, and..." She bit her lip.

"I do not know how Fury does this. But he does it, as if he just...knows, perhaps. He found where they were keeping Clint and offered him a chance at freedom and safety. The chance to have someone he could rely on and trust." She smiled at that. "He took it. And...and so we found each other."

"I see." Coulson said, keeping his voice as neutral as possible. "He...he didn't have an easy time of it, then."

"Neither of us did." Natasha murmured. "Sometimes I forget, and then I hear a story like yours...and I just..." She tugged at her hair and bit her lip again. "I just feel so...so...wrong. Inhuman."

"You're not inhuman." Coulson promised her. "You are very strong and very brave, Natasha, and just because you had a hard past doesn't mean you're sick or wrong." He sighed. "It does mean you need more help than most people, but..."

"But that is what you are here for, Coulson." Natasha said. In one swift, fluid movement, she was sitting in his lap, her hands on his shoulders. "That is why you are here. To help us."

He stiffened despite himself. He shook his head feverently; he absolutely refused to let this affect him. She was simply used to close contact, that was all. This was not romantic or sexual or anything of that sort.

But he knew that she had assumptions about what was expected of her. And he would be damned if he proved her right on this one, regardless of how he felt.

"Natasha, you don't owe me anything." He murmured. "You don't need to sleep with me because I'm helping you, and neither does Clint. I don't...you two..." He sighed. "I did just get assigned to this case, but I'd fight like hell if they tried to take me off of it now, I promise you that. I'm here of my own accord now, and doing everything I can to help you, because I want to. And that means you owe me nothing. All I want is for you two to get better."

He lifted her up off his lap--god, she was so light in his hands that he ached, a little, at her fragility--and set her gently upright, so that she was standing and holding his hand.

"I got a small television at the store," he said, "for the bedroom. Would you like to watch TV?"

She watched him for a minute, her head cocked slightly, so that her hair tumbled in soft waves of motion. 

"I..." She swallowed, and he could tell she was clearly trying to stifle tears, "I would like that very much."

He led her upstairs, then, and let her slip into the bedroom to have a moment alone with Clint. He went back downstairs and got the television from its cardboard encasing before he made his way back upstairs with the cables and television in hand. 

He was quiet as he plugged it in and set it up, adjusting it to the leftover cable box from the last agents that had been living in the house, and equally quiet as he got dressed for bed. It was only once he was in bed with the two of them that he sighed, relieved, and closed his eyes.

The three of them watched television until midnight; simple news shows, cartoons, and whatever else came on--it was more to feel normal and regular than anything, regardless of what was actually on, but there were a few times where something said would make either Natasha or Clint laugh, and that warmed Coulson's heart in a way he couldn't quite explain.

The television was turned off around midnight, and both agents sighed, knowing what was expected of them. Coulson couldn't help but chuckle as they snuggled under the covers with huge, exaggerated gestures before closing their eyes and going to sleep. As he watched them, he opened his mouth, wanting to warn Natasha that she was sleeping on the edge, with Clint beside him, but she already seemed asleep and he didn't want to wake her up. Besides, it wasn't as if he had qualms with sleeping beside Clint...

Coulson sighed and sank into the mattress, closing his eyes. For awhile, he remained like that, at ease in the dark with the sounds of soft, level breathing lulling him to sleep.

Just before he drifted off entirely, however, the bed shifted. He opened his eyes to see Clint rolling over to face him, a troubled expression on his face. 

"Hey." He murmured. "Tasha's asleep. Can...can I...can we...can I talk to you?" He asked, his voice hesitant and his words stuttered out as if he was trying to force them. Coulson nodded silently. 

"Thanks." Clint whispered. "I just, uh. I heard...I heard you and Nat." He confessed. Coulson started and winced.

"Clint, if you didn't want me to know, I'm sorry--I just--I thought it might help, or..." He trailed off as Clint shook his head.

"It's okay." He murmured. "But...Natasha didn't tell you everything, and I--I--I heard the other stuff too...what you said about helping, and I...I could tell you now." He mumbled. "If you wanted. I get it if you're angry at me for storming off before and don't want me to..."

"It's okay, Clint." Coulson said gently. "You didn't need to tell me in the first place, and I'm grateful you're telling me now. I'm not angry at all." He told him. "And I do want to help, so I'd love to listen."

"'Kay." Clint mumbled, closing his eyes and snuggling against his pillow. "I guess I can tell you."

His eyes still closed, as if to shield himself from the memories, Clint began to tell Coulson his story.

"I guess he had a reason to kill them." Clint murmured. "It wasn't like those people in movies where they just kind of kill 'cause they don't care. My brother wasn't like that. He had a reason. He was...he was so angry at my parents. They drank a lot. They loved us, but then they started drinking, and then they got angry." Clint shrugged. "Sometimes they beat my brother. Mostly they beat me."

Coulson didn't say a word. His hand, however hesitant, reached forward. A quiet offer, should Clint need it. 

"It's no big deal, y'know? Parents beat their kids. I'm not all choked up about it." Clint shrugged. "But he--Barney, I mean, that was my brother's name--he cared. He cared a whole lot, like they used to, and he didn't drink. So he got angry. Because he loved me, and sometimes they'd beat me so hard I'd be limping the next morning." He closed his eyes. "They broke my leg once. 'Cause I spilled juice on the counter." He pulled the blankets a little closer around him, and his voice had become pained and broken. "Can we not buy apple juice, Phil?"

"Never." Coulson murmured. "Promise."

"Mmkay." Clint agreed, his voice slow and slurred with sleep. "So my brother and I did a lot of stuff together. But we really liked archery. Well, I did. My brother used guns. I didn't like them. They made a lot of noise and they scared me. Arrows were okay." He mumbled. "So I got real good with arrows, 'cause Barney taught me, and since he knew about arrows already, he taught himself how to use a gun." 

Coulson realized that Clint's hand had found his, though no expression betrayed the sudden grip Clint was giving him. His eyes were still closed. Coulson squeezed back, helpless to do anything else.

"I came home from school one day and he had put his talents to good use, I guess." Clint murmured. "I mean, he only used two bullets, and there wasn't much of a mess. That takes skill, you know? He knew just where to shoot."

"Clint..." Coulson whispered. "Clint, god..."

"Ssh, it's okay..." Clint whispered back, as if he was comforting him, "he had already packed our bags and made arrangements for us to run away with the circus. He had it all planned out. He told me we were safe now. He told me he loved me. He told me I was real pretty."

Coulson's spine crawled despite himself. He squeezed Clint's hand so tight the archer actually winced. Coulson murmured a quick apology before Clint continued.

"Anyways, so we went around for awhile with the circus. It was fun, and I liked it a lot. I learned a lot of things. I can do acrobatics, and I've fed tigers out of my hand, and rode them, and I can speak four languages. The circus was nice." He shrugged. "So maybe my brother did some good. I don't know. I wish I hadn't seen their bodies, though. The meanness was all in their minds. Their bodies were still my mom and dad, and it made everything hurt."

Coulson couldn't help himself. He pulled Clint into a tight embrace, and despite his initial struggle, he held fast to the other man and ran a gentle, comforting hand down his back.

"Enough, Clint." He whispered. "You've been through enough. You don't have to rehash it."

"You said you'd listen." Clint reminded him. "Please. I promise, this isn't hurting me. Please let me tell the story."

"...All right." Coulson said, feeling utterly helpless against the torrent of sorrow that was bearing down on him. Still, if it was drowning him now, he could only imagine how it had hurt Clint to keep it locked in, churning madly within his heart. So he sighed and held him closer. 

"Okay. I'm right here. Stop if you need to." He whispered. Clint nodded.

"Okay." Clint promised, before his eyes clouded over with memories and he continued on. "There was another archer at the circus. Well, he didn't just do archery. He did sword-swallowing and knife-throwing and things. It was kind of cool. So I asked him to show me how to get better..." Clint smiled. "I did. I got so much better. I got better than anyone else in the circus, even my brother. There would be people who came to the circus just to see me. That...that's really special, right?"

"Yes, it is." Coulson murmured. "I'm sure you were amazing, Clint." 

"I was." Clint said proudly. "But...I mean, I owed him, right? He was my mentor. He said I owed him. I guess I did." 

"No, you didn't." Coulson told him. "You didn't owe him anything, Clint. Don't believe that. Not now. You're safe now, and you don't have to believe that anymore."

"...Maybe." Clint murmured. "Anyways, so...he wanted my help. He wanted money. We needed money, to be fair!" He justified hastily. "A lot of us went hungry. It was a tiny circus, you know. So...he was trying to help. I think." He bit his lip and shrugged. "But...he needed my help, 'cause I was fast and clever. And I owed him. But, but I..." Clint shook his head. "I didn't want to. I was scared. And I'd never stolen before." He swallowed.

"I tried to ask my brother, but he told me he hated me now, 'cause I was better than him and whoring myself out. I don't know why he thought that. I loved him. I didn't want to be better than him..." Clint mumbled. "I didn't mean to. I hurt him."

"Clint, he was a murderous, psychopathic, manipulative little shit, and he got everything he deserved." Coulson snapped. Clint's eyes widened, stunned by the sudden oath from the normally pristine agent. Coulson's eyes were narrowed and full of anger. Oh, yes. Anger, righteous fury, powerful and strong. His Clint had been hurt, and god, wasn't that interesting; already his Clint, his partner, but that was all right. Coulson knew he would defend Clint if need be. Or, failing that, avenge him. The idea of ripping his brother limb from limb was rather a rather tantalizing fantasy, on that end...but, he reminded himself, it could not be done. What could be done, here and now, was helping Clint and healing him. They did not need anymore violence. They needed his care and affection, and they needed someone kind and strong. He could do that. He wanted more than anything to do that. Even if Clint wouldn't admit he needed it. 

"He hurt you." He told him. "He hurt you, and he doesn't deserve a single iota of your affection, Clint--and neither does your mentor. You are strong and good at what you do because of your own effort, and you owe them nothing. Got it?"

Clint shrugged helplessly. Coulson sighed. He had been pretty sure that his words wouldn't affect Clint anyway. It took time to leave a lasting impression. Still, the seeds of doubt were there. That was something.

"I didn't steal, Phil." Clint murmured. "I kept trying to tell him no. I don't...I don't think it would've lasted much longer, I mean. He would've forced me, one way or another. But...I got lucky. The police came, 'cause one of the guys he had stolen from was a detective, I think. And they recognized my brother, and I guess someone had found my parents' bodies, 'cause they had a warrant on him for their murder. So they took them both away." Clint shivered.

"I was so scared. I didn't have anyone else. I just wanted things to go back to the way they had been, so I...I guess I fought." Clint murmured. "I didn't kill anyone. I only shot for places they could heal from. Y'know, like arms and shoulders and thighs. I just wanted them to leave me alone." 

"They took you in, though, right?" Coulson asked. Clint nodded.

"Ahuh. Turns out they thought my brother had kidnapped me, so they were pretty glad I was still alive. I guess they forgave me, 'cause I didn't really hurt anyone. I only used the rubber arrows I kept for tricks, anyway." Clint explained. 

Coulson nodded, trying his best to soothe Clint's fears without holding him too close. He would spook him. He needed to tell the rest of the story...

"So they took me to the police station and said they were going to try to find a relative or something. That scared me, a lot. I didn't...I didn't want to go anywhere. I wanted to go back to the circus, but even there...I couldn't trust anyone. I didn't have anyone anymore. My brother and my mentor hated me." Clint murmured sadly. "So I thought about maybe cutting myself open with an arrowhead I'd kept on me. It was sharp, and I know where all the veins in the body are, anyway."

"I'm...I'm very glad you didn't, Clint." Coulson whispered, fear lancing his heart and tearing it apart at the thought. "If it matters."

"Me too." Clint replied. "I didn't think I'd ever be grateful, but I think, sometimes, I'm really glad I'm still here." He shrugged. "Anyways, so Fury found me, 'cause I think he's got a weird mutant power or whatever that lets him seek out desperate people and offer them a shot at life. Either that, or a lot of undercover agents in the police force." Clint smirked at that. "A-anyways, he said I wouldn't be alone anymore, and he would give me a partner I could trust. So I took the offer."

He smiled, then, and reached out to stroke Natasha's hair. He was gentle and loving, and his eyes were soft and warm. It was the most peaceful Coulson had ever seen him.

"And then I found her." Clint whispered. "So we're okay now." He frowned. "Or, well, we were. Then...then this happened." He sighed. "I hate this. I hate this so much. We were fine, Coulson. Just fine."

"I doubt it, Clint," Coulson told him, and the mistrust in Clint's eyes as he looked up at him broke Phil's heart, but he swallowed and pressed on, adding, "maybe you got through it, because you seem very strong, and very capable. Maybe you could handle your problems, even, for awhile. But you couldn't fix them. That much...that much is clear."

"...I did a good job." Clint said sullenly. "I did good. I survived."

"Yes, you did." Coulson agreed. "You did a very good job, Clint, and I'm very proud of you. You survived for a very long time. But now you can finally live, because you're going to have help, and you're going to have a reason to live." He smiled. "Things will be all right, Clint. But it's because you held on and got them there."

Clint nodded. He closed his eyes and went to sleep, but not before doing two things.

First, he snuggled up against Coulson, close and tight, wrapping his arms around him. Then, very softly, he whispered, "...Thank you..."

Coulson closed his eyes and pulled the blankets up over all three of them. Then, very softly, he replied, "You're welcome, Clint."

Chapter 9: Scars

Summary:

Natasha has scars. As does Clint. They come from different places and people, but that's for later. Coulson can't do much without ending up in a mishmash of trauma and sexual dysfunctionality. To be fair, neither can Clint or Nat. And clothes shopping does mean a lot of waltzing around in various states of undress.

Notes:

Clint's scars will come up later. Just so you all know.
Anyways, yeah, so...Natasha, then. How about that?
My headcanon being that she's got quite a few scars--she has to--but...yeah. Just...this chapter.
And things are going a little fast for the moment, but let me tell you; you've got nothing but like 30 chapters or more of UST awaiting you, so this little payoff? Don't expect much more of it.
I don't know what to say about this chapter that hasn't already been said within its...pages, I suppose. I guess that's a good thing. I hope you like this chapter; let me know~?

The next morning, Natasha awoke to see Clint and Coulson snuggled up against each other, snoring softly and at peace. She shook her head, affection swelling in her heart for both men as she ran a tender hand down Coulson's cheek before threading her fingers through Clint's hair. Clint snuffled a little in his sleep and nuzzled into her touch. Natasha chuckled lightly and got out of bed, padding downstairs to make coffee, every step as soft as cat's paws on mist so as not to wake her boys, still sleeping without a care in the world.

Clint awoke soon after Natasha left, feeling so safe and warm that he wanted to stay where he was for as long as he could--forever, if it could be managed. He was...happy. 

Then he realized he was curled up in Coulson's arms, held tight by the agent underneath the muddle of blankets that was their bed. Clint would've protested in any other situation; after all, it was Coulson. He'd probably make this all about Clint's feelings or some shit.

Still. His arms were warm and Clint was sleepy. So for awhile, Coulson being a nanny and a stupid worrywart could pass by. 

Clint hummed quietly, pleased and snuggled into his chest. He really was very warm.

...

Natasha finished the coffee and heated up some breakfast, coming back upstairs just in time to catch Coulson stirring, yawning widely and opening his eyes slowly, observing the room about him. His eyes fell on Clint, still nestled in his arms--Natasha tensed, worried. She didn't have reason to believe the other man would reject him, but she was always at her most irrational when it came to Clint.

"Was he like this all night?" Coulson asked. He sounded half-asleep and largely amused, affection lacing his words. 

"I believe so." Natasha replied quietly, relieved. There was no anger or disgust in his voice. He seemed...almost pleased. "Clint likes to be close to people when he can. Just...he'd never admit it aloud, of course." She tsked. "I made coffee and breakfast. Would you like anything?

"Yes, that'd be lovely." Coulson yawned and stretched. "Let me just wake up Clint. I'll meet you downstairs. We're going over our plans for the day."

"All right." Natasha agreed. "See you in a moment, Phil."

She slipped out of the room as quietly as she had come. Coulson sighed and massaged his temples, banishing sleep from his frontal lobe. He reached over as gently as he could and shook Clint's shoulder, murmuring quietly, "Breakfast, Clint."

The archer grunted and rolled over, taking the blankets with him. Coulson rolled his eyes and tried not to smile. That would only encourage him. 

He tugged the blankets away from Clint's grasp gently, careful not to jostle him, and tsked softly.

"Up, Clint." Coulson told him. "I need you awake. We're going to have a cup of coffee and relax for a little while, and then we have plans. Come on, Clint." After a pause, he added, "Please."

Clint opened one bleary eye and sighed dramatically, shaking his head and stretching out.

"Don't wanna." He mumbled. "But there's coffee."

"Yes, there is." Coulson agreed. "Come on, Clint. Natasha's waiting downstairs."

He wouldn't deny he was a little jealous of the way Clint's eyes lit up at that--though whether he was jealous of Clint or Natasha, at this point, was entirely unknown to him.

Coulson sighed. He hadn't had coffee yet. He didn't care about anything else but that.

...

The agent and the archer managed to make their way downstairs quietly, and with care, betraying no footfalls as they made their way into the kitchen. Natasha handed them both mugs of coffee in response, and Coulson raised an eyebrow; black, eight sugars. 

"You already memorized how I take my coffee..." He said, impressed. "Thank you, Natasha."

"It was no trouble." She murmured graciously. "I am glad you are enjoying the coffee."

"Nat makes great coffee." Clint piped up. "Anyways, did you make breakfast, too?"

"I did." Natasha said, bowing her head slightly. "Cereal and toast. Is that all right?"

"Fine by me," Clint agreed, sauntering into the small dining-cum-living room they had assembled, plunking himself down into a chair and chewing on a piece of toast before adding, "I really just wanna know what we're planning to do today."

"Clothes shopping." Coulson told him. "You and Natasha don't seem to have much. There's a small shop up the road I saw on the way to the department store." He sighed. "You can't just wear your uniforms all day, you know."

"...They are uncomfortable." Natasha agreed quietly. Clint huffed.

"Well, y'know, that--it doesn't..." He trailed off. Coulson groaned.

"Clint, for god's sake--for your own benefit, don't...don't fight me when you know it's what you want. It's okay to cede a little ground some times, you know." He told him. "Just go clothes shopping. You clearly want to."

"Yeah, but--but not because you're telling me to." Clint said. "Just so we're clear."

So much for progess, Coulson thought privately, but he just nodded. 

"All right." He said. "We're clear."

Natasha sighed and sipped her coffee.

Breakfast was finished quickly after that, and the three of them got in the car. Clint picked out a CD and put it on the dashboard as innocuously as possible. That was not an easy task, considering he was leaning over two rows of seats, but Coulson let him pretend he was being subtle, putting the CD in after expressing surprise that it was there. Clint preened; Natasha smiled.

The drive to the department store was not long, but it was a comfortable one, and Coulson almost didn't want to get out of the car. He did, though, after a moment or two of hemming and hawing, opening the door for the two of them and leading them into the store, which hummed with the sounds of other people going about their lives.

They had worn leather or rough cotton for almost their entire lives. To feel cashmere or silk was almost a shock, honestly. He could tell Clint, at least, had never felt it before--it was in the way he touched it, utterly mystified by what lay in front of him, it seemed. Natasha was a little more familiar with things like sleek dresses and low-cut tops--probably due to spywork, Coulson assumed, and as such, he did his best to steer her towards more comfortable sweaters and tee shirts. She could slink about in scarlet for other men on missions, but while she was with him, she would dress comfortably and with ease.

Clint picked out pretty much exactly what Coulson had expected him to; jeans, tee shirts, rough leather boots, and bulky jackets. He was almost amused by how easily he had predicted what the archer would be most comfortable in. Aside from that, however, he got him gloves and sunglasses for his fingers, covered in calluses from bowstrings and endless hours of practice, and sunglasses for his eyes to have a chance to relax when searching for a target in the scorching bright sun.

Eventually, though, they were done picking out clothing. Coulson brought them into the changing room and sat down to wait, taking out his phone and checking for missed calls or messages as he heard them undressing, trying not to think on that subject for more than a second or two.

He looked up suddenly when he heard one of the doors click and turn--the two changing rooms were connected by a long Y-shaped hallway, and as such, he could hear and see both Clint and Natasha on the opposite sides of the rooms. He put his phone down as Natasha walked out of the changing room in nothing but a short-sleeved shirt and a pair of almost comically innocent cotton panties. 

"I do not think I can wear these." She said softly. Coulson blinked, trying with all his might to focus on her face and nothing below the neck.

"Why, Nat?" He asked. "What's wrong?"

"Look." She said quietly, taking his hand and putting it on her neck. He finally let himself look down at what she wanted him to see--and it took all his strength not to suddenly shudder.

A mottled scar wrapped across half of Natasha's shoulder. He had never seen it--probably because it was hidden by the normal top of her uniform--but it looked vicious, and he could easily believe that it still caused her pain. 

There were others. 

She pulled him back into the changing room with her to look at them, her hands shaking. Coulson's heart was hammering against his chest, and he wanted to back away, but he knew that she wouldn't take that as respect for her body--it would be a rejection, and she would be in too much pain from it for him to even consider just leaving. 

She took his hands and put them on her. There were scars everywhere--on her arms, over her wrists--those were most likely from her stingers, but the rings of scars suggested handcuffs as well--and across her lower chest. 

Some were thick and ropelike, looking just as mottled and vicious as the one on her neck, but those were outnumbered by the thin dark lines that crisscrossed her whole body. 

"You cover those with makeup, don't you?" Coulson asked, almost unaware he was speaking out loud until he felt Natasha squeeze his hands harder.

"Yes." She murmured. "But I have not felt the need to put it on since I came here." She swallowed. "Is that a problem?"

"No," Coulson immediately told her, "no, not at all. You don't have to cover them up if you don't want to. They don't bother me."

He didn't see her face. She had looked away from him then, which he understood, but almost mourned for. 

Then she pushed him to his knees in front of her, holding his hands and putting them on her thighs. Coulson inhaled sharply and tried to figure out some way to gently talk her out of doing this, because they were going far beyond what he had the capacity to handle like a mature, responsible caretaker, and she was just so warm and soft in his hands, and he--

"They hurt me, Phil." Natasha whispered, and he could feel her tears falling onto his trembling hands, her head bent in shame so that they fell where he could feel them. Even if he hadn't felt the tears on his skin, he would have known. Her voice was low and soft, as if filtered through an ocean of unshed tears. 

"They hurt me so much." She confessed. "And they still want this. I don't want this anymore. I don't want this body. They do. I am confused. It hurts too much to want anything for me anymore..." She swallowed.

"Do you want this body?" She asked. "Please tell me."

Coulson briefly considered how screwed-up his life had become, to the point where a trip to buy clothes turned into a sexually dysfunctional nightmare, but the thought was banished quickly so as to hold Natasha close.

He kissed the edge of her stomach; not sexually, never, but tender and reassuring, like a mother soothing a child's wound, and felt her stiffen, as if she was afraid of him. That made his vision flash red for just a second, but he steeled himself.

"I don't want this body; it's yours." Coulson told her. "I want you, Natasha, but I want you safe and whole and happy--that's a different story, isn't it?" He sighed and stood up, taking her into his arms. "You don't have to buy anything that makes you feel uncomfortable. This trip was to buy clothes that made you happy, not to hurt you." 

"I...I do not understand." Natasha murmured. "It is my body. I cannot want it."

"Yes, you can." Coulson promised. "You can want to take care of it and treat it right and keep it safe, so people you don't want touching it or abusing it can't. You can want your body enough to make choices about who gets to be allowed to touch it. Okay? Does that make sense?"

"If you asked, I would allow you." She whispered in his ear. His heart stopped for a second--she had to know what she was doing to him. She couldn't be doing this accidentally. "I believe you would love my body. I cannot. Would you?"

Coulson swallowed and took a minute to control his breathing. Her gaze was threatening to drown him in its depths now.

"I do love your body, Natasha, but the mind within it, the heart within it, and the person within it--they matter more." He said gently. "You need to get those three things fixed up before your body can be loved like that again. If not, it'll just make things worse."

There was a quiet moment between the two of them where she contemplated his words. A thousand things passed behind her eyes, and Coulson did not pry into any of them. It was her mind, and he would let her have a moment of peace.

"I...I think I understand." Natasha said quietly. "It is confusing, but I trust you." She nodded. "We can fix things."

"We can." Coulson agreed. "You're going to be okay. Do you think we need to find you some different clothes?"

"Please." Natasha said. "Would you help me?"

"Mhm." Coulson promised. "Get dressed again, all right? This time, I want you to pick out things that make you comfortable. I don't need you to be dressed in nice clothes all the time." He shook his head, amused. "You're beautiful regardless of what you wear, Nat, but not everything you wear makes you happy. Get what makes you feel happy. Even if that's the most loose-fitting pair of sweatpants and battered, paint-stained sweatshirt we can find."

Natasha actually laughed, leaning against him for support as she hugged him, mimicking his waist-hold whenever he hugged her. The difference between her hourglass figure and his own was obvious, and her hands were a little clumsy, unused to the gesture, but it made his heart ache with his love of her, and that preoccupied him to the point where he didn't notice she had kissed him until she pulled away.

He stared at her, his heart galloping about in his chest. Natasha smiled as she went to go put her clothes on.

"Thank you, Phil." She murmured. "That was a good thing to hear."

He nodded, unable to speak for a second.

"...Why...why don't you go out and start looking now?" He suggested, his throat suddenly drier than a desert's spine. "I'm...I'm going to check on Clint."

"All right." Natasha agreed, nodding and accepting his actions before turning on her heel and heading back outside to look for clothes.

Coulson stood in the changing room for a minute longer until he figured it wouldn't do to be found in the women's changing room for rather obvious reasons, even if his mind was currently rocketing about in his skull.

She had kissed him. 

He made his way back outside and towards where Clint was going through clothes without really thinking about much else.

She had kissed him. It had been a gentle, slow, delicate kiss, almost chaste, especially for the Black Widow, but it had been a kiss. Why? Why would she kiss him? And why did he feel like he was betraying Clint? 

His mind was whirling with thoughts to the point that he didn't really hear or feel himself knocking on the door and telling Clint he was coming in, and it took walking in on the archer in nothing but a pair of dark briefs and scars all across his body for him to stop and realize he was probably going to have to repeat himself all over again.

"...You too, huh?" Coulson said gently. Clint nodded.

"It isn't like Nat." He told him. "I'm not the one who gets rutted practically every time we go on a mission. I'm not confused about my scars." He swallowed. "You...saw hers, then?"

"Mhm." Coulson told him. "But...now I have a question for you." He closed his eyes for a second and tried to block out the sudden harsh headache that had built in between his temples. "Are the same men that had sex with her the same men that scarred her?"

There was a pause. Clint's knuckles stuck out against his skin, white and harsh.

"Yeah." Clint said grimly. "Usually, anyway."

"I see." Coulson said carefully, well aware of the spots of red that had begun to swim in front of his eyes. "And this confuses her, doesn't it? It frightens her. I could tell."

"They hurt her a lot." Clint agreed. "And I don't think she gets that it's just another way to use her if they cut her. So she feels...she feels ugly." He sighed. "She's beautiful, though, isn't she?"

"Yes," Coulson murmured, now completely uncaring of whether or not he had crossed a boundary or overstepped a line, "yes, she is. She's beautiful." He closed his eyes and sighed. "But that isn't what matters. I just want her to be comfortable in her own skin." He looked at Clint and put a hand on the most wicked scar he could see--one that ran up his upper arm and twisted around to reach his shoulder.

"Are you?" He asked. 

Clint shrugged. He looked hapless and confused, and Coulson's heart ached with pity and the need to care for him--the frustration that he couldn't was a low, harsh scraping beneath that.

"I don't wanna talk about it." He said. To Clint's surprise, Coulson simply nodded.

"Understandable." He agreed. "We're in the middle of a dressing room in public. But I will expect a discussion on this in the immediate future, Clint."

Clint shrugged again and bit his lip.

"Whatever." He said. "Can I get dressed now?"

"Of course." Coulson said hastily, his cheeks reddening slightly. "Are your clothes all right? Natasha was having problems with hers."

"It's fine. I'm fine." He paused. "Thanks for the sunglasses. The gloves, too. Never would've thought of 'em." 

"You're welcome." Coulson said. Another pause. 

"I'll head out now." He said hastily, heading for the door. "Let me know when you're, er, done."

"S'fine." Clint told him. Coulson was already out the door, shutting it with a quick click behind himself. Clint couldn't help but huff, halfway amused, as he began to try on another pair of jeans.

So he and Natasha had been talking. Natasha had told him about her scars, too...which genuinely shocked Clint, to be honest. He and Director Fury were the only people she had ever explictly discussed them with. 

Clint snarled and gripped his jacket so hard he almost tore the seam. There had been others who had seen them, of course.

Still, he took pride in the fact that between the two of them, most of those others had been quietly taken care of. Perhaps they could enlist Phil's help in finding the last few stragglers, even.

Clint huffed and tested out the gloves, flexing his fingers and curling them into a fist. They really were a nice pair of gloves. He would have to thank Phil later.

Chapter 10: Deception and a Diner

Summary:

The trio goes to a diner. Clint is up to something; Phil is oblivious, but Natasha knows what's up. And she doesn't like it. Not one bit.

Notes:

So Clint's being a little shit, and Natasha cottons onto that pretty quick. Wow, I can't believe what comes next chapter actually comes next chapter-I honestly thought this wouldn't go as fast as it did. To be fair, it's been like 30k, but that, at this point, is chump change for me, wordcount wise.
I might have a problem.
Anyways, I really am worried this might be going too fast...hm. I don't know what to do about it, but I will try to edit it so it's a little more realistic. I don't know. I just...hope this is okay for everyone. Augh! I stress out too much over this, haha. Sorry.

Coulson bought himself a few things while he waited for the two of them to finish--nothing major, just a leather jacket, a couple of tee-shirts, and a few more ties. He shopped with a vague air about him, far more focused on things other than the racks of clothes at hand. 

It was only once he went back to the dressing room to find the two of them standing there like excited children with mountains of neatly folded clothes in front of them that Coulson smiled, relieved. 

"You two find everything you wanted?" He asked. They both nodded. He observed Natasha's clothes carefully for a minute; they looked to be comfortable and something she could tolerate. He was just going to trust her to buy what she felt all right wearing.

"Okay." He said. "Why don't we go out for lunch after this? We can leave the clothes in the car."

"All right." Natasha agreed quietly. "I would not mind."

"I want a cheeseburger," Clint said, and that evidently settled the matter, for Coulson found himself paying for all the clothes, despairing over what he would have to explain during the next budget review, getting them both into the car, and finally driving down to the nearest diner as Clint suddenly added, pushing a CD into the player, "oh, and french fries. And a milkshake. And--"

"Clint, you're not getting anything with sugar in it, at all." Coulson said, pulling into the parking lot. "It's only two in the afternoon. I'm not dealing with you being hyperactive all day and crashing halfway through dinner."

"Aw." Clint grumbled. "You are a stick in the mud, you know that?"

"I am the stick in the mud that keeps the river from roaring through the gulch and destroying the town in the ensuing flood. I am fine with this." Coulson agreed, taking the keys out of the car and helping them both out of the car.

"That is an incredibly odd metaphor." Natasha remarked. "And I do not believe a mere stick could divert a river in such a way."

"I was working with what he gave me." Coulson justified. Natasha just smiled.

He bit his lip at that smile; it was simple and sweet, and god, she was the most beautiful woman he had ever met when she smiled. Her smile was going to be the death of him, and it was the most glorious way to die.

Coulson prudently ignored his romantic aside and shepherded them both into the diner as quickly as he could, but not before noting that Clint had already put on his sunglasses. He managed a small smile of accomplishment and pride.

...

They both seemed entirely mystified by the concept of eating out. Coulson would have found it adorable, had it not been almost sad.

Natasha looked over the menu, confused. 

"I do not know what to select." She said. "Surely they cannot have all of these. It must be a large kitchen."

"That's the whole point of restaurants, Natasha." Coulson said gently. "It's so you can have things you wouldn't normally eat." He looked at Clint and tsked. "Unless all you ever want is a cheeseburger."

"Hey, leave me alone, I eat Chinese takeout too!" Clint defended himself. Coulson began to smile. Clint huffed and pouted. "I thought you wanted us to be happy. Cheeseburgers make me happy."

"I'm sure, Clint, but Natasha can have whatever she likes, which is the point I was trying to make anyway." Coulson explained. "You can too, but you should try new things every so often. Maybe you'll like something else."

"Doubt it." Clint grumbled, but he had picked up the menu and was observing it carefully. Coulson put his lips to his mug of coffee to hide a smile.

"And what'll y'all have, sweethearts?" Their waitress had an easy smile and looked to be no older than Clint, despite wearing a uniform that looked as if it was meant for someone older than Phil. Clint grinned and leaned back in his seat, charm exuding from every cell of his body. Coulson raised an eyebrow, slightly impressed; Natasha just rolled her eyes.

"Still deciding, miss." He said, and his voice actually sent a shiver down Coulson's spine--one he would sooner die than admit existed. "Y'can ask my friends here, if you like."

"Oh, I...um." The woman seemed stunned, as if Clint's sudden wave of charm had swept her up in its depths. Coulson wouldn't blame her at all. "Sure, hun. Miss?"

"I..." Natasha tilted her head and observed the menu. "...Phil?" She whispered. "I can get whatever I want, yes?"

"Anything you want, Nat." Coulson told her. They would have to go out to eat a few more times in the next few weeks--she clearly needed a crash course in crappy diner food.

"I see." She said. "Hm. I will have the fried chicken basket and a milkshake, I suppose..." She looked up at Coulson. "That's okay, right?"

"Of course it is." He told her, keeping his tone gentle. "I'll just have a coffee and a turkey club, miss."

"Got it, love." The waitress remarked amicably, scribbling it down. "She sure is a strange one, though, huh? Are you her brother?" She asked. "It's very nice of you, taking care of family like that..."

The look in Clint's eyes was suddenly murderous. Coulson didn't let it faze him, instead inclining his head in agreement.

"She's my sister. This is my brother. They're recuperating from an accident on the job." He lied smoothly, satisfied with his half-truth. Clint still looked like he wanted to gut her with an arrowhead. It was beginning to make Coulson nervous. 

"I see." She said, her voice still warm and friendly. "That is real sweet of you. Hun--you ready to order?" She addressed Clint. Coulson bit the inside of his cheek. Clint would behave himself. He had to--he was sending him an industrial-strength evil eye from across the table. Clint would listen.

"Cheeseburger's fine." He said, and his voice was still that sweet, syrupy tone from before. She giggled and pressed a hand against her chest.

"Awright, honey. I'll see about getting your orders up and ready to go. Cokes all around okay?" She asked. Coulson nodded, hoping she would leave soon so he could grill Clint on his sudden shift in temper. Thankfully, that one agreement was enough, and she was soon off for the kitchens, leaving them in relative peace and privacy.

"Clint, what's the matter?" Coulson asked immediately, fixing him with a look of concern. "You looked like you were going to choke her."

"Did you hear what she said about Nat?" Clint hissed. "Didn't that piss you off? She--she thinks Natasha's goddamn soft in the head, just 'cause she doesn't have the time to go out to stupid diners in the middle of nowhere 'cause she's busy saving the world!" He snarled, keeping his tone low even as he growled and spat.

"Clint..." Natasha said softly. "It did not bother me. I know I am not well-versed in the simple machinations of being a normal person. That is fine. What I am skilled in is of far greater importance than such a thing. You need not be angered on my behalf."

"Actually, Natasha..." Coulson sighed. He didn't want to interrupt what seemed like an intimate conversation, but if she wasn't getting the truth to this leave of absence, he ought to intervene now. "It isn't a bad thing to know how to do things like this--like, you know, ordering out and being in a restaurant or buying clothes. It's normal, sure, but being normal isn't necessary unimportant. After all," he said ruefully, "as S.H.I.E.L.D. agents go, I'm pretty normal, aren't I?"

Natasha leaned in so close their foreheads were almost touching and met his eyes. He showed nothing on his face, but his heart was beating out a steady tempo against his chest.

"You are one of the most important people in the world." She announced. It was dry and simple, with little fanfare, but it made his heart stop. She meant it, that was the thing--this wasn't a romantic declaration or sweet nothing. To her, he was important. To her, he meant everything. And that...

"That means a lot to me, Natasha." He said gently, his heart beginning to pound against his chest hard enough to feel almost bruising. "Thank you. It's an honor."

"You are welcome, but it is the truth. One should not thank the truth--it is what it is." Natasha murmured. "Still, I understand why that appeals to you emotionally." She huffed. "At any rate, I am not ashamed of my incapability to be normal. You are teaching me. And so I will learn." She stated that again with such simplicity, like her trust in him wasn't bringing tears to his eyes.

"I...I hope so." Coulson murmured. "Thank you, Natasha. I...I don't know what to say."

"That is all right." Natasha said. "But that means you and Clint need not worry about any disagreements people have with the things I have or have not learned. I am all right." She promised. "Will you be okay, Clint?"

Clint settled into his seat, and Coulson took note of how easily he kowtowed to her, slightly impressed by Natasha's skill. He could barely tame Clint, let alone get him to listen, but she seemed to have the routine down at this point. 

"...Fine." He mumbled. "I...I just..."

"You want to defend me." Natasha said gently. "It is all right, Clint. I am not blaming you for this! I...I am always grateful." She took his hand and squeezed it gently. "I am very glad you are by my side. I always have been." She promised. "But we are going to be all right and make it through this--the three of us..." 

She looked wistful as she said that. Clint raised an eyebrow, but he didn't say anything. Coulson just watched.

"We will be all right." Natasha said firmly. "So you must not get angry. We will be all right."

"I..." Clint laid his head agains her hand for a second and sighed. "God, I know. I--Nat, I--"

He was cut off by the cheery call of "Cokes, sweeties!" and plastic cups being plunked down in front of them. Coulson couldn't help but be amused by the shock on both their faces; not even trained assassins could sneak up on them, but a waitress had no trouble, it seemed.

The conversation interrupted and lost, they relaxed for a bit; for ten or fifteen minutes they sat there in relative silence, unbothered by the other patrons or the waitress, sipping Cokes idly, all three of them lost in different trains of thought.

Lunch came quickly enough and so they ate peacefully, Clint scarfing his food down until Coulson gave him a look and he whined, slowing down and glaring balefully at the other agent. Coulson just took one of his french fries.

They paid and left, but throughout the entire thing, Natasha seemed distant. She wasn't troubled, from what Coulson could tell--no, that appeared to be Clint, for some reason or another--but she looked as if she was viewing them and the entire diner through a mist of grey. 

Coulson put off asking why until they got into the car and he turned around to look at the two of them, concern in his eyes.

"Are you two all right?" He asked. "Did the food make you sick?"

"Food was fine." Clint muttered. "M'just thinking. I'm not an idiot, you know, I do that sometimes."

"I never said you were an idiot, Clint." Coulson sighed. "I was just looking out for you. Concern, remember? I care."

"That's the problem in the first place." Clint snapped. "Why couldn't you just leave me and Natasha alone?"

"Clint!" Natasha said, sitting up and glaring at him. "Don't be rude! And you don't--you don't mean that." She murmured. "Or at least, if you do, you do not speak for the both of us."

Clint's face was like stone. Natasha just sighed. 

Coulson cared, but for him, that meant knowing when to leave well enough alone as well. He didn't say a word for the rest of the drive home.

...

The rest of the day, it was like nothing had happened in the car at all. Clint watched television with the two of them, and even laughed at a few jokes Coulson made before setting the table without being asked and helping set up dinner. 

Coulson was confused as all hell by it, but he let his confusion slide. Clint was doing all right for the moment and that was all he really cared about. He just wanted Clint happy, and for the moment, he seemed to be. He would puzzle the rest out later.

It was only around eight that night that, without warning, Natasha looked at Clint and said in a tone so icy and poisonous it actually made Coulson flinch, "I need to talk to you."

Clint just grinned and followed her upstairs, evidently uncaring of the sudden waves of tension pouring off Natasha. Coulson swallowed.

He didn't want any of their discussion to end badly, but even himself, with Natasha's evident affection for him, was liable to get caught in that crossfire, and he didn't think himself up to the task. So he would wait here on the couch and hope that whatever wounds they came back to him nursing could be healed with a bit of concern and some care.

Chapter 11: Resolution

Summary:

Clint and Nat talk.

Notes:

This was faster than I'd intended.
Due to some poor editing choices on my part, this kind of came a little faster than I wanted it to; because I save my work as one large file, this FELT like a long time to me and a lot of story. Trouble is that 30k or so of fanfic isn't a lot once you get down to it, at least not for me. So...I tried to edit this piece for awhile, which is what held back the update. I'm sorry.
I'm hoping that this sort of shows that this isn't a sudden thing for them. Clint's always had an attraction to Natasha, but when the hell was the time to talk about it, you know? He couldn't bring it up--wouldn't. She wouldn't accept the love and he knew it, so he held back. Now, though, when they're both someplace safe and Clint's tackling feelings for someone ELSE...well, this felt like a more optimal time for him. So it's why he did what he did.
I still really don't like how fast this went. I'm sorry, guys. But I promise this isn't like the end of it, obviously. This is just the beginning for all three of them; after all, it's a polyamorous relationship. But...I hope everyone likes this. I hope it came out well. Let me know, please? I am REALLY worried about this chapter.

"You're a fucking asshole, Clint," Natasha began, and Clint settled in for one hell of a night.

"And you know it, don't you?" She added. "You know you're messing around with Coulson. That soon enough you're going to pull away from him and make him hurt. You like that, Clint. You want to be the one that's in the right this time--you want to prove that you were right all along, that you can't be fixed! But you're only hurting yourself and him to do it, you--you fucking stubborn piece of shit!" Natasha shouted, an overwhelming urge to slap him suddenly grabbing her heart and squeezing.

Clint just watched her, a single eyebrow cocked as he observed her carefully. Then he exhaled, slow and soft.

"Is that really what you think of me?" He murmured. "Do you really hate me?"

The thought of it killed him. The idea that his partner, the only person in the whole world he trusted, hated him--it ached like knives sliding across his skin. He couldn't help but tremble until she put her hand on his cheek to soothe him.

"You idiot," Natasha said, and this time her voice was oddly gentle, "you know that I don't. You know I could never hate you. But...right now?" She gave him a stern look. "Right now, you're hurting him. You know that. And you want to do it--you want to be right even when it's going to hurt you. So that's why I'm angry at you right now, and you know that, too. You know my moods well enough, Clint. So--why, then?" She asked. "Why are you doing this?"

"Because it was never meant to be the three of us!" Clint shouted, his face red as he grabbed Natasha's shoulders. "It was you and me, Nat! Forever and always! We--we were p-partners, and--and--lo--" He cut himself off and shook his head. "We were always together." He murmured. "We fought for each other. We killed for each other. If we hadn't been so good at what we did, we would've died for each other, too." 

It was the truth. The two of them had known each other since Clint's first year at S.H.I.E.L.D., and he had been Natasha's first partner after she had reached puberty. It had...made them different, in terms of relationships, even among partners. Clint was just barely seventeen and Natasha was thirteen, their hormones doing grand and terrible things to them, but that had never factored into their relationship. In fact, Clint had done his best to keep her from facing sexual overtures--something he could not always do, but he did always try.

Instead of sex, they channeled all their obvious chemistry into teamwork. They had made themselves vicious and invincible, a single working agent with double the manpower. They worked as one, to the point of unnerving the average agent so thoroughly that they became spoken of only as myths, never seen and never spoken of outside of whispers, despite being little more than two bloodsoaked children. And they had done a good job of getting that blood to seep in, deep down, and made sure none of it was theirs.

In truth, Clint knew not all their chemistry went towards teamwork. But if Natasha ever noticed, she let Clint have his fantasies in silence. He knew it was the only way to have them.

"So what does that have to do with Coulson?" Natasha asked, unable to stop a note of frustration from creeping into her voice. Clint rolled his eyes.

"It has everything to do with Coulson, and you know it." He snapped. "He's an interloper, Nat. He comes in and tries to change us up and--and "fix" us, which is total bullshit, and...and he takes you away from me every time he looks at you." Clint murmured, his voice suddenly going sad and soft. "It used to be just me an' you...Widow and Hawkeye against the whole wide world, and...then he showed up." He bit his lip. "And now you're all gooey-eyed over him and you think he's--he's just some perfect savior that's gonna fix all our problems, and it's--it's not true! And you're hurting yourself thinking it is, and...and you're hurtin' me, Nat..."

Clint blinked back tears. He hated himself for crying as much as he acknowledged that sometimes, it simply couldn't be helped. Sometimes things just hurt, and that was all there was to it. Especially when it came to Natasha. Especially when it came to this longing he didn't know how to explain.

"Clint..." Natasha whispered his name like a caress, a touch upon his cheek. "I did not...mean to hurt you...I never..."

"You never would, Natasha." Clint murmured. "You'd never hurt me. Not on purpose. We both know that, baby. But...you're killin' me, sweetheart." He sighed. 

He had to say it now. Because before, there had been no competition; no man who could truly win her love. So he had stewed in it in silence, because why bother confessing? She would love no other man, and he was content with her friendship. Now, though. Oh, now there was another man who loved her smile and sang to her heart in the way Clint thought he alone could. He had to say something. The silence had gone on long enough. But first--the truth.

"Nat, he loves you." He said. "And you know it, and I know it, and he knows it. And maybe he's not acting on it now, but he will someday, and I...I can't...I can't stand by and let that happen..." He swallowed.

No, he couldn't. Because he had raised her. He had taken a little girl who had been on the hesitant cusp of womanhood and been by her side always, the eternal protector, the partner, the companion in both mischief and mayhem, the man who never missed so that she may feel safe against any foe. He had taken her and made her a part of him, body and heart and soul, to the point where Clint didn't know where Natasha ended and he began, and that was just fine by him.

"God, Natasha." He whispered. "I don't want it to be the three of us. Because I...I..."

What he said next would completely and irrevocably change a partnership he had built up for the past eleven years of his life. And he knew it. But Clint was never one for looking back or planning ahead.

"I love you, Natasha." He murmured. "I love you with everything my fucked-up little heart can give, and I'm sorry it's not a lot...but it's all I have, and I want to give it to you, and only you. I always have." He swallowed. "So...so I'm scared. I don't want it to be the three of us. I want it to be just Widow and Hawkeye...the two of us together, forever...as lovers..."

The silence that met his confession killed and revived him a thousand times over. Before he could turn away and crawl back into the living room to live with his shame and the ashes of his partnership, Natasha leaned in close, her fingertips against his cheek.

"You don't," Natasha told him. "You don't want it to be just me." She met his eyes and sighed. There was pain in her eyes, but it in no way equaled the current agonies that were tearing through Clint's heart, like glass being ground into his veins.

"Clint, when we first met, you antagonized me from almost the second after you introduced yourself." She told him. "You bickered with me, belittled me, verbally brutalized me and baited me until I finally snapped and punched you in the head." She smiled, like that was a good memory. Probably was, considering it was Natasha. "I remember that. You were better after that. Mostly because you told me you had just wanted to get me to pay attention to you...and you didn't know any other way to make that happen." She sighed.

"I think you still don't, to be totally honest. And that's exactly how I know you're in love with him, too." She said, matter-of-fact. 

Clint stared at her, his jaw agape. His mouth worked, but no sound came out.

No. No, he loved his little girl, the woman he had watched grow into something beautiful and broken, so lovely and lost--no. He did not love that stupid agent with his soft, sweet face and smile that only came easily around the two of them, and his jazz records that made Clint's heart skip a beat every time--no. No, no, no. He did not love the man who had come to save them. He would not.

"Ex...excuse me?" He whispered, shaking his head and smiling at Natasha, hoping she would abandon the notion. "You're fucking joking, Nat. It's not funny. You--you know I'm--I'm yours, Natasha, and--"

"I know you're mine, but you have fallen for him, too!" Natasha snapped. "Don't be an idiot, Clint. The truth is, you're baiting Coulson on purpose. You...you still haven't learned you can just ask for him to pay attention to you, have you?" Natasha shook her head. She looked sad by the knowledge. Clint was too busy shaking to react.

"I suppose that is my failing too. I never told you I began to care not because you made me angry. I cared because I wanted you to feel better." She sighed, reaching out to stroke Clint's hair. Despite his heartbreak, he didn't stop her. He could never refuse Natasha.

"Oh, Clint. You know if you just let go...you'll be all right. He will catch you. He will hold the both of us and kiss us and make the hurt stop, because he is a good man, and that is what they do, unflinchingly and without question." Natasha said firmly. "But you should know by now that telling him you wish to be saved by hindering his efforts at every chance aids no one and hurts all involved."

"...I'm not in love with him." Clint muttered sullenly. Natasha rolled her eyes. He hated it when she reminded him that she knew him better than he knew himself, truthfully.

"Really, then," she said, "so why do you continue to stay? Do you remember when they used to try to separate us, Clint? When Fury split us up for that one awful time and gave us different partners--you had five others, I remember--and you found your way back to me?" She sighed. "You just left, Clint. They weren't me, and you didn't need them. So you just walked away. You walked ten miles, once, back to headquarters and through the halls, to where my dorm was. Just to find me again. Just to be with me." She narrowed her eyes.

"So if you truly hated him and wanted him to leave, you would have taken me and we would have left days ago." She told him. "You know this. I know this. And yet you stay. Because you want him to save you. But you have not the words to beg him to do it."

"I don't fucking beg." Clint snarled, but tears were in his eyes, and they both knew it. Natasha kissed his forehead, gentle and tender. 

"This is not begging, then. It is a plea, a query--a demand, if that would please you." Natasha said gently. "But you cannot hide from the truth, and the truth is that you do care for him, and deeply so. And he knows it, so he does not get angry with you when you hurt him, or frustrated with you--nor does he give up. Because he understands, Clint." She kissed his forehead and stroked his cheek tenderly.

"And I do as well, but I am able to reach you better than he can, which is why you and I are the one having this talk." She reminded him, her tone gentle and warm.

Clint stared at her for a long time. Natasha waited patiently; she understood.

"Do you love him too, then?" He finally said, his mouth dry. He didn't know what she would respond with, (or perhaps he simply wished to deny it as long as possible), and so he had no idea what he would say to her response.

Natasha nodded without a moment's hesitation.

"Yes." She said. "He is good and kind and strong, and he holds me so that I am not troubled by nightmares. I can hear his heartbeat in my dreams, and I know I am safe." She sighed and laid against Clint. He betrayed not a whisper of emotion across his face.

"But I love you as well," she murmured. "I love you, because you are good and kind and strong, and you hold me so I am not troubled by nightmares. I love you because we have been together for as long as I have known the desire for a man, and you have not asked that thing of me. You have been a protector and a partner instead, and I have repaid in kind. We are one, Clint, in ways no normal people are. And for that, I am content; I can hear your heartbeat in my dreams, and I know then that I am safe." She closed her eyes. "I do not know why I love you both, but I am not particularly troubled by it. I wish only to...to let him know, perhaps. After...after things get better."

Clint laughed, bitter and dark.

"And when the hell do you think that will happen, Nat?" He said, his voice dry and dead. "You really fucking think we can do that? When do you think things will suddenly just be fixed?"

"Never." Natasha replied. "At least, not suddenly. But if you accept him into your heart, and you let him know his advice...and his aid...are appreciated and wanted...then maybe, if we are doing it together--the three of us...then perhaps it could be sooner than anticipated. He shall know his love is appreciated and wanted as well, then." She murmured. She sat up and gripped his wrists, squeezing them tightly and pulling him close, so close that their lips almost touched as she whispered to him, like she had whispered secret plans of mischief and fun to him so long ago. Her eyes shone as they had done back then when she looked at him.

"If you come with me, I am capable of anything. If he leads us, we can go anywhere. Please, Clint," Natasha begged. "I cannot do this alone. I must be with you. We are one." 

Clint moaned quietly, though there was no physical pain; his heart, however, was making enough demands on him to more than make up for it.

"Tell me you love me," Clint said, and it was more plea than demand, "please, Natasha. Say it."

"Clint, I love you with everything in me," Natasha murmured. "And I love him with all of that as well. You are my boys and I have chosen you. All is well. But not for all of us."

Clint was shaking. Confessing had taken its toll on him; truth be told, he had loved her a long time...and as much as he didn't want to admit it, of all people, Coulson had been the one to get him to confess. It was...it was a lot to handle. But he had to tell her the truth.

"...I...I love you too, Nat." Clint whispered. "And maybe I even like him a little." He closed his eyes and bit back a sob. "But...but I'm scared. I'm so scared, Nat."

"As am I." Natasha murmured softly. "Truth be told, I am very frightened. This is a daunting and arduous journey. But I am not frightened that I will not make it through. I have my boys beside me...I have my own strength. I will be all right." She closed her eyes. "I am really only frightened of the idea that perhaps this time, you will not be beside me."

There was a pause between the two of them for a second. In that pause, Clint considered a life without her; a life without protecting her, fighting alongside her, being one with her in every way he could ever imagine. That life held nothing but darkness.

Clint tackled her to the bed, pinning her down and hoping the love in his touch was enough to mingle with the strength of his embrace, so as not to frighten her. He kissed her then, and both of them were shaking on the bed, entirely helpless to resist the wave of emotion that had crashed over them both and swept them up into its depths.

"Never," he swore, his heart pounding, and he kissed her again, as if to prove his point, "never, Natasha, never!"

"Okay," she whispered, her eyes sparkling and her face flushed. "All right, Clint. I trust you. You know this."

"Of course I do, babe." Clint grinned, kissing her forehead. "I...I'll talk to him." He sighed. "I really will. I promise." He murmured. Natasha nodded.

"I know." She said gently, putting a finger to his lips. "I trust you, Clint. So why don't you and I go back down there for a time? Talk to him when you feel able." She told him. Clint nodded.

"Okay." He murmured. "You...you won't go back down there alone. You...you won't go anywhere alone again. Promise." He smiled. 

Natasha smiled back.

The two walked back downstairs hand in hand.

Chapter 12: Unicorn Defenders

Summary:

Coulson gets a migraine. Clint and Natasha plan. Clint tries to be a bit nicer. It sort of works.

Notes:

So I can thank one of my friends and her migraines for inspiring me to give them to Phil. It totally makes sense, too. Of all the people on the Avengers who would get them...it would be Phil. His entire life is a disaster zone for migraines.
That said, Clint and Natasha are a semi-thing now, which sets up drama and tension for laters. An actual resolution is not happening for a long time. DROWN IN UST. DROWN IN IT.

The rest of the night was peaceful, but Coulson's heart felt twisted in his chest. Something had descended upon the group, and he didn't quite know what it was...but it made him nervous, almost. There was a nauseous kind of anxiousness in his heart and thoughts, and he didn't like it, but he let television tune it out for the time being.

Clint was giving him a strange look, though, and it made him think. Had he angered Clint in some way? God, he would have to figure out what was wrong...but he felt ill now, and he wasn't sure why--something in the room had changed, and now he was...he was...

"Phil?" Natasha's voice was soft in his ear. "Phil, you look sick!" She murmured, immediately attentive and concerned. Coulson groaned.

"M'fine," he said, his voice slurring, "m'fine, go to bed, s'midnight..."

"Phil, hush." Natasha soothed him. "Clint, get me his blanket. I can carry him."

"No y'can't, just let me...sleep on couch, m'fine..." Coulson groaned. He had a splitting headache all of a sudden, and even the low light of the television ached at his eyes. He whimpered shamelessly, his temples pounding. Natasha seemed to notice, immediately turning the television off. 

"Got his blanket, Nat." Clint's voice was nearby, soft and hushed. Even that was enough to make Coulson whine in pain. Natasha's hand was on his forehead, a gentle balm to his throbbing headache as she sighed.

"He is hurting, but there is no fever." She murmured. "It is exhaustion, perhaps. Exhaustion and stress." She put a hand over Coulson's eyes to prevent any light getting in and told him, "Tomorrow you will stay in bed. We have put you through enough. We can handle day to day tasks. You must rest."

"No..." Coulson protested, hating himself for how weak the protest sounded. "Nat, Clint...you can't...I have to...take...care of you. Please. Can't..."

"Phil, we are never going to learn how to be normal people if you walk us through it the whole time we are here." Natasha chided him gently. "We will take our phones and call you if we truly need aid, but you are having migraines now because of how badly we are stressing you out. That is unfair." She murmured.

Clint felt guilt lance his heart as true and sharp as one of his arrows. Phil was whimpering in pain on the couch because of him...all because of him and what he had done...

"I'm sorry." Clint blurted out. "I'm so sorry, Phil." 

"It's okay." Coulson murmured. "You just...wanted a cheeseburger..." He groaned in pain, the simple act of talking making his head pound. 

Clint looked at him for a minute. Then he looked back at Natasha, and there was something in his eyes she didn't quite understand.

"Nat?" He murmured. "Please let me carry him."

She watched Clint for a second.

Then she nodded, wrapping the blanket Clint offered her around Coulson's shoulders.

"Okay." She agreed. "There is a first aid kit with some Excedrin in it. I will get that while you tuck him in." 

Clint nodded, taking Coulson into his arms as gently as he could and standing up, heading up the stairs and towards the bedroom as Natasha went into the kitchen.

...

Coulson wasn't sure why Clint was being so nice to him, but his arms were strong, and his head hurt too much to protest being carried around like he was right now. He didn't even protest when Clint put him on the bed and tucked him in, taking off his shoes for him and settling him in underneath the covers in his usual spot.

"Nat and I will be up in a few," he promised in a soft whisper, "and I promise we'll have some medicine." He bit his lip. "I...I'm really sorry. This was all 'cause of me..." He shook his head. "I stressed you out really bad, and I'm so sorry..."

"Clint, it's all right." Coulson managed to whisper, despite the sound of his own voice making his temples throb. "It's not because of you. I just get migraines sometimes from stress...and no one would argue that getting a new partner isn't stressful, right?" He took Clint's hand comfortingly. "For everyone involved."

Clint nodded, but he still looked guilty as he settled the blankets up around Coulson. He closed his eyes and sighed in relief as Clint stood up and laid a gentle hand on his forehead.

"We'll be back up to take care of you." Clint promised. "Try to rest, okay?"

Coulson didn't answer him. He was already asleep.

Clint couldn't help but smile, leaving the room and turning the lights off as he headed down the stairs as quietly as he could. 

Natasha left the Excedrin on the nightstand near where Coulson would be able to reach when he awoke and needed it. 

Before she came to bed, she showered, washing herself clean and coming back out to Clint smelling like strawberry soap and warmth. Clint climbed off the bed just as she sat down on it, going to shower himself. When he came back out to her and Phil, he smelled like musk and spices. 

Clint went over and sat beside Phil silently. He didn't even bother dressing yet; he put a gentle, warm hand on Coulson's forehead, stroking the skin, careful and contemplative. From the look in his eyes, Natasha would almost think he felt the same aching pain in his head that Phil did.

The two of them dressed without a word, getting into bed beside Phil. The agent did not stir; he slept deeply, thank god. Neither of them wanted him awake when being awake meant such pain. 

They protected him not as they would any other agent, because with other agents, they trusted they could take care of themselves. While they certainly trusted Phil's survival skills, there was something...different about this vulnerability. It was one that reminded them that Phil, despite his care and concern and gentleness and unicorn-like nature, was human. It awakened a fierce, vicious desire within both of them to protect that neither of them had felt before--and they loved it.

The desire sharpened as they cuddled closer, becoming burning as they leaned in and kissed his forehead. This was their right. This was what they had to do. This was their pleasure. To protect Phil as he had protected them. 

They both curled around him that night, their arms forming a gentle, protective arch over his body as he slept. None of them dreamed.

...

Coulson was the first to wake up the next morning, and he immediately made to get up and get out of bed. Before he could, though, the migraine came swinging back in full force and he moaned in agony, sinking back into the mattress.

He couldn't move. If he moved, his entire body throbbed with the force of the pain in his head. Even when his eyes were closed, the very feeling of the sun creeping in through the blinds was like lances through his eyes. He could not so much as breathe without wanting to rip open his skull.

Coulson couldn't help it; he whimpered brokenly with pain, even if it hurt to do exactly that. Everything hurt, and he'd rather whimper and get pain than simply exist and tremble with agonies from it.

The sound of it awoke both Clint and Natasha, who sat up in bed and looked at him, concerned. Natasha took the Excedrin and water from last night and tipped it into his mouth, making him swallow the medicine before he  could fall back asleep once more.

"We will go buy some medicine today," Natasha murmured, "and explore the town nearby as well. It is small. We will be safe. We will not call you if there is trouble, however; there is nothing you can do. We will let Director Fury know if we need aid today." She told him. Coulson actually whimpered at that. It caused him pain to speak, but he knew he had to--he had to make them stay.

"Please," he begged, his voice so soft neither of them heard it for a second, "please...protect. Not Fury. My job..."

"We will be all right." Natasha whispered. "I swear to you. We will come home safely. And you will rest. That is an order, Agent Coulson." She allowed herself a small smile at that. Coulson grinned back. He couldn't help it. Her voice caused him no pain. It was warm and soothing, like a bath on a cold day.

"...Fine." He whispered. "Safe."

"Always." Natasha murmured. "As long as we know we have a place here."

They left the room, closing the blinds and making sure the phonograph was off. Before Clint followed after Natasha to go downstairs, he looked back at Coulson, who had opened his eyes long enough to watch them leave. Clint looked almost contrite. 

He lifted his fingers to his lips and shut the door, but before he did, Coulson would have sworn he actually blew him a kiss.

Chapter 13: Archery Range

Summary:

Clint goes shooting and wins himself a prize. He and Natasha have a bit of peace.

Notes:

So this is a bit short, apologies. Hope it's up to snuff!
Clint and Natasha have a cute little moment. I love fairs like these; they're just fun in a really strange way, and you can see some interesting sights. Though I doubt most of them really have archery ranges, haha.
Anyways, hope you enjoy this. It's just schmoopy and fluffy and I don't have much to say, but I hope it makes you happy.

Clint and Natasha got in the car. Natasha drove. Clint had other things on his mind, and she did not want him distracted on the roads; there were few cars, but he would go fast on the empty roads, and if even one car collided with theirs...

She sighed and put her hand on Clint's, squeezing gently for a second before she hit the gas and pulled out of the driveway, heading out on the dusty roads to roam; Clint stared out the window, his pale eyes reflecting the sky back at him as he sank deep into thought.

As luck would have it, that day, the town happened to hold a festival to honor the summer months. Natasha pulled into the jam-packed parking lot and raised an eyebrow, impressed. 

"It is amazingly well put together for such a tiny town." She said. "I feel as if I ought to congratulate them on it."

"Well, you could do that, but you could just enjoy it, too." Clint offered cheerfully. "Wanna go buy cotton candy?"

"I would like that." Natasha agreed.

Her hand found his. It was hesitant, almost as if she was frightened to touch him in such a way. Clint didn't act surprised, or even acknowledge it; he knew her enough to know that was the better choice. He simply walked beside her as they made their way to the cotton candy stand and got themselves both a perfectly-assembled sugar-spun globe of candy, the sun shining through the threads of sugar.

They walked as they lapped at the spun sugar thoughtfully, letting it dissolve in their mouths like snow, falling apart and melting into crystals that burst in their mouths, filling them with warm, sugary flavor. 

The fair was warm and smelled like roasted peanuts, baking in the sun. The hissing of oil added a greasy pungence to the scene, and the puffs of powdered sugar that settled in the air and hung there for a moment like bubbles of snow before settling into the dirt added a sugary resplendence to the scene.

The ferris wheel loomed above them, more like an ancient, wise overseer than a monstrous behemoth. It whirred pleasantly above the whole fair, watching them all with its wide, bulbous eyes, attached to the poles and cables that made up its web.

Stands waved cheerfully at them with striped banners flapping in the breeze, catching the currents and rippling like a dry, cracked plaster sea of color. Clint looked at the stuffed animals hanging from the racks attached to the stands and stopped for a second, observing them intently. Before a thought could condense in his mind, Natasha was beckoning to him and he bolted off after her, eager to catch up and take her hand.

Children ran about them, completely oblivious to the fact that two strangers were at the fair, as if summoned by the dust and wind; indeed, no one gave them more than a casual glance, except to gaze at Natasha, if only for a second--Clint's hand was still in hers, and no man was foolish enough to let his look linger for too long. They made their way through the crowd and realized suddenly how simple it was.

There was no fight. There was no mission. There was no enemy. It was just...the two of them and some cotton candy. And that was the best thing in the world.

The two of them walked together for awhile, snacking sporadically on whatever they could find, buying whatever caught their fancy and munching idly on it, tasting summer warmth within the food regardless of what it was. It all tasted of peanut oil anyway. Deep-fried food tended to.

Clint adjusted his sunglasses, squeezed Natasha's hand, and observed the small section of the fair that seemed devoted to carnival games. It was nothing major; a water-gun game, a ring toss game, a bouncy slide...the simple stuff. A few of the things he even recognized from the circus.

And then his eyes fell on the last game set up on the field.

His eyebrow climbed and he couldn't help but smirk.

Ten targets. Simple enough. 

He lifted up his sunglasses and looked at the archery range laid out in front of him, observing it more carefully now, as he would a real quarry. His eyes were bright with curiosity. Natasha raised an eyebrow and looked at him. An unspoken argument passed between them in the span of a few blinks and a small sigh.

"...Don't show off too much," Natasha murmured. "We don't want to make a scene."

"I wasn't planning on it, princess," Clint said, but it was a lie and they both knew it, "and besides, it's not like being good at archery is strange or anything."

"All right, all right," Natasha groaned, knowing when she had been beat, "go have fun. I will go get us some more cotton candy."

Clint pouted and pecked her on the cheek, grinning wickedly as he faked being wounded by her words.

"Aww, you're not even going to watch me win? I'm hurt." He teased. Natasha huffed and ruffled his hair before giving him a look.

"Do you want cotton candy or not?" She demanded.

That quieted him, and he gave her one last grin before he sauntered off to the archery range. Natasha just watched him leave before she rolled her eyes and smiled, sighing heavily as she went off to find the cotton candy again.

Clint accepted the quiver of arrows from the woman running the booth graciously, with a bright smile on his face as he held the quiver. He took one out and tested it, tongue poking out from between his lips just a little as he ran a finger down the shaft and squeezed the arrowhead between the tips of his fingers. With a quick flick of his hand, he had adjusted the fletching on the back of the arrow and sharpened the arrowhead with the file he kept in a small pocket of all his leather jackets. 

Someone who clearly knew what they were doing drew a small crowd, interest growing as Clint adjusted the bowstring as well, talking in hushed tones to the woman as he advised her on how to properly work the bowstring, demonstrating and teaching until he was sure she had it correct. 

Then, with an even larger crowd behind him now, he tossed his head back as a lion would to shrug off his mane, and nocked the arrow in the bowstring, firing in such a way that it seemed effortless.

There was the soft whine of the air splitting around the path of the arrow for an instant. Then the sharp thunk of the arrow hitting the corkboard bull's-eye, dead on. 

Clint grinned. By now, the crowd had expanded to at least a fourth of the fair, with more on their way.

He adjusted the rest of the arrows with the woman's help, fixing them up and putting them back in the quiver almost reverently before, in the time it took to blink nine times, the other nine targets were pierced by the sharp point of the arrowhead, shafts quivering where the head had struck bull's-eye.

Almost the whole fair had come to watch at that point. There were low murmurs of interest now, that only grew to a dull roar as Clint selected one last arrow from the bag. 

Then out of his jacket he produced a white bag. He opened it carefully and took out a caramel apple, testing it in his hands as best as he could without getting them sticky. 

Without warning, he tossed it up in the air and fired the arrow. 

The arrow and apple both came down to earth, the arrow stuck at a perfectly vertical angle in the ground, the apple shuddering on the shaft of the arrow. Clint plucked it out of the ground, took the apple off the shaft, and bit into it, the juice filling his mouth as he grinned and waved cheerily to the crowd. For a minute, time fell away and he was a teenage boy in the circus, barely old enough to shave and shooting apples off the heads of tigers.

Then the woman's voice was in his ear, amazed and delighted as she told him, "You can have your pick of the prizes, honey."

Clint blinked, surprised.

"...There's prizes?" He asked. The woman chuckled, amused by his naivete.

"Sure, hun. That's the whole point of the game." She pointed up to a rack hanging just past her little table. "See those? You can have any one of 'em."

Clint looked at the stuffed animals in front of him, completely at a loss. He had never really been rewarded for his archery, per se, but...this was amazing. He could maybe...well...

Clint frowned. He wasn't really one for stuffed animals; he had Natasha to cuddle. But some of them looked soft and inviting...and there was someone back at home in pain because of him who could really use something soft and cuddly to hold in the dark.

His eyes swept over the rack of stuffed animals until he found the perfect one. It was goofy-looking, but in the most endearing way possible; it was clumsily sewn but seemed to radiate warmth and happiness as Clint picked it up, claiming his prize.

"You sure you want that one, hun?" The woman said. "There's a lot of better stuff in the pile you're welcome to."

"Yes, I am," Clint said, "'cause it isn't for me. It's for...someone I really owe a gift to."

The crowd sighed, wooed by this display of romance. Clint just huffed and looked away. The woman clapped him on the shoulder.

"Hey, that's worth way more than any toy, y'know that," she said, "and I'm sure whoever  they are, they know it too. Good luck, son."

"Uhm, thanks," Clint said, unsure of what else to do, because she was beginning to remind him of someone else he had known back at the circus; the woman in charge of taming the animals who always seemed to see right through his bluster and get straight to his heart. He just bowed and kissed her hand. 

"Adieu," he said lightly, heading off with the toy underneath his arm and meeting Natasha halfway through the crowd as everyone applauded. 

"So I may have shown off a little bit," he confessed, unable to keep a grin off his face, "but I have something I gotta do. I'll be back as soon as I can, okay? Just enjoy yourself." He kissed her nose and grinned. "I won't do anything stupid, Nat. I just have something I need to get done."

"...All right." She murmured, hugging him tight. Nothing more was said; nothing more needed to be. He kissed her cheek and headed off for the car, a light bounce in his step, the unicorn under his arm, its head bobbing along peacefully as Clint squeezed it close.

Natasha just smiled and ate her cotton candy, sitting on a bench and waiting for him to come back. She would get an explanation then.

Chapter 14: The Unicorn

Summary:

Clint gives Phil a gift. Phil wants to mean something. Natasha understands and is proud.

Notes:

This unicorn though.
Mind you, personal headcanon is that Phil has the whole "real men wear pink" thing going on, so I doubt he would give a fuck if anyone found him with it. Hell, he has a pink robe. He knows full well he can drop anyone that tries to give him shit for it, he doesn't care. Phil Coulson is secretly a honey badger.
Anyways, oh Clint. He spends a lot of time after this just...trying to ATONE, basically, because he feels like there's a "kindness meter" in people, and he normally doesn't care if he exhausts it with people, but with Phil...he feels like now he's lost all Phil's kindness and doesn't know how to get it back, because he honestly doesn't think he deserves it if he doesn't repay him somehow. He's never been taught he deserves affection or love just because he is. Neither has Natasha. I spend most of this fanfic wanting to hug them both desperately.
If this is a little short, sorry; I tried to edit it and add more, but the next chapter is longer, and this one's only so short because of my inability to cut off the next chapter properly. I hope you like it anyway, and sorry about the delay in updates!

Coulson whimpered with agony, unable to sleep. Worry clenched his heart like a vise and made him restless as he planned all the morbid and increasingly unlikely ways Clint and Natasha could come to some kind of terrible harm without him there to protect them. He wanted to sleep, desperately so, but truth be told, he really couldn't anymore; not without them by his side, their warm bodies reminding him that they were safe and sound.

He didn't like that he coudln't sleep without them. It meant this wouldn't end well. As much as he valued their company, he knew they did not regard him with that same affection, and he knew he didn't matter to them. Not like they mattered to him. It hurt. It hurt like burning and the quiet agonies he had always suffered, but more so--like a wound reopened, bleeding anew. He didn't know what to do. He didn't know what to say.

He wanted to matter. He wanted to matter so badly--more importantly, matter to them, who mattered so much to him. They meant the world to him. He wanted to be their world in return.

That, however, looked increasingly unlikely. Coulson knew then that his days sleeping in this bed beside them were numbered; once they left this house and went back to base, how much would they want to stay with him, sleep in the same bed? How could he ever sleep without them beside him again? How could he handle that rejection, for it was inevitable? And how, finally, could he be a good partner and a handler despite the pain of knowing he was locked out of something joyous and grand?

He couldn't be. He knew, in his heart, that if he was denied this pleasure, there would be something missing, always. But...he had to try. If they did not need him as a lover, but as a handler, he would have to content himself with that, and be the best handler he possibly could. He would heal them and keep them safe, even if it killed him. 

Coulson couldn't help but chuckle at that thought, even though it caused him agonizing pain. Black Widow and Hawkeye had been the cause of the deaths of many men. But not like this. Never like this. In that...he was unique.

In no other aspect, though. Perhaps that was why he could never deserve them. He was nothing worth deserving.

As he wallowed in his pain, groaning in misery, the sound of his own protests making the pain worse, he heard the keys turning in the lock. He tensed, panicking; which of the two had gotten injured or fallen ill or, god forbid, been killed? What had happened? What--

"Phil?" The voice was timid as it reverbrated throughout the house. "It's me, Clint. I'm coming up..."

Coulson relaxed, just a little, as he heard Clint trying to be as quiet as possible while climbing up the stairs. The archer's consideration made him smile. 

The door was opened carefully and slowly, and Clint was creeping across the room as quietly as he could. Coulson could hear him, but he had yet to open his eyes. Before he could, he felt Clint's hand on his cheek, tender and careful.

"Hi. I missed you," he said, and there was a note of excitement in his voice, like he had a big secret to share that he just couldn't wait to divulge. "So...there was this fair, and me and Nat went, and they had an archery ground, and there were prizes, and...I won..." 

He kept his voice quiet, and Coulson knew he would have to look at him at some point to see what the fuss was about. So he opened his eyes only to be confronted by the largest stuffed unicorn he had ever seen in his life.

Coulson stared. The unicorn, with its golden horn and pale pink mane, a forelock of it hanging in front of massive blue eyes, with its cream-colored coat and long tail, looked...ridiculous. But, well, endearingly so. The chubby body practically demanded to be cuddled; the head was big enough to snuggle on its own, and the legs were chunky and cartoony, ending in gold-tipped hooves.

"I...this is all my fault," Clint whispered, "it's all my fault you're hurting...and Natasha said I...I had to try not being mean, because I could get your attention in other ways, she promised...I didn't really believe her. I still don't. But I had to try." He huffed. "I wish you could've seen me shoot those targets. It was so easy."

"I bet." Coulson whispered back, his throat dry. His heart was hammering against his chest. "Clint...you never had to win my attention. I gave it freely." He promised. "But I understand."

Clint pushed the unicorn closer, hesitantly. Its head bobbed, brushing against Phil's cheek. Its horn poked his forehead tenderly. Clint shifted from foot to foot, averting his eyes. Phil knew if the lights were on, he would've seen Clint's face in shades of scarlet.

"Her name can be Philipa, if you want," he offered. Coulson blinked, stunned Clint had remembered. Clint, evidently unnoticing of Phil's shock, continued on, "I figured a unicorn would make sense, 'cause you're the only one who ever said Natasha had a pretty smile and didn't say anything else about her body, and you're the only one who's ever read the S.H.I.E.L.D. handbook from cover to cover."

"I probably am." Coulson agreed, still in awe about what he noticed, what he remembered. These were the things that mattered to the two of them; being treated like people, and having someone in authority who knew all the rules to protect them. He was those things, those things that mattered to them. It gave Phil hope. It made him smile, just a little. Clint grinned in return.

"See? I knew I was right." He whispered softly. He sat down beside Phil, the bed weighed down with his presence in the most comforting way possible. Clint fidgeted, clearly nervous, and shot Phil a look, his eyes wide. He put the unicorn in Phil's arms and tugged the blankets up over it.

"So...um, here you go. I...I did okay? Am I forgiven?" Clint mumbled, looking up at him, no guile or anger in his big blue eyes; just a bit of hope and a lot of fear and nervous worry.

Coulson's heart couldn't help but ache for the man before him, so childlike in his hope for approval and love. He knew his tone, recognized it; the tone of an abused child, hopeful that this time they would be seen as good enough, that whatever they thought they had done to deserve their treatment would be forgiven. Clint was raw and Clint was prideful and Clint was a handful, but he had never been truly malicious. He was just hurting. Coulson didn't need to forgive hurt. 

"Clint, you did wonderfully," Coulson replied, "and there was nothing for me to forgive. Go out and have fun. I think Philipa and I need to rest."

"You'll be able to sleep now, then?" Clint asked, his voice hesitant. Coulson nodded. Clint sighed, relieved. His smile, when he looked down at Coulson, was dazzling in its warmth, like a sudden burst of sunlight through a sea of clouds.

"Okay. I'll go out to the fair again. Me and Nat will bring home candy and stuff for when you feel better." Clint promised, pushing himself up off the bed and going to head for the door.

"Clint..." Coulson stopped him before he left, taking his hand. Clint turned around to look at him, eyes wide as they flicked down to look at their entwined fingers.

"No one has ever given me a gift since my grandmother died," Coulson began, "and I just...figured you should know this means more to me than I can really express."

"That's okay," Clint said. "I think we both have that problem right now."

He stepped forward and bowed in one swift movement to give Coulson a quick, gentle kiss across his forehead.

"See you soon." He murmured. He left the room without another word and wound his way around the house before leaving, making sure all the lights in the house were off.

Coulson waited until he could hear the car pulling out of the driveway to pull Philipa close and hug her so tight his arms shook. 

Maybe he might really matter to them. Just a little. But a little was more than enough. 

With that, he buried his face into the one thing that could comfort him like the weight of Clint and Natasha beside him and fell asleep, at peace and unplagued by stress for the first time in weeks.

...

Natasha didn't say anything to Clint when he came back to the fair. She just offered him his cotton candy and looked him in the eyes.

They both smiled. 

"He loved it, didn't he." Natasha murmured. It wasn't a question, but Clint nodded in agreement anyway, looking incredibly pleased with himself. Natasha kissed his cheek.

Relief for Coulson and love for Clint swelled up within her as she kissed him, and so she threw her arms around his neck and hugged him tight, burying her face into his shoulder and smiling, pleased. Clint had changed. Clint had changed for the better, and it was all because of their Coulson. It was exhilirating to see. She would have to thank Phil later. This was all his doing.

"It was a good first step," she told him, "but you must remember to continue going forward, so to speak." She smiled. "Though I will admit you have done a wonderfully brave thing already, Clint, and I am very proud of you."

He hugged her. If she noticed him trembling against her skin, she did not speak up about it. Clint laid his head on her shoulder, grateful for her silence, and kissed her neck before taking her hand and pulling away.

"Yeah," he finally said, "I think I did okay." 

There was a warm pause as they contemplated how easily their lives were shifting, like sand stirred by the wind, falling into place. Where the wind had taken them was not a bad place to be, as they thought on it, and so they stayed there together for a few minutes more under the summer sun, warm and content with where their sand had settled.

"Do you want some ice cream before we go? I promised Phil we'd bring back candy, so we might as well get ourselves something." Clint said, breaking the silence. Natasha nodded, and the two headed back into the fair, getting themselves ice cream.

The soft swirl of ice cream that melted in Natasha's mouth was the only thing she was focusing on as they made their way back through the fair; Clint, however, could always make her jump to attention, and he knew it. He stroked her hair and got her to look at him immediately, eyes wide as she watched him. Clint grinned.

"I saw a bookstore on the way here, by the way. We should get there before it closes..." Clint shrugged. "Phil said we should start reading more way back, remember? To...y'know, take our mind off of things."

"I would love that." Natasha murmured. She took his hand and smiled, letting him lead her through the fair for candy, out of the dusty fields and back to the cool safety of the car, where they could pump Coulson's music through the streets and feel safe and sound as they drove to find themselves something they would enjoy--not as agents, but as people.

Chapter 15: Books and Bedtime

Summary:

Clint and Natasha go book shopping, then come home to take care of their Coulson. Phil protests, but not too much. Natasha is secretive. Clint wants to know what she's reading.

Notes:

Minor callback to the trio's first real conversation here! I admit to a passion for cheap romance novels, so long as they're not TOO terribly sexist. There are some that are just cheesy fun and very aware of it. Those are the best.
Anywho, so now it's Clint and Nat's turn to fuss. They enjoy doing it, but they're trying to fuss over the biggest mother hen on the Avengers, second only to Steve. It usually doesn't work. They take every chance they can get, though.
Sorry this is so late! I keep losing track of time because of summer vacation. I'll try to stick to a strict update schedule...

Natasha didn't let Clint see what she had in her arms as she made her way through the dusty, warm bookstore. Initially, he had thought he had just been at a bad angle to look, but when she began to actively shy away from him when he went to check, he let the matter drop. If Natasha didn't want to share, that was fine. 

He didn't really know what to buy, so he looked around for what had the most interesting titles and bought those books. If he didn't like them, he could just use them for target practice, so it was fine. 

Clint smiled at the idea as he went up and paid for the books, accepting the paper bag to carry them in before calling back to Natasha, "I'll be in the car. You can get your stuff and meet me out there."

She brightened up considerably, evidently grateful to be able to buy whatever she had chosen in private. 

Clint could practically feel his curiosity burning underneath his skin as he went back out to the car and climbed in shotgun, opening a book and reading until, with a click of the door, Natasha had come in beside him, her paper bag crinkling as she set it down gently on the floor, just beyond Clint's reach. Clint almost pouted.

Natasha drove back in silence, avoiding any and all questions about her purchases. Clint eventually gave up, letting her make their way back to the house with her head held high and her lips pursed. 

...What in the hell had she actually bought, come to think of it? Natasha shared everything with him; to suddenly get all skittish and unforthcoming wasn't like her...Jesus, what would make Natasha get embarrassed?  

Clint tried not to laugh at the ideas his mind came up with. Natasha shot him a look, but before she could snap at him, they were pulling into the driveway.

The two of them crept into the house quietly, their feet like cat's paws as they wound their way through the kitchen to set the candy bags down and grabbed a few snacks they could eat quietly, so as not to disturb Phil, and then, with an even lighter tread, they made their way upstairs and into the bedroom.

Coulson stirred immediately upon hearing them come in; no matter how silent they tried to be, he knew their footsteps at this point, and, in all honesty, had been poised to greet the sound for the entire day, even in his dreams.

They both tensed, nervous that they had harmed him, caused him further pain in some manner, but then he smiled warmly at them both and they knew he was safe. 

"Hi," he whispered, too sleepy to say much else, "y'can come in if y'like."

"We would love to." Natasha replied softly in return.

Not much else was said. The two of them climbed into bed beside him--Natasha on his left side, Clint on his right, and cuddled under the blankets, closing their eyes. In the silence and darkness, they appreciated the feel of the man between them; all his warmth and softness and the places where he was firm and strong, and the places where he was gentle and yielding. It was a lovely feeling to be beside him; they both cuddled closer, inhaling the smell of him, warm aftershave and fresh paper, and gripped his hands to let him know they had come home safe, alive, just to be with him.

"We did all right," Clint finally whispered, "and we had fun. If it matters."

"Of course it does," Coulson slurred, already half-asleep again, "s'all I want for you. T'keep you safe...happy. Really matters."

He fell back asleep after that, warm and content. The pain had begun to recede, if only a little.

Clint and Natasha stayed in there for the rest of the day, eating from the snacks when the mood struck them, but more often simply snuggling closer in the dark, enjoying a stillness and silence that neither of them had ever experienced before, and realizing that with Coulson in between them, they felt more whole and real than they ever had with just the two of them.

Natasha kissed his forehead for that realization. Coulson did not stir.

After a moment's pause, Clint kissed him as well. Still, he did not stir. 

But in his dreams, there was a sudden warmth and a jolt of affection, and it made the rest of the dream very pleasureable indeed.

...

The night went on, and Clint and Natasha found themselves falling asleep around ten. That was completely out of the ordinary for them--both agents were night owls and preferred the little bit of peace they could eke out of the night--but truth be told, they had spent most of their late afternoon in bed beside someone who slept so peacefully between them, keeping their hearts at ease, and so they could rest without needing the night's peace.

To sleep seemed almost natural--comforting and soothing, really, because it felt like when they slept beside him, everything, even the nightmares, became more peaceful. Perhaps it was because they truly believed now that when they awoke from those nightmares, there would be something safe and comforting waiting for them.

In any case, the early night bled into a late awakening, and even then, they only awoke because Coulson had stirred, sitting up in bed and blinking blearily, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

He sighed with relief as he looked around, testing his vision. The pain had receded into something more manageable; another few Excedrin would probably cure it...

"You are still in need of rest." Natasha said, and the sound of her voice in his ear made him jump. He turned to look at her, and despite her sleep-mussed hair and bleary eyes, she managed to give him a fierce look.

"Natasha, I'm all right. Really." Coulson promised, keeping his tone gentle. She did not look convinced. He sighed. "I need to keep an eye on you and Clint. I can't just not take care of you two for two whole days..."

"Then we will stay here beside you," she said. "I will make breakfast and bring it up here, and we have books. If you can tolerate some low light, we will read in here. That way, you may rest, and we may be...taken care of."

Coulson sighed, giving her a look. She simply huffed, and it was clear she was taking a firm stand on this; he wasn't going to drag her away from this idea, that much was already obvious.

"All right, then," he said, trying not to sigh again, "I can tolerate a little light...enough to have you two read, anyway." He actually smiled as he remembered one of their first conversations. "I'm incredibly pleased you found books, anyway--did you finally find a kind you liked to read?" He asked.

Coulson was genuinely startled when Natasha simply mumbled something unintelligibly and bolted from the room as fast as she could without making too much noise. 

"Yeah, I dunno what's gotten into her either." Clint mumbled from his position on the bed. Coulson sighed.

"Morning, Clint," he murmured, "and I don't mind...I'm just hoping she's all right."

"Sure she is," Clint said, "Nat's just not used to this sorta thing. She'll be all right." He looked up at Coulson, and the pain in his eyes was unmistakable. He was still nervous, on edge, and it was clear it was about his behavior, even if he had been forgiven. Clint probably didn't believe that to be true. Coulson wanted to hug him, if only to make his pain stop and show him in some physical, undeniable way that he was really forgiven.

"So...you, uh...you got better," Clint mumbled, "after the dumb stuff I did..."

"Clint, it wasn't your fault..." Coulson sighed. He wasn't going to convince Clint of that. He would have to try something else.

"Yes, I am feeling a little better...and a lot of that is thanks to your gift," he murmured, keeping his tone gentle as Clint visibly perked up. "If I hadn't been able to go to sleep, I would be in much worse shape than I am right now. Thank you, Clint. It was...lovely."

"Yeah, I'm awesome like that." Clint piped up, suddenly cheerful again. "But you're gonna keep resting, right?"

"I don't think I have a choice." Coulson said, his tone dry enough to turn Niagra Falls into a dusty gulch. Clint just laughed.

...

Natasha came up with breakfast twenty minutes later; aside from the coffee, everything she had brought up was whatever Coulson had bought that didn't require any actual cooking. She looked almost apologetic as she set it down on the table.

"I am sorry," she murmured, "but I do not know what you would like for breakfast. If you could show me when you are well, I would love to make breakfast..."

"S'fine, Nat," Coulson said gently. "I'm fine with what you did. Thank you. It's lovely."

She nodded hesitantly and sat beside him, picking at her food. They ate quickly as Coulson realized she had a paper bag underneath her arm, situated so that he couldn't see what was inside. He sighed. Those must be the books--but what was she reading?

He decided to let it be for the time being, if only to allow her the privacy that he stressed as of such importance, and settled back in after he finished the water and medicine she had brought him in lieu of coffee, (which would simply make the migraine worse.)

Before he could say anything, Clint had pulled out a book and begun to read beside him. Natasha, though she had her back turned to them both so they couldn't see it, had begun to read as well, and the rhythm of their pages flipping lulled Coulson back to sleep before he knew it, surrounded by the smell and sound of books and the warmth of the people beside him.

...

Clint hadn't meant to see what she was reading. Honest, he hadn't. He had just gotten up to get himself some orange juice, and when he had come in the room, Natasha had happened to be facing him, book in hand, the title clear. 

"...Moonlight in Venice?" Clint said, unable to keep incredulity from leaking into his tone. "Natasha, Jesus Christ, what are you reading--"

He ducked as the book was suddenly thrown at his head. Evidently, she hadn't thought that gesture all the way through, because her eyes got wide and she gasped, realizing Clint could just grab the book. She went to grab it before he could, but it was too late--with a quick flick of his hand, Clint had snatched it up off the floor, and snuggled against Coulson on the bed, preventing himself from coming to any serious bodily harm. 

Natasha's glare was murderous; even Clint, who normally was unfazed by her dirty looks, actually shuddered. 

"Clint," Coulson began, "leave her alone, that's her book--"

"I just wanna read a little!" Clint protested. "She has to share! Sharing is important!"

"I will bury you in a place no man will ever find you, Barton, and your bones shall rot unmourned by anyone!" Natasha snarled. Clint just laughed. 

"Yeah, whatever," he said, "anyways...I just wanna look, Nat, just for a minute..."

Chapter 16: Romance Novel

Summary:

No, you're reading the right story, don't worry. Bit of a fake out. Who the hell names a secret agent Jeremy?

Notes:

Yeah, no, for real. Do you know how hard it is to write something sucking intentionally? Because it is very, very hard. And very frustrating.
Anywho, Natasha reads romance novels! I have stupid little headcanons for what they all read because ssh. She doesn't just read romance novels, though; later on she picks up reading "thriller" novels, because she, like Phil and Clint, enjoys mocking their woefully inadequate depictions of spywork.
And sort of downer ending whoopsy daisy. Hope you still like the chapter; I mean, hell, you gotta know they're endgame, yeah?

The embrace was passionate, and swept the stunned woman off her feet, her eyelashes flecked with tears as she wept from the sheer strength contained in the arms of the man that now held her against his broad chest, his heart throbbing in unison with hers.

"Oh," she gasped lightly, her tone warm and loving, "I never dreamed you and I would be together like this...in each other's arms, safe and sound..."

"I know, my love," the man told her, and the voice of Jeremy Thorne, the secret agent who had stolen her heart, sent shivers down Scarlett's spine, "it is a sight to see, looking upon you in the moonlight like this. You have found peace, and it makes your face shine like the rarest of gems..."

"I know, darling," she murmured, her lips against his thick, tanned neck, "shall we celebrate this newfound peace, then, with something as powerful as passion?"

"We shall," he agreed, and he carried her back into their part of Scarlett's castle, which she had inherited as the long-lost Contessa's daughter, and they made love for hours underneath a velvet moon.

...

"...That was literally one of the dumbest things I have ever read in my life." Clint said, holding the book as far away from him as possible. "I mean, who the fuck names a secret agent Jeremy?" 

"Give me the book back, Hawkeye!" Natasha finally managed to wrench it out of his hands, seeing that Coulson would not stop her, and clenched it to her chest like she was defending a child. Clint started laughing.

"I don't know if I'd call that trash a book, but okay, Nat," he teased, his tone light as he added, "I mean, I dunno, what'd you call romance novels? 'Full of negative stereotypes and unrealistic expectations,' right?" 

"Go to hell." She muttered, sitting back where she had been on the bed, her back to the both of them as she began to read. 

Coulson sighed. Clint was probably not ever going to let her live the incident down. That wasn't good; it was the first sign that perhaps things had changed for her...he couldn't let her lose that progress over embarrassment.

"Clint, stop it." He said quietly, shooting the archer a look. He sat up in bed and put a gentle hand on Natasha's shoulder. The woman huffed, refusing to look at him. Coulson sighed.

"Natasha, it's all right," he told her, keeping his tone gentle, "not every book you read has to be a masterpiece of literature. You can read romance novels. It's perfectly fine; they're written so people can read and enjoy them. There's no shame in enjoying them."

"They are not good books, per se," Natasha said, wounded dignity dripping from her tone, "but I was curious."

"Curious? Why?" Coulson asked. Neither of them noticed, but a hitch had caught in his voice, and he blinked harshly for a second before he managed to smooth his face into a neutral yet concerned expression.

"Well..." Natasha looked away, mumbling quietly, almost defensively, "I was curious to see what romance...is like, and perhaps the plot is unrealistic...and the dialogue is silly and stilted...but it was a way to gain further insight." 

"I see," Coulson said, and there was just a small catch in his voice, the smallest hint of pain, but neither of them noticed, since he continued on, "perhaps I should read one myself, then."

"Hey! I wanna read one too, then!" Clint protested. Natasha clutched the books against her chest and stuck her tongue out at him. It was childish and ridiculous, but it was very human, and it made Coulson smile despite his pain as he laid in bed with the two of them and spent the rest of the day napping, awoken only by the rush of fingers against pages and their soft, warm laughter.

...

He awoke in time for dinner, at ease and feeling much better. Natasha seemed to be able to tell; she smiled, delighted, when he came downstairs with her to make dinner and took his hand for a second.

"I am glad you are well, Phil." She murmured, her voice husky and warm. He just nodded numbly. He couldn't let her voice affect him. He had to nip this little infatuation in the bud now...

"Good enough to make dinner, at least." Coulson said quietly, gesturing to the fridge. He opened it after a moment's pause to consider what to eat. He rifled through it, observing what was to be had before deciding on simple spaghetti that night. He could make the sauce by hand. That was something they could help with...together...

Coulson swallowed. He was a grown man, and this was ridiculous. He was better than this. He--

"Clint..." Natasha murmured, and her voice, keeping the same tone that it had before, managed to send a knife through his heart all of a sudden as she stood stock still, eyes wide and lips parted just slightly as she looked at the archer, who leaned against the doorframe, eyes glimmering warmly as he looked at her.

"Hey, Nat," he replied in turn, and his voice made Coulson's already wounded heart ache, throbbing with unprecedented pain, "came down to check on you." 

He stopped in front of Coulson and put his hand against his temple, as if to check for fever.

"You too." He murmured.

Somehow, that just made it worse.

...

Coulson was quiet as he boiled the water, setting aside a second pot for the sauce as he took out all the ingredients and began to list them, knowing full well he had an attentive audience. Clint and Natasha watched as he set the tomatoes, garlic, red pepper and olive oil out on the counter, taking out a small container of parsley and setting the other pot on the stove.

He put them to work on the sauce easily enough; Natasha was quiet and thoughtful as she cut and crushed the tomatoes, adding in tomato paste as well, as Clint cut garlic and red peppers beside her with an arrowhead. Phil had tried to make him use a knife, but Clint had defended himself with the excuse that he knew arrows better than he knew knives and could cut better with an arrow, and Coulson hadn't been willing to fight him on that one.

So for a little while, all three of them worked in peace; Coulson prepared the salad and the plates, adding pre-made garlic bread to their menu by putting it in the oven, (he could already hear his grandmother's sniff of disdain from using pre-made bread, but breadmaking was not a task either Clint or Natasha would be up to), and the kitchen seemed warm and bright and happy.

And it was, but Coulson's perception of the peace was marred by the sadness that had tainted his vision with shades of grey. He did not see anything but the occasional touches of hand to shoulder or hips brushing against each other, bodies trying to stay apart but pulled together by the magnet of love. He did not see how those bodies were drawn to him with that magnet, also; he did not feel Natasha's hand on his shoulder as more than it was, with a weight he prescribed only to her touch upon Clint, nor did he feel Clint's hip brush against his own with much more meaning than an accidental gesture more than once.

And so they prepared dinner in quiet, and for Clint and Natasha, it was a soft, peaceful kind of quiet. For Coulson, it was the quiet of repressed love, a unique agony that left him screaming in silence as they all sat down at the table, the meal finished.

"...Coulson?" Natasha finally ventured, halfway through a quiet dinner, her eyes wide as she looked at him. "Would you really read one of the novels?"

"If you have an extra." Coulson said carefully. He tried not to let hope show. There was no need to; this was no cause for hope, surely...

"I do," Natasha said gently, "and I would love to share. But not with Clint." She teased, shooting him a look. Clint whined, pouting at her. Natasha just grinned, her eyes sparkling as she shook her head and shared a glance with Coulson that was so familiar and well-worn—exasperation with Clint—that it felt like a shared secret; a safe thing only they knew. 

Clint's eyes glimmered, though, so perhaps he was in on it as well. Coulson didn't mind that. 

"Or perhaps I will," Natasha added after a minute of silence, "but only if he reads them out loud."

"I definitely will," Clint promised, a wicked grin on his face. "That is...if your headache isn't too bad, Phil." He murmured suddenly, his eyes wet with worry as he shot Coulson a look. He started for a second, surprised by the sudden attentiveness, but he rolled with it soon enough.

"It will be fine," he replied quietly, "and I myself will be fine, so don't worry. If it will make you two happy, I am content to listen to Clint read." He grinned. "Especially if you do the ridiculous voices again."

"I intended to." Clint said cheerfully.

For a moment, all was well, for all of them. It did not last—not much does—but they enjoyed the feeling glimpse of what, someday, might be.

...

After dinner, the night was still warm, enough so that they all ended up looking at each other, uncomfortable. Windows were a venue for an enemy to get in unannounced; even Coulson, despite trying to help them get over their own agent-related neuroses, was a little hesitant. However, the heat was insistent, and the air conditioner wasn't enough. 

Clint opened the big bay window in the living room, sitting on the couch underneath it, eventually slumping down so that he was stretched out over the length of the plush couch. Natasha stood over him and tsked quietly, trying not to show her amusement and failing.

"Clint, dear," she murmured, her voice soft, "you're going to have to move over. I would like to sit near the window too..."

Clint grunted and pressed his face into the pillow. Natasha rolled her eyes and huffed, sitting down on the couch and curling close. Clint grinned and nuzzled her neck, and as she sighed with pleasure and amusement, Coulson walked in with glasses of iced tea for all of them.

The three of them stared at each other. Clint's arm was still wrapped around Natasha's waist, his face halfway buried into her neck. Natasha looked up at Coulson. There was something terribly sad in her eyes. It paled in comparison to the misery in Coulson's own.

"...There is room on the couch for three." Natasha ventured, her voice quiet. 

Coulson just sighed and sat down on the other couch next to them. He set their iced teas down without a word.

"I wouldn't want to impose," he said quietly, "because there might be room, but it looks like it would be uncomfortable."

The three of them felt so cold in that moment despite the heat that still crept about the house like a sickness.

They stayed on the couches for awhile, not speaking. 

Eventually, without a word, Coulson somehow found his way over to the other couch, but he only sat against one of the armrests. No amount of cajoling could get him closer.

At least, not yet.

Chapter 17: The Ask and Answer

Summary:

Natasha and Clint want love. Coulson is blind to them, lost in grief and heartbreak. There some peace, but not for long.

Notes:

So basically Phil thinks they're totally boning behind his back.
In so many words.
It's not even, to him, that they're having sex--which they're not, but he doesn't know that--it's that he feels left out of the loop. Like he's not even good enough to be told if they're a couple or not...and Phil has major inadequacy issues in regards to romance already, and let alone with y'know, the Black Widow, hottest woman in S.H.I.E.L.D., and Clint "gun show" Barton. I mean, he's got a point about feeling anxious.
But yeah, Clint...Clint's a little mistrustful. Just because he's scared he really might love Phil and then Phil will turn out to just be doing his job and will promptly drop Clint like a hot potato as soon as it's over. So basically everyone's kind of stupid sometimes, the end.
And yeah, flashbacky thing next chapter, woo!

That night went by slowly after that. Eventually, as the clock chimed midnight, they all made their way upstairs quietly, allowing Natasha to go first and get dressed in private. Clint and Coulson stood outside the door, still in silence.

Every so often Clint would open his mouth, as if he wanted to say something, but he would inevitably close it again, looking away and sighing. Coulson didn't remark on it.

Eventually, Natasha opened the door and let the two of them in. They got ready for bed quickly. Neither Clint nor Natasha noticed Coulson's shaking hands as he caught sight of himself in the mirror beside Clint. He didn't say anything about it; he continued to dress and got into bed.

They all laid there in silence for awhile, close together but not holding each other, as they had before. Their proximity seemed more forced than it ever had.

"Phil?" Natasha finally said, breaking the silence that had taken them in for so long. "Phil, if it is not too much trouble..." She rolled over and looked at him. Her green eyes, so soft and warm, glimmered with tears. Guilt made Coulson's heart ache just as much as heartbreak in that moment.

"I would like to be held, please," she murmured timidly, "because your arms are soft and your body is very warm and yielding. It is...a comfort. I enjoy it."

Coulson looked at her for a second. The cold part of him—the part of him that had let him survive so long as a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent in the first place—wanted to refuse her, if only to triumph over heartbreak and revel in his pyrrhic victory for as long as he could, but he knew then, as he looked into her eyes, that he never could. Not even if she loved ten other men instead of him. Because he loved her, and that would guide his choices, even if they did not guide hers. 

Coulson sighed and opened his arms, letting her snuggle close and lay her head on his chest. It hurt to let her touch him. Everything, in fact, hurt. The feel of her had become like knives against his skin, and every soft touch she treated him to was like a flame. He ached all over.

"Coulson," Natasha said, after a few minutes more in the silence, "I have a question for you."

"...Shoot, Nat." Coulson said quietly. 

She looked up at him, her eyes wide and querying, almost innocent. Never innocent, never again, not after all she had done, but around him, she was so close to innocence that she could pretend, hope, and believe it to be true. That was worth something. It had to be. She had never been so innocent except when she was with the two of them, here, like this.

"...Am I getting better?" She asked. "Am I accepting your help properly? I do not feel certain. I do not feel certain of many things, though. So...I wished to know. You would know, after all, if I was doing this correctly..."

Coulson was quiet for a minute. The feel of her against him was no longer painful, at least. It was heavy, and it threatened to drag him down, but there was no pain. And he could get stronger. For her, he would.

"You're doing just fine, Natasha," he whispered in her ear, quiet and warm. "You're doing okay. You're doing all you can, and that's the only real right thing you can do." He actually smiled. "You've done so well in such a short time. I really am proud."

Natasha smiled back, satisfied. She buried her head a little more into his chest, her hair soft against his skin, her bearing relaxed. She trusted him, utterly and completely; he only realized it then and there, but it was so obvious in the way she slept against him. A S.H.I.E.L.D. agent like her would never relax like this without great reason to do so. If he hadn't loved her like he did, with so much longing and pain, perhaps he might've felt pride. He just stroked her hair and tried not to weep.

"I am glad..." She murmured. "I will do my best to continue to get better. It is as you say. I am doing all I can."

"That's all I can ask for, then, isn't it?" Coulson said, his voice rough and hoarse.

The pain in his voice made Natasha flick her gaze up to meet his. She couldn't read all of what was in his eyes, but only a truly blind person would have been entirely unawares of the longing and sadness in them. 

"I think," she murmured carefully, "perhaps you could ask for more. But you must know what it is you are asking for before you do."

She kissed his forehead before sinking back down to his chest, closing her eyes and laying against him.

"Goodnight, Phil." She murmured, her voice delicate and quiet.

"Goodnight, Natasha." Coulson replied softly.

She fell asleep in but a few minutes. Coulson was still wide awake.

It was only then, as he felt the press of Clint against his back, that he realized he had been in between the two of them the entire time.

He couldn't help the petty pleasure that gave him.

There was silence for awhile. Coulson was quiet, his breathing soft and low as he tried to fall asleep in vain. 

Finally, he felt Clint shift in bed, sitting up and looking at him, eyes wide. Coulson sat up beside him, giving him a look.

"We need to talk..." Clint murmured. Coulson sighed.

"I suppose we do," he replied quietly, "but what is it you need to talk about, Clint?"

"I need to know if I can trust you." Clint said. Coulson wasn't offended by the declaration in the slightest. In fact, he completely understood it the second Clint added, "I need to know if you're doing this for S.H.I.E.L.D. or for us."

Coulson sighed and looked at him, resisting the almost overwhelming urge to take Clint and hold him in his arms like he suspected no one else save Natasha had bothered to do with the archer, to stroke his hair and soothe him to sleep with a promise of safety and guardianship. His hands shook for a moment with the sheer force of his desire. Coulson swallowed.

"I want to help," he said, his voice firm, "not S.H.I.E.L.D., not as far as I know. Even if they really do want to help you, that isn't why I'm still here. I'm still here because I still care...and my primary concern is not only your continued safety, but an advancement of your mental well-being." Coulson couldn't help but grin. "To put it in layman's terms, I really just want to see you smile. And mean it."

Clint looked at him for a minute.

Then, very hesitantly, he inched closer. He wasn't cuddling against him, not yet, but he had gotten closer. Coulson counted that as a minor victory.

"You seemed angry at us tonight..." Clint murmured, and Coulson couldn't help but flinch, suddenly aware of what his total one-eighty had done to them. Oh, he had hurt them, hadn't he? He had made them worry, uneasy, and made them doubt him. He couldn't help but curse himself; foolish mistake. One petty moment might've hurt them beyond reckoning, and now he didn't know what to do...

Clint shrugged. "I thought...I thought maybe you didn't think the mission was worth it anymore." He mumbled, not looking at Phil.

"Oh, Clint," Coulson said, keeping his voice tender and soft, "it's really not about the mission anymore—if it ever was. I wasn't angry. I'm...confused. And scared. And worried about a lot of things right now. But that will never mean I'm going to stop taking care of you. Even if..."

Even if you two run off together, happily in love, and leave me alone with ashes in my mouth.

"...Even if something happens." Coulson finished lamely, the words dry and ridiculous, even to him. Clint seemed brightened up by them, however...and that was what mattered. In fact, he was coming closer. As he did, Natasha nudged closer as well, even in sleep. Coulson was now surrounded by the two of them. It felt nicer than the idea that he was separating them. This touch...this touch felt more like he completed them.

"Hey, Phil?" Clint asked, his voice soft. "How much longer here do we have?"

Coulson paused, deep in thought. 

"...Hm...well, tomorrow is going to be the sixth day since we became partners...and Fury gave us fourteen days off to re-assess your mental situations and establish any sort of healing process possible in that span...so, eight days." Coulson told him. "Is there anything you would like to do, Clint?"

"Stay in bed all day and cuddle and read those stupid books," Clint said cheerfully, unable to stop a smile from winding across his lips, "but I dunno. Maybe we could go driving." His eyes lit up. "Can we go driving? Can we? I just want to go and put the windows down and drive really fast and mess up Nat's hair even if she gets pissed at me and—"

"Clint, calm down!" Coulson chided him gently, a small smile on his face. "We can do both. I promise. Tomorrow will be a good day." He swallowed. "...Together, right?"

"Yep," Clint announced warmly, "together. Because...you want to be here. And that means...you want us, right? As...as partners." 

His voice was hesitant now, and there was something in it Coulson couldn't read. He despaired over that, but he did not let it show. If...if this was as close as Clint and Natasha would allow him...he could live with that.

"Yes," Coulson said, though it was a lie, "yes, I do. I want you to be here...with me..."

As lovers. As comrades. As my friends.

"Me too," Clint said, sounding satisfied, "which means we've got a lot to work out, okay?" He grinned. "Maybe while we're driving. But...not right now. I'm kinda sleepy." Clint laid his head down on the pillow and snuggled underneath the covers. "Night, Phil."

He was asleep in minutes.

Coulson watched him sleep for a little while.

Then he leaned down and kissed Clint's forehead, tender and raw with longing for what he couldn't have.

"Goodnight, Clint." He murmured, his voice low and rough. 

Coulson curled up under the blankets between the two of them and was asleep in minutes. No one kissed his forehead as he fell asleep. 

He was all right with that.

...

The next morning dawned warm and slow, the sunlight inching across them in degrees. Natasha stirred first, yawning delicately as she felt Coulson's arms around her. She was still pressed into his chest. It felt wonderful...

She could feel Clint's arm from where he had thrown it over Coulson, and she smiled as she kissed his hand. Clint didn't stir. She frowned. He was not awake? That was strange. Normally he awoke as soon as he heard her stirring...

Natasha sighed softly. She had not showered last night, and she would like to. She would try to awaken Clint one more time...

"Clint?" She whispered, her voice soft. "Clint, my love? Are you awake?"

Neither Clint or Coulson stirred. Natasha sighed, getting up out of bed and going over to his side of the bed.

He had Phil beside him. Surely he would be all right. And she would be in the bathroom; it was so close by, and she would leave the door open...

Besides, she justified, they were safe now. He had no reason to be frightened. She was safe. And so was he.

...Right?

Natasha sighed again as she padded off to the bathroom. It was far too early in the morning to be asking questions like that.

Chapter 18: Alone

Summary:

Clint has a flashback nightmare PTSD-trip.

Notes:

Sorry this wasn't updated! I have...honestly, no excuse. I just kept saying I would and then I didn't. Time went by faster than I thought!
I'm really sorry. Uhm...I hope it's ok. I wonder sometimes if people really like this fic. I don't think it's as popular as AatA but that's okay! I just wonder. I hope you do enjoy it. I really like this one, just as much as AatA, because, well, I like most of my work. ^^ Anyway, I hope this chapter's good!
Sorry it's so short, though; it's a flashback and I wanted it to stand on its own. Update soon, though. Promise.
Trigger warning for some violence and torture, though. Nothing majorly graphic, but if it bothers you, don't read this!

It was only about five minutes later that Clint awoke, his eyes bleary with sleep as he yawned and sat up in bed. He didn't notice, for a second, that the bed was lighter than it normally was. He just looked over to see Coulson, still asleep, and smiled with satisfaction. 

He was okay. Coulson was with him, watching over him, and he was safe. Today would be a good day, a warm and calm day, where everything would work out just fine. They would all cuddle up together and enjoy the time they had with each other. Things would be all right.

He had to tell Natasha. She would be so excited...today was going to be a good day, and she deserved that, they both did, because good days were so hard to come by for the both of them, and Clint wanted her to know that maybe, just maybe, she had been right, that Phil was...Phil was okay. Phil hadn't left them. Wouldn't leave them.

They could all be together, maybe, and he and Phil would protect Natasha, and that would be best of all, if all three of them loved each other. He didn't mind sharing, he figured, not if it meant Natasha was protected. If...if he was protected, maybe. It would be nice.

He turned over in bed and went to call her name, to tell her about his relevation, but no one rested beside him. Her side of the bed was empty, and he was alone.

It was only once the emptiness really struck him, ringing down to the hollow parts of his soul that were Natasha's alone to fill, that something inside him became brittle and snapped.

He wasn't really there, then, warm and safe in his big, comfy bed with Phil by his side. Not in that moment. He was somewhere else, someplace dark. Someplace alone.

The first lesson a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent learns is that if your partner is not connected to you in some way on a mission, something has gone terribly wrong. Closeness to a partner is important, Fury would tell the new recruits, their eyes bright and fresh and their hands clean of blood, because working as a team is crucial to the success of most, if not all, missions. 

Take the agents Black Widow and Hawkeye, he would say, and the recruits would get wide-eyed at the names of the legends being spoken aloud. It was like confessing that you knew the true name of god; to give name to two people shrouded in such mystery and legend seemed almost blasphemous. Fury knew that they regarded them as gods, and so he would laugh a bright, barking pagan laugh, and shake his head before continuing.

The two of them were never apart from each other; they were more like two halves of a whole; the full eight legs of a spider, the two wings of a hawk. It seemed as if one of them, for whatever reason, should go, that the unit that they had become would cease to function. 

They are an example of a true partnership, Fury would tell the recruits, his voice stern, and it is important that you find someone that you could share such a closeness as the two of them do. It might be what keeps you alive...

Or, as Clint found out, it might be what kills you.

His mouth was full of blood. He recalled from somewhere that a human could swallow about a pint of blood without getting sick. He figured he had swallowed enough of his own blood by now, and so he spat it out.

That earned him another sharp kick to the ribs. The blood refilled his mouth where he had bitten it. This time, Clint did not spit it out.

Clint could not see. In any other circumstance, that would have been fine—an agent learned how to communicate without seeing very quickly and early on in their training. He could have used his ears, or the tips of his fingertips if they were close together, to feel her pulse beating against the ground, or any number of little tricks he had devised with her, in the dark of night when they held each other and protected each other from the darkness.

Except all his tricks to communicate with her were useless when she wasn't there.

They had taken his Natasha from him.

That had been their first order of business after they had been captured, in fact. The men had taken one look at their uniforms and knew them for who they were. No man who was an enemy of S.H.I.E.L.D. didn't know who they were. Not if he wanted to live.

The man sitting at his desk was tanned, his hair dark and sleek as a panther's, and had the cold eyes of a shark. When he smiled, he had teeth that had been filed into points. That didn't scare Clint. He spat right in his face. 

The man said something in one of the very few languages Clint did not speak fluently. He did not need to speak the man's language, however, to know what was going on.

Natasha was standing in the doorway. Natasha was safe—alive—and then—

Natasha was being taken away from him. Natasha was being grabbed by men with guns and muscles and pitiless eyes, and Clint struggled against his bonds, helpless, and began to scream.

This made the other man laugh. He held up a hand. The men stopped in the doorway. Natasha was caught in between the door and whatever lay beyond it. Her eyes were wet, but she did not make a sound. She looked at Clint, desperate and frightened, and he knew then that he was the only one who could see that fear, that she would be strong. It did not make him feel any better.

"He cries when they take the woman away, ya?" The man's voice was sharp and heavily accented with what sounded like gravel and rusty English skills. Clint just looked up at him, his eyes wild. The man laughed and took his chin in his hands, tilting Clint's head up so both their gazes could meet.

"I thought you both legends," he taunted them, his fangs flashing bright in the dim room as he smirked at Clint, "and here you are going to pieces over a woman. Shameful."

If Clint had been able to speak over the terror that had gripped his heart, he would have told him the whole point to their legend was their inseparability; the truth to the myth was that Widow had no sting until she took aim with Hawkeye, and Hawkeye had no aim until the Widow helped his sting. To take Natasha from him was to take away his heart or his hands.

But he did not speak, and so the man jeered, allowing one of the other, more brutish men to rip at Natasha's uniform. That only filled Clint with a grim resignation rather than the panicked begging they had been hoping for. They did not know that at this point, both of them regarded that action as an inevitability.

But at least they had been able to face it together. Now? Clint...Clint wasn't so sure.

With another disgusted huff from the well-tanned man as he bared his pointed teeth, he gestured for them to take Natasha away.

That, more than anything, forced Clint to act. He had dealt with torture and pain before, he could handle that, but to lose Natasha was to lose all hope, and he would fight that until they had beat him into the ground and left him to rot in the earth.

Clint pushed himself across the floor, his hands still bound as he clawed futilely to push himself forward with bare, bloody feet, screaming her name. 

Natasha was at the edge of the door. If she had been able to break free and make her way back into the room, she would have been with him, and that would have given him the strength to fight for the freedom they were so desperate to obtain. They would have been safe, because they would have had each other.

But the men were strong and Clint was broken, and so he could not reach her in time before they whisked her away, dragging her down the hall and away from him. 

They were gone before he could see where they had taken her. But it didn't matter exactly where they had taken her, really. All that mattered was that he was alone, now, and that he could not feel her.

She was going to die. He knew that. If she was taken away from him, she would die, and so would he. The two of them would be tortured beyond reckoning and mutilated until they were barely alive, but they could survive that before, had survived that before.

Except then, they had been together. Now they were alone, and Clint had lost hope. All his hope was with her,  but he could not force himself to act, to fight, to find her. He was lost without her. And so they would lose each other.

He opened his mouth to scream her name, but before he could, he had been knocked unconscious.

Chapter 19: Driving

Summary:

Coulson helps. Natasha gets out of the shower. They make plans for the day.

Notes:

To everyone who messaged me last chapter; your comments were one of the only good things about this week, and I am just so very, very happy about them. Thank you so much. It means more than I can really express; I just...like knowing people like what I work so hard on. Thank you, thank you, thank you...
A little bit of fluff in this chapter to tide you over. Hope you like it!

Clint couldn't feel her. Her weight was not upon the bed. Her warmth was not beside his. Her heartbeat did not ring in his ears, nor his fingertips. He could not hear her breathe. He could not see her.

He was alone. Danger. Danger in being alone. Danger, where—where was he—what was going on, someone help, Natasha, Natasha—

Clint began to thrash wildly on the bed, scrabbling for purchase on the sheets as he screamed her name. She could not hear him over the pounding of the shower and the music she had put on to accompany her. However, Coulson, who was right beside him in bed, heard him immediately.

He awoke with a sudden, sharp jolt, and immediately threw his arms around Clint. Immediately after, he was aware of being kicked and punched in a desperate attempt to get away. Phil just held on tighter.

"Natasha!" Clint yelled, trying desperately to wrench his way out of Phil's grasp. "Natasha! I need you! Natasha! You can't go! Don't leave me alone, Natasha!" He begged. "We're partners!"

That made everything more than clear for Coulson. He was a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent as well, after all.

He sighed and began to stroke Clint's hair, trying to keep his touches as soothing as he could.

"Clint?" He murmured. "Clint, it's me, Phil. I'm right here. You've got your partner with you. And Natasha's on her way. She's safe. It'll be all three of us together again in just a moment, Clint. Please just calm down."

"They're hurting her!" Clint screamed. "Can't see them! Can't see her! They took her from me! They took her away and left me alone! Natasha! Natasha! I need you!" 

"Clint, whatever happened, whoever hurt you, they're not here anymore." Coulson said firmly, keeping his hands on Clint and his voice soothing. "We're home, safe in bed. Natasha's on her way, and you have me. It'll be the three of us together again soon. No one will separate us. I promise."

"Phil," Clint begged, saying his name for the first time since he had awoken in such a state, "Phil, we have to get her back. She's our partner. Phil, please. You wanna save her, right?"

Despite Clint's obvious fear, Coulson couldn't help the triumph that suddenly struck his heart and made his body sing with delight; Clint had accepted him, it seemed, at least subconsciously. Getting him to admit it without him being on the verge of mental breakdown was his next task.

"Yes, she is our partner, Clint, but she is also safe and sound, I promise." Coulson whispered in his ear, cradling him in his arms. "Whatever happened to you happened somewhere else. I swear, you're safe now. You're together. I promise, you'll be all right. Both of you."

"I don't ever wanna be alone again," Clint sobbed, his tone suddenly becoming desperate, "please don't let them hurt us, please..."

Coulson wasn't quite sure what had happened still, though Clint's clues, small as they had been, only made him more determined to find out. But he wouldn't do that at the expense of Clint's slowly-healing sanity.

He took Clint in his arms and held him tight, kissing the top of his head. To his surprise, Clint didn't say anything about that.

 "You're never going to be alone again," Coulson promised, "even if we're only all together in a way you can't see." He held Clint tighter. "And I won't let them hurt you, not ever again, no matter how far apart we may get."

"Okay," Clint whispered, his voice weak, "but...we need to get her...Natasha..."

It was only then that the shower turned off. The music ground to a screeching halt, like someone had yanked the record needle away all of a sudden. 

Without further warning, the door burst open, and a soaking wet and completely naked Natasha stormed out of the bathroom and stood in front of the bed, dripping water all over the floor as she reached out to Clint.

Coulson didn't protest as Clint hugged her tight and pulled her down onto the bed, mostly because his brain had effectively shorted out at the sight of Natasha's body. The two of them held each other tightly for a long minute until Coulson regained his senses.

"Nat, dear," he said quietly, "I don't think Clint makes a very good towel."

She ignored him for a moment. His heart broke a little more at that.

"You took care of him," she suddenly said, before adding, "I did not know you would be able to, but I am glad. It is a relief."

"You're both safe..." Clint whispered, clearly relieved, "Oh Nat, please don't leave me alone again. I don't want to be alone. I can't lose you."

"You won't," Natasha promised, her voice tender, "and we shall have Coulson to keep the both of us together, so you oughtn't fret at all. We will both be safe. And none of us shall lose each other."

The way she spoke, Coulson could almost believe it to be true. 

She sat up and stretched, shaking her head.

"It is cold," she announced. "I will get a robe."

That alone motivated her desire to put on any kind of clothing. Coulson wasn't sure if that meant she trusted them or that she simply didn't care. At this point, probably a mix of both.

He just sighed and went downstairs to make some coffee. Everything could be solved after his first dose of caffeine for the day.

...

The three of them sipped their coffee together quietly. No one knew what to say. Clint looked pained, almost sick to his stomach. There was shame lurking in his eyes. Coulson needed to fix that. He couldn't watch Clint look so worn down any longer.

"I think we'll go driving after breakfast, all right?" He told them. They both perked up, watching him with renewed interest. Coulson couldn't help but smile. He leaned back in his chair and sighed, suddenly content.

"We'll drive around for a little while, maybe walk around town a bit if you feel like it, and then we'll come back home and lay around in bed and read," he promised, a smile tugging at his lips again as he added, "and maybe Clint could read to us again, even."

"Maybe," Clint teased, his voice light, "but you're gonna have to work for it, okay?"

"Okay," Coulson agreed, his voice warm, "I'm fine with that."

Natasha looked at the two of them for a minute. She didn't say anything. 

"...Clint?" She finally ventured after a minute more of contemplation. "May I talk to you privately, please?"

Clint looked surprised. Coulson looked more than a little heartbroken.

Still, Clint followed her out of the kitchen and upstairs without a word. 

Coulson looked at the cups of coffee they had left behind and sighed. He took a sip of his own coffee just as he heard the bedroom door click shut.

Chapter 20: Through Talking

Summary:

Clint and Natasha have a talk. So do Coulson and Natasha. The road beckons.

Notes:

Thank you so much for your continued kind words! Seriously, getting praise for this fic makes me so, so happy, and seeing everyone like it so much just makes me incredibly thrilled. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
Now; yep, talking. Lots of talking. But good talking. Poor Clint and Phil. Sometimes I think Natasha, despite not really knowing how to handle relationships at this point, knows more about emotions than anyone else in the pairing; it makes sense, considering she's a spy and has been trained on how to read and manipulate others. It's only now that she's realizing that she can do the same in real life, with her own relationships--and learning when NOT to do that sort of thing.
And yes, the point in this is that Clint and Natasha, on their own, are horrendously codependent; they function almost as a single person, and they're so tightly wound that there's no space for them to breathe. Coulson acts as a wedge in the relationship; prying them apart enough to make sure they really see one another and can interact with each other as two independent people. In turn, he is in between the two of them, receiving both their love and seeing all of them from his spot in the middle.
Anyways, hope you enjoy the chapter! Sorry it's a little late; been very busy with summer assignments.

Clint sat on the bed crosslegged, looking up at Natasha. He knew what this was about, and he didn't like it. Natasha had a curious light in her eyes that meant he was in for some sort of soul-searching bullshit, and he didn't want to think about it. It always led back to Phil these days, and he was so tired of thinking about the agent. The more he thought about him, the more his barriers dropped and he started feeling things he would rather not; best to ignore him if he couldn't hate him.

Except he very well knew he couldn't. And from the way Natasha looked at him, she knew he couldn't either.

He sighed and waited for her to begin.

"Clint, I'm...curious," Natasha began, sitting on the bed, "you don't usually calm down after nightmares unless I am there. You need your partner." She looked up at him. "And yet you calmed down when he held you. You let him stroke you and hold your hand."

Clint shrugged, looking away. Natasha rolled her eyes.

"Do you think I did not notice that he was holding you in his arms, Clint?" Natasha snapped. "Do you think I would be angry? All I want is for you two to reconcile and admit your feelings!" She shook her head. "We are not...complete as the two of us. With him...we are...whole."

"We're together, and that's what matters!" Clint snapped. "It doesn't—we don't—he isn't—"

"When it is the two of us—just the two of us," Natasha murmured, "we are not whole. We choke each other. We suffocate each other with need and desire and our pains and fears. We love each other so much that I believe it will be the death of the both of us." She kissed his forehead. "But with him, we may learn how to be whole people, so that we may love fully and completely, instead of putting together two halves of broken people and trying to make them one. That is not true love, Clint!" She told him. "To love another person, you must be a whole other person yourself! And we are not! But he will help us learn!"

"That doesn't mean we owe him a fucking relationship, Nat!" Clint retorted. "You sound like you think he gets to fuck you just 'cause he's nice to you!" 

He would never tell her, but the idea of that terrified him to the bone; the thought that all he had done to convince her that her body was not, in fact, public property to be used and abused would simply be shunted aside with the first hint of kindness from anyone was why he protested now. He knew he sounded petty. But he didn't know how to find the right words to convince her otherwise.

Natasha raised an eyebrow.

She knew exactly what Clint was worried about; he did not need to tell her, considering how well she knew him. She was not forsaking the idea that her body was not public property; it was too hard-won, and in fact still a struggle to hold onto. She was trying to  have a relationship with the only other man who believed that idea true, in fact.

She knew what she said next would knife Clint right in the heart. At this point, though, she figured he needed it.

"Do you think, perhaps, that someone would look at us and assume we were only lovers because we were partners?" Natasha suggested quietly. 

Clint froze. If she had not just dealt with a week of Clint kicking and screaming about being in love with Coulson, Natasha probably would've pitied him.

"That's different," he finally whispered after a moment of silence, "that's different an' you know it, Nat. I understand you and what you go through. That's why we love each other. We know each other."

"And yet, so does he," Natasha told him. "In but a week of knowing us, he has learned almost everything about us and who we are...and he still wishes to remain here." Natasha shrugged. 

"Perhaps I do not believe I "owe" him a relationship, Clint, but I wish to remain in a relationship with the only man who has ever understood me...as well as the only man who has ever healed me." She whispered. "And you want this too. Do not lie to me, Clint. You know I can tell when you lie."

"...Well, you aren't a man," he began, but she knew he was hopeless to argue further, and so she smiled as he added, "but...y'know." He shrugged. "I guess you're right. He...he does...and you do..."

Natasha came closer and embraced him, stroking his hair. Her touch was gentle, and Clint couldn't help but moan, relieved. Her warmth and the feel of her fingers on his skin soothed away the last of the nightmare, the midnight dregs of it dribbling down the drain of his mind to be lost for as long as possible. He nuzzled her neck and nipped the skin, just a little. Natasha smiled and kissed the top of his head.

"I understand, Clint, and I have understood all this time, for we have shared many experiences together," Natasha told him. "But it is exactly because we have shared so many experiences that I cannot heal you. He may not have shared all of our pain, but he can heal it. And so he is what will keep us whole enough to love each other as people, rather than broken toy soldiers..."

Natasha laid her head on Clint's shoulder and hugged him tight.

"Despite all this, I really did come up here to tell you how very proud of you I am," she promised, her voice warm, "about how you let him comfort you. You were...relaxed around him. It is progress, Clint. You should be proud of it."

Clint grumbled irascibly, but he was smiling, so Natasha took that as a bonus. She kissed his cheek.

"We ought to give him time..." She murmured. "I feel that he does not entirely know if he wants a polyamorous relationship. I understand." She sighed. "But...I will not give up on him. What about you, Clint?"

There was silence in the room for another minute.

"He didn't give up on me." Clint said quietly, and that was all Natasha needed to hear.

She kissed him once before she left him in the room alone, allowing him some time to think.

...

Natasha joined Coulson downstairs and told him firmly, "Clint is upstairs. I wish to speak to you alone."

He swallowed and nodded. He knew full well he was helpless to resist her. He figured she knew it as well. At the least, she had to be suspicious. Natasha knew men. And he...well, when he came to her...he couldn't be anything else. He couldn't be a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent anymore and just distance himself, think of this as a mission. He knew that. And he was not too thrilled about it. 

"Clint relaxed around you," Natasha said quietly, sitting on the table and looking at him, "he let you hold him and calm him down. When you promised him he was safe and that you would protect him...he believed you. He let you tell him that and he let himself believe it. That...that means more than you know, Phil." 

"Not enough," Coulson said, surprising even himself with how rough and desperate his voice sounded, "it isn't enough. It...it won't ever be..."

"Don't say that," Natasha told him firmly, "because you don't...know what the future holds, do you? Or what Clint really wants."

He wants you, Natasha.

Phil didn't say that, though. He would never hurt her in such a way. No matter how much their love hurt him.

"I don't," he agreed, "but..." He sighed. "Regardless. I am...glad I can give those things to him. I am glad he sees me as his partner. It's all I wanted...for the both of you." He shook his head. "You know you can come to me as well, Natasha. You know I'm your partner."

Natasha looked at him for a second. Then she put her hand gently against his cheek, cupping his chin in her hands.

"You are more than that." She said, her voice firm. "You are Coulson. You are our Coulson."

She got off the table and went to the door. Her shoes lay beside it; she slipped them on quickly and looked at him expectantly.

"Is it time to go driving yet?" She asked hopefully.

For a second, Coulson couldn't do much else but stare helplessly at the woman who stood in front of him, beauty and grace personified, holding his heart in one hand and a dagger in the other. He wanted to kneel before her and kiss her as much as he wanted to kneel and cry out with desperation and loss.

Instead, he walked towards the door. He opened it and let the sun hit him, warming his skin and soothing the ache in his heart, if only for awhile.

"Yes," he told her, "I think it is. Why don't you—"

"I'm here, Phil." 

Clint's voice was warm in his ear. Coulson didn't acknowledge how easily the archer had snuck up behind him; nor did he acknowledge how easily Natasha found herself in front of him, grinning wickedly and holding the car keys. He just huffed and smiled, shaking his head and making his way down the path to the driveway, the two of them walking on either side of him before they got into the car all together and drove away down the dusty road, the sun behind them, warming their backs.

Chapter 21: Driving With the Top Down

Summary:

Driving with the top down and appreciating some time together.

Notes:

This will all be pertinent later on and then you'll hate me for it.
You have no idea how much giving a backstory to Phil made him feel incredibly real to me. I forget sometimes that it isn't canon, and it drives me nuts! Ugh, should I ever meet Clark Gregg I'll have to ask him what he thinks Phil's backstory might be like.
Anyways, short fluff piece, sorry it took so long to update; hope you enjoy!

The road was dusty and the drive was long, but that was half the fun of it, really. Clint and Natasha sat in the backseat, snuggled up against the seats as they rolled the windows down and promptly let in rushing air. Coulson tried not to groan, turning up the music louder so as to let it be heard over the rush of the wind.

Natasha leaned her head back a little and let the wind play with her hair, teasing the curls and caressing them. Clint let the wind run over his face, ruffling his hair a little. Coulson couldn't help but smile at how peaceful they looked when the wind touched them. He decided it was worth having to let the music blare through the speakers just to watch the way their hair was stirred by the wind.

He took every back road they could find, winding his way around the neighborhood; it was all right if they got lost, since every S.H.I.E.L.D. car was equipped with a GPS and a map to the house the agent driving was currently living at. Coulson felt free to breeze about the town and beyond, driving throughout the desert that lay beyond them, stretching out around them on all sides, flat and barren, but still spotted with oasises every so often, if one looked hard enough.

Clint snuggled closer to Natasha in the backseat, half asleep. As he did, Natasha reached foward and put her hand on Coulson's shoulder. Coulson stiffened with shock for a minute, but Natasha's fingers were gentle as she touched him, and so he relaxed, sighing quietly and shooting her a smile as they continued to drive.

They stopped long enough to order at a drive-thru; Coulson knew it was ridiculous, but he was grinning with pride when Natasha and Clint ordered for themselves. It was progress. It was ridiculous, but that was part of the reason it was such progress—when such a simple thing totally eluded them due to their lives as agents and then, through his care, was learned and understood...it meant a lot to him.

He squeezed both their hands when he handed the white bags full of burgers and fries back to them. He hoped they understood. From the way they smiled before they eagerly devoured the food, he figured they did.

They kept driving after that—they didn't know where they were going, still, but none of them cared. They filled the car up with gas a few times.

Then out of nowhere, Clint began to talk.

Natasha rolled the windows up a little and Coulson turned the music off so he could hear Clint speak, but aside from that, they did not react. They did not praise Clint's openness; they both knew it would only make him shy away. Instead, they supported it.

Natasha began to talk, adding to Clint's conversation and contributing a few points of her own. Coulson told them both a few things, adding in little details of how he perceived whatever topic was at hand, amused by how similar their opinions on certain things were, (in regards to the things that drove them crazy about S.H.I.E.L.D.), and how many times he had to gently re-explain things he realized, then, slightly morose, that he took for granted. Normalcy was a luxury for them, and as much as he knew that, it saddened him every time he had to confront it face to face.

But he loved them—oh yes, he did, there was no use denying it now—and so he put on a brave, bright face, and continued talking, his voice light and warm as he let himself get lost in telling the two stories and sharing things with them only to, later on, as the sun began to start going blood-orange red in the sky, turn around to see that he had lulled them to sleep, contented smiles on their faces.

He just shook his head and smiled, helpless to do much else, as he checked the time and decided they should start heading back home, if only to perhaps make it back in time for dinner.

...

The GPS was helpful, giving them shortcuts back home—out of the long time they had spent driving, long enough that the sun had almost set by the time they made it back home, he had cut the time back in half. That was actually a relief; Clint and Natasha had napped the whole way home, and he didn't want them up too late on top of their little nap.

Coulson awoke them gently as he pulled into the driveway, leaning back to shake their shoulders, careful not to jostle them harshly. Natasha blinked, her eyelashes fluttering shadows against her face as she yawned and stretched out, her limbs lazily entwining into Clint's as Clint woke up and stretched out as well. The two were like languid, somnolent cats as they adjusted to being awake again, getting out of the backseat, moving like liquid as they loped out of the car and padded in after Coulson, still half asleep.

Coulson couldn't help but smile as he regarded them, settling them both in on the couch with blankets in their laps before he went to start dinner. He would brew a pot of coffee to go with it while he was at it.

Clint and Natasha were still sitting on the couch where he had left them when Coulson came back in with trays of food; he had wanted to be quick, and so he had made cream of wheat, which utterly mystified both of them.

"...You're sure this is good?" Clint asked, poking the white, thick mixture hesitantly. Coulson nodded.

"Mhm," he promised, "whenever Gran and I were low on funds, this would get us through at least two meals a day. It's pretty good if you make it right." He explained. "She liked putting in lumps, but I didn't know if you two would, so I left them out this time."

"Okay," Clint said, agreeing easily and spooning a bite into his mouth before wrinkling his nose and adding, "it's a little bland..."

Phil nudged the salt shaker on the tray a little closer to him as he sat down with his own bowl of the stuff, adding some. Clint blushed and muttered something under his breath, but it didn't sound particularly unkind; more exasperated and amused than anything. Phil closed his eyes and let himself savor that sound for a moment.

"I like it," Natasha announced, taking another bite of it, "it's very warm..."

"Yes, you heat it up first. It's just milk, wheat, and butter, really. And salt, if you want it. Or sugar." Coulson told her. Natasha wrinkled her nose and grinned. 

"Sugar? That sounds disgusting!" She protested. Her tone was warm and airy, and it warmed Phil far more than any meal could. 

"Well, I didn't like it, but she said people put it in, so...hey, to each their own," Coulson said, shrugging his shoulders, "but yes, I just put in salt. She put in chili powder sometimes."

"That doesn't seem like a half-bad idea," Clint said, grinning at the idea as he took another bite. "I mean, spicy foods are good. I like them, anyway. Well, I just...kinda like food."

"So we've noticed." Coulson said dryly. Clint yelped in protest, but he was laughing, and, to Coulson's shock, so was he. It felt good to share that sort of thing with the two of them.

"Now I'm curious, though," Coulson asked, "do you two have preferences? Things you prefer to eat? I mean, I know we agents subsist mostly on takeout, but..." He blushed a little and grinned. "I'm not a half-bad cook, and knowing what you two like gives me a chance to stretch my legs, cuisine-wise, and make you two happy."

Both of them looked pleased by that, and they settled into the couch a little more, eating their dinner and contemplating the question.

"Well..." Natasha twirled a single curl around her finger and thought. "I really do like Chinese takeout, but...as for things I don't get to eat often..." She smiled, the idea suddenly coming to her. "I prefer stew. It's...warm, and there's a lot of different things in it. It's nice."

"Cheeseburgers," Clint piped up. "No contest. French fries, too. And chocolate." He looked at Phil, tilting his head a little. "So...what do you like?"

Coulson blinked, suddenly thrown for a loop. He hadn't thought they would ask.

"Uhm..." He trailed off, thinking. "I...I suppose I like stir-fry, but I prefer chicken pot pie over almost everything. Except ice cream."

"Ice cream is the best." Both Clint and Natasha chorused, looking at each other and grinning when they realized their moment of unity. Coulson nodded in agreement. For some odd reason, at their delight, he felt like he had been included in something special. He loved the feeling. If he could have, he would have bottled this moment away somewhere and kept it safe.

Since he couldn't, he would do his best to enjoy it.

So Coulson let them both finish their dinners, and then, when they pestered him a little about it, he told them about what he liked; the foods he could cook, the recipes he had invented, the kitchen mishaps, and the enjoyment he got out of cooking. 

Once he he found himself winding down, he saw both Clint and Natasha looking at each other, eyebrows raised.

"Maybe we could...tomorrow...I don't know...help again?" Clint asked. "Like we did with the spaghetti."

"I'd like that." Coulson said, and they all knew he meant it. 

The three of them settled in on the couch for a little while longer, completely at peace. Their bowls were empty, their stomachs were full, and they were content.

Before Coulson knew it, he felt Clint and Natasha's hands on his. It was only then he realized he had somehow found his way in between them both.

He did not protest. In fact, though he did not say it with anything more than a soft sigh and a smile, he enjoyed it. 

Chapter 22: Scars

Summary:

Clint shares a secret. Phil is torn. Natasha is hurting.

Notes:

No I didn't forget his scars. Don't worry.
Okay. MAJOR FUCKING TRIGGER WARNING FOR SELF HARM JESUS CHRIST
Legit, if you have issues with self harm, please skip down to like the last two paragraphs. Do not. Do NOT. DO NOT read this chapter, goddamn.
I tried to make this as reasonable and realistic as possible; as a former self-harmer, I have to admit I shied away from digging in too deep for my own mental health...but I hope it's still a good chapter.
Also, the first time Phil really loses his shit! He very rarely loses his cool--he is, in fact, the Son of Coul--but when he does, it's always 'cause of these two somehow.

Coulson brought them up to bed an hour later, promising Clint and Natasha that they would read tomorrow, after perhaps going driving again or walking around town. The two of them, content with that promise, dressed for bed. Coulson and Clint dressed in the bedroom, while Natasha dressed in the bathroom. 

Coulson was aware of the prickling of Clint's eyes on his skin, and his face flushed as he looked away. Surely he was being paranoid. But...

"You asked me about my scars." Clint said quietly. Coulson blinked, startled.

"Yes," he said, remembering the incident in a sudden, sharp rush, "yes, you're right. I did."

"I never told you..." Clint sighed. "There wasn't a time to do so. I didn't feel...ready, I guess."

"I see." Coulson said, keeping his voice careful. "And are you telling me this because you're ready now?"

"Please turn around and look at me." Clint said, his voice soft and timid. "I want you to see."

Phil did as he asked, turning around, his shirt still in his hand. Clint was entirely naked. 

What he saw made him ill.

Across the chiseled flesh, with its strong, powerful lines of muscle, and its warm, tanned veneer, lay a latticework of scars, a hideous trellis of human flesh, vines of knotted scar tissue climbing up and winding through it. They were most plentiful across the chest, but whoever had done this to him had not spared his powerful arms and his broad back. As Coulson's eyes traveled downward, primly averting themselves from what hung between his legs, (something that made Clint actually crack a smile, which Coulson couldn't help but take pride in), he saw a multitude of scars across his thighs and calves as well, especially near what Coulson had avoided—a type of torture, probably, some kind of threat.

Clint was absolutely covered with scars. Unlike Natasha's, which were almost all as delicate as a spider's web, (Coulson guessed some cosmetic medications from S.H.I.E.L.D. were not out of the question; her beauty was a weapon, and S.H.I.E.L.D. knew to keep it well-honed), Clint's appeared to have been ignored by the medical staff, and as such, were rough-hewn lines of puckered flesh across his entire body. 

Coulson didn't realize he was shaking until Clint grabbed his hands to steady him.

"I know they're ugly," he whispered, sounding pained, "but I—"

"How could they do this to you?" Coulson gasped. There was rage there, rage tempered by horror and shock. Clint's heart warmed up a little at the sound. "Didn't S.H.I.E.L.D. look at these? Clint, good god, some of these could be fixed, I—"

"Are they that ugly?" Clint asked. He sounded hurt, confused, hesitant. Coulson shook his head, stroking Clint's hands with his thumbs, trying to soothe him as he held him in his grip.

"Oh, Clint, that isn't it, not at all..." he promised, "I just don't want you to have to suffer—some of these look painful, Clint, and they can be healed..." Coulson gestured about the room vaguely. "S.H.I.E.L.D. has technicians, they've been trained to handle these things..."

Clint looked at him for a long, slow minute, as if he was weighing a few options. Then, evidently having decided, he sighed.

"S.H.I.E.L.D. doesn't know about all of these scars." He said quietly.

Coulson stared at him for a second.

Then, very suddenly, the pieces all fell into place.

Coulson got up without a word and, without warning, burst into the bathroom. Natasha jumped, startled, as he tore off the door to the medicine cabinet, rifling through it, still silent. His silence disturbed them both, but he did not so much as look their way to explain. 

He found a pack of razors in the cabinet—disposable ones, simple and cheap—and left the bathroom, still silent. 

He tore open the bedroom window and, without so much as grunt of exertion, flung the razors out of the window as far as he could. They didn't even hear them hit the ground.

Natasha stood in the bathroom door, fully dressed. She looked at Clint, still naked, and raised an eyebrow.

"You told him." She said. It wasn't a question. Clint nodded, face ashen.

"I...I didn't use razors." He said quietly, addressing Coulson. Coulson jumped, as if he had been startled. Clint shrugged.

"Arrowheads are easier," he murmured, "and no one questions me using arrowheads, even if I don't actually use "real" arrows for proper combat." He laughed. It was low and dark. "Are you going to take my arrows from me, Phil?"

Coulson stared at him for a second.

Then he crossed the room in two large strides and knelt at Clint's feet, taking his hands into his own, pressing them against his cheek. For a moment, he simply knelt and took in the feel of Clint's hands, and considered the roughness of his skin, the calluses on his fingers.

Phil fought down a shudder as he stood up and put his hands on Clint's shoulder, trying not to think about what the hands he had just held had done to their owner.

"No," he said softly, "but I'm going to make sure you never use them on yourself again."  

Clint shook his head. When he looked up at Phil again, his eyes were hollow, and he looked distraught.

"Phil, I...I'm not doing it because I'm depressed or anything," he said, "it's just—" He shrugged and sighed. "You know torture is a part of life for an agent."

Coulson blinked and winced, his own scars beginning to ache. Clint noticed. So did Natasha. They understood, however, and so they didn't say a word.

"So I began to do this," Clint said, "to build up my tolerance to torture. The longer I held on...the longer that Natasha would hold on. The longer we would be safe." He swallowed.

"I needed to do this, Phil. I had to be strong. Not just for me. For Nat." He shook his head. "I know you think I'm selfish and pigheaded and stubborn, and you're probably right—"

"I don't think that, I don't think that, Clint, Clint, don't you put words in my mouth, Clint, I—" Coulson was just rambling now, panic and worry making his words all rush together. Clint put a finger to his lips.

"Anyways, I am stubborn, and I can be kind of a pig, but...Natasha is my life." He said simply. Natasha, still standing in the doorway, closed her eyes and shuddered. So did Coulson—for another reason entirely. Clint continued on.

"If I didn't give in, she wouldn't. And she couldn't hurt herself. They would notice. They would just fix her up and scold her and maybe even put her in solitary, and I—" Clint choked on that thought for a second, and Coulson's heart ached for him, knowing full well that the threat of solitary had been a spectre throughout all of their partnership. "I—I couldn't let that happen. And...I didn't want Natasha hurting herself either, to be honest. That scared me. I spent a whole lotta time making sure she didn't get hurt by everyone else. I wouldn't just let her do it to herself, you know?" Clint smiled at that.

Coulson was quiet for a second, taking it all in. Then his lip curled into a small snarl.

"So you decided to hurt her in another way," Coulson said quietly, "by exacting physical harm on your body."

Clint sputtered, shaking his head. He looked at Coulson, his eyes narrowed. 

"That isn't it at all!" He snapped. "You don't understand it, do you? Of course you don't, you—you can't know what it's like to want to do that for your partner, to be willing to sacrifice that much, and—"

"Of course I know what it's like to want to protect your partner, I have two of them." Coulson snapped.

An eerie hush fell on all three of them for a second. Clint just stared at him. Natasha looked away and played with the hem of her shirt, nervous. Coulson continued on, unheeding.

"And because I know what that feeling is like, I know what to do with it. I know that any pain I inflict on myself will be felt by my partners. Perhaps not in the exact same way, but they will feel it. And yet we're having a discussion about how you hurt yourself, otensibly to protect Natasha, while never having once asked her if that's doing far more to hurt her than it is to help her!" Coulson snapped. He couldn't help his anger; he was more frightened for Clint than he was truly angry at him, but the fear made his tone sharp and his words harsh. 

Clint didn't say a word to him. He just closed his eyes and leaned against the wall. 

"Natasha," he finally called out after a moment of silence, "I need you to tell me the truth." He sighed. "Did I hurt you?"

Natasha stood in the doorway, her eyes wide and her face pale. She didn't say anything for a minute, her fingers still plucking away at her shirt hem, like a bird worrying a twig.

"...My pain was not physical," she whispered, "but...yes, Clint. It hurt. You are my partner," she told him, "my partner, my friend, my Clint; my brave Clint with clever eyes and sure hands, and...to see those scars, and know that I, despite never wanting to lay a hand on you for whatever reason, had caused them through my own vulnerability..." Natasha gasped softly, obviously pained. The look on Clint's face said a knife to the heart would have hurt less. 

"I...I grieved, and I raged, and there was such pain, my Clint, but I did not...I did not say anything," she confessed, looking over at Coulson, clearly guilty, "for I did not know how to tell him to stop. Part of me feared he would only do something more drastic, more dangerous...and part of me knew he was only trying to protect me." Natasha pursed her lips, as if to shield herself in some way, close herself off. "It is a logical decision for an agent to build up his pain tolerance."

"But not the humane one," Coulson said, clearly frustrated, "and if you don't get why I care about that by now, this entire week has been for nothing!" 

The two of them looked at each other. Coulson just stood there, his fists clenched, his whole body trembling. 

"It hurt." Natasha finally said, breaking the silence. Clint looked at her, his eyes hollow and pained. She shook her head. 

"But I understood," she whispered, "I understood, because we needed it. It was a way to protect us both. And so...I bore that pain. If he could bear the physical pain...I would bear the emotional pain." She looked up at Coulson. He bowed his head in acknowledgement of the utter agony he saw reflected back in her eyes. 

"I know you are worried," she said softly, "and the idea of this scares you. But please remember...we have been S.H.I.E.L.D. agents for a long time. We have not been lucky enough to have you as our partner for nearly as long." She blinked back tears. 

"We had to survive, Phil, by any means necessary," she told him, "otherwise, how would we have found our way here? How else would we have come to you?"

Coulson looked at her. He could feel the tears pricking at his eyes, but she did not fade from his vision.

Slowly, he took her into his arms, holding her close and tight, uncaring of whether or not he was overstepping some kind of boundary. Natasha sank into his embrace with ease. 

"Maybe you're right," he murmured, "and maybe that's what had to be done, because there's a price to pay for being in S.H.I.E.L.D., I know that." He shook his head. "But it doesn't need to be done that way anymore."

"Then what do we do?" Natasha whispered. "You have been teaching us all these new things about being "normal," and living our lives...but...how do we put them into action? How do we really fix things when we cannot leave what hurts us?"

Coulson held her tighter.

"For starters," he said, "you don't go at it alone. You go with your partners. That's the only thing S.H.I.E.L.D. gives you to save yourself, and you take it."

He looked over at Clint.

"Next," he said quietly, "you don't cause pain. Not to yourself or your partner. There is no just cause for hurting yourself. Not when this job lets the rest of the world do it for you."

Clint just shrugged. He looked unconvinced. Coulson wanted to fix that.

Without further warning, Coulson let go of Natasha and picked Clint up in one swift movement. He carried him to the bed, laying him down on the blankets. As Clint looked up at him, Phil squeezed his hands tenderly and shook his head.

"No, Clint," he whispered, "no more of that, okay? You don't need it anymore." He caressed the scars, gentle and careful as he ran his thumb over them. Clint did not edge away from him. Natasha watched quietly, shocked.

"I'm going to protect you both," he murmured, looking up at Natasha as he added, "and I promise, you won't need to hurt yourself to feel safe any more. You're going to be taken care of. You're going to be watched over. And I'm going to make sure you two don't ever get hurt again. Not by enemies...and not by yourself."

Clint watched him for a minute. Coulson watched him back carefully.

Clint smiled, his eyes shining, and shook his head.

"It will...I..." He swallowed, sighing softly and giving him a look. "Phil, I can't stop that fast. You can't just quit this sort of thing."

"Yes, you can," Coulson promised, "because you don't need it anymore. You...haven't been cutting since you arrived here, right?"

Clint blinked, as if the idea had only just occurred to him then and there. Then, as the idea became fully realized, his face split into a grin.

"No I haven't," he agreed, nodding, "I guess you're right. You..."

"No, Clint," Coulson told him, "not because of me. Because of how brave you are. Because of how strong you are."

He got up and left the room, turning around to say, "Why don't you get dressed? I'll be back inside in a minute." 

Clint nodded numbly. Both Coulson and Natasha slipped away, leaving him in peace. 

Clint watched as they shut the door behind them, but it didn't feel like they were walking away from him. Not this time. It felt more like they were enclosing him someplace safe; someplace they could keep him in their arms and watch over him. It...it felt right.

Clint smiled as he dressed himself. He felt right. For just a minute, he felt right.

They came back in after about five minutes, watching him carefully, checking him over for injuries or distress. Clint just grinned, settling in the middle of the bed and looking up at the both of them expectantly.

Natasha got in on his right side. Coulson got in on his left.

The two of them wrapped their arms around him once they got settled underneath the blankets, taking his hands and covering them in theirs, pressing them against his chest, making sure he couldn't move them, so as not to use them to hurt himself somehow. The gesture touched Clint, and he couldn't help but smile.

"Love you," he murmured, and Coulson felt lightning racing up his spine as he realized Clint had not specified who he meant, "I'll see you both in the morning."

"We'll talk then?" Coulson asked. Clint shook his head.

"No need to talk now," he murmured, "just...to act. Or, rather...stop acting." He laid his head on Coulson's shoulder. "You can protect me and Nat better than any scars."

"Yes," Coulson promised, his heart warm and racing as he smiled, "yes, I can. And I won't let my protection hurt you, either. I promise."

"Okay." Clint whispered. There was a swirl of emotions lurking behind it. Coulson couldn't name a single one, but they all lit up his heart.

Clint fell asleep after that. Coulson and Natasha looked at each other across from him and locked gazes.

"You are our Coulson," she whispered, "and now, our protector as well." She smiled. "Rest. It is a tough job."

"But I'm honored to do it." He whispered in reply.

She rewarded him with a smile so beautiful it made his heart ache before she closed her eyes and fell asleep, her breathing soft and gentle. Lulled to sleep by their matched breathing, Coulson laid his head on top of Clint's scarred shoulder and swore to himself that he would never see another scar marring that warm, tanned skin, before sleep finally claimed him and dragged him down into the deep.

Chapter 23: Ashes and Dust of Dreams

Summary:

There are hopes of what could have been and what might be.

Notes:

To those who appreciated Clint's issues and how I handled them; seriously, thank you. It means a whole lot to me.
Anyways, time for Phil angst! He's too badass to angst much, but then again, this is serious.

The next day, Coulson awoke to both Clint and Natasha snuggled in his arms, safe and warm without a care in the world. They both looked so happy...so peaceful and relaxed...

Coulson sighed. He didn't know how to treat the past few days, to be honest.

It was becoming more and more clear that Natasha and Clint had entered some kind of relationship. It was in the way they looked at each other, the way she smiled when he walked in, and the way that he held out his hand to her...

And yet.

Natasha had kissed him. Called him theirs. And Clint had let him hold him and promise him safety. They had known him for a little over a week...and they trusted him. The semi-mythical Black Widow and Hawkeye...the two crown jewels of S.H.I.E.L.D., the broken toy soldiers that he had been entrusted to repair...they trusted him. It was an honor. It was a delight. To be allowed into their world was a magical, breathtaking experience, despite the darkness that lurked within. 

It should have been enough. He knew that. To be beside them as a partner and a friend should have been more than enough. 

And yet.

He was not a greedy man. But this was all he wanted. The chance to lie beside them. The chance to lie with them. To hold them and never let them go—to take them both far away from S.H.I.E.L.D. and spend the rest of his life with the two of them, cooking little meals and going for long drives and reading romance novels and listening to records. It was all he wanted. And the only thing he could never, ever have.

Phil Coulson had never considered his life particularly tragic. Not when compared to the lives of some of the other agents he had known. Not even compared to the average person. 

He figured this was the tragedy his life had been awaiting expectantly; a senseless romantic tragedy that was a long time coming.

He was not well-suited towards being a tragic figure. But as he looked down at Clint and Natasha, sleeping peacefully in his arms, their hands interwound, he figured he was doing a pretty damn good job at improvising.

A few tears slipped from his eyes and ran down his cheeks, splashing on their skin. Coulson tensed, worried, but they did not awaken. He sighed softly in relief and cursed the traitorous tears for daring to fall in the first place.

They had not awoken—at least, not to his sight. But years of training had honed very light sleepers out of Clint and Natasha, and they awoke long enough to feel the tears on their face. They looked at each other carefully, then up at Phil.

Unsure of what to do, they fell back to sleep, more troubled than before. Phil was still holding them tight, though. It was a small comfort.

They awoke again a few hours later. Coulson had not left the bed, despite looking like he had been awake for quite some time. 

"You waited for us?" Clint asked, his voice slurred and slow with sleep. Coulson nodded, leaning against the pillows and looking at him. 

"Of course I did," he said quietly. "You don't like waking up without your partners beside you, right?"

Clint shrugged, but he was clearly pleased. Natasha smiled.

"I will make breakfast," she promised, "if Clint would come and help me. You deserve the break, Phil."

He didn't want it. He wanted to be down there with the two of them, cooking breakfast, enjoying the warm quiet of the kitchen as the sunlight filtered in through the windows. He didn't want a break. He wanted to be with them.

"Thank you, Natasha," he said, and if his voice was colder than it should have been, he did not pay it any heed, "if you have need of me, you just have to call. You know that."

Natasha tilted her head and observed him for a moment. He just looked right back at her.

She left the room quietly, Clint following behind her. If she heard a soft, pained sob echo through the room as she left and closed the door, neither she nor Clint paid it any heed. 

...

The kitchen was quiet. The tiles glistened up at them, their dull ceramic shine caught on the morning sun. Clint and Natasha looked at each other. Their eyes shone even brighter than the sun in the kitchen, but the light was dimmed with pain. 

There should have been a third person in that kitchen and they both knew it. But they did not speak of it. If they did not speak of it, together, as they made breakfast, they could dream in silence.

As they touched each other's shoulders and ran hands down the soft curves of stomach and hip, they imagined another man beside them, blue eyes sparkling with amused delight as he pecked them both on the cheek and guided them into making the coffee properly, his hands running over their soft skin and rewarding their efforts with a gentle squeeze here and there.

They imagined the other man taking them into his arms and cradling them both close even as they embraced one another, aware of the space between their bodies and wishing it could be filled. They let themselves dare dream as they cradled cups of coffee in their hands before setting them on the table of a man whose hands would take their own and bind them, keep them safe.

The light fell about them as, on a whim, Clint picked Natasha up and twirled her about, their dance light and frivolous but fraught with warmth and desire. In that light, for an instant, they caught the sight of a third man, twirling them both about and keeping them in time, all three of them moving among each other perfectly.

It was beautiful. It was everything they ever wanted. But they did not quite know how to say it, to speak of those desires to the one man that needed to hear them most, and so the third man remained a ghost, made of motes of light and dust and the ashes of what might have been.

As they, in their own way, mourned the loss of a third partner that they had never had, the third man stood in the threshold of the kitchen and watched. They did not notice him, so lost were they in their dreaming. It did not matter; he was lost as well.

Coulson let himself dream of holding their hands and guiding them through the small steps of baking and cooking, watching them smile with delight as they saw their labors had borne fruit. He let himself dream of holding them in the kitchen, the two of them fit snugly against his chest, a reminder that he would not, could not lose them, not so long as they knew they were in his heart whenever they weren't in his arms. 

He let himself dream of taking their hands in his and protecting them from any harm, self-inflicted or otherwise. Slipping rings onto the fingers of those delicate hands, a small promise and no more, because regardless of what could be made of it, the promise of commitment was more than enough. He let himself dream as the light fell on his face of bringing them both out into the gaze of the sun and holding them close where they could be warmed and bathed in the glow.

As Coulson watched them dance, he dreamed of guiding them in their steps, keeping them together and in time, twirling about each other and encircling him. The dance played out, all players unaware that as they dreamed, they dreamed the same things.

None of them knew how to speak of their desire. Clint and Natasha wanted him, wanted to bring him into their little kingdom of two they had spent so much time building, because he was safe, they trusted him, he was their partner and god, how they loved him. They wanted him to fill in the spaces of their broken bodies, hold them all together. 

But they did not know how to say it.

Coulson wanted them, wanted to hold the two of them both close and heal away all the broken parts of their hearts and minds, soothing the fragile souls he knew lurked within both agents despite S.H.I.E.L.D.'s best attempts to extinguish them. He wanted them because they were tender, and they were curious, and they were his partners and they understood, and god, how he loved them. He wanted to fill in their broken parts and hold all three of them together until the sun rose.

But he did not know how to say it.

And so the dream danced on, unawares, its feet kicking up the ashes of what might have been and sending them throughout the air until it was dry in all their mouths.

Chapter 24: Ice Cream

Summary:

The next chapter is gonna hurt you more than it hurts me. Shopping montage!

Notes:

I see Clint as having a sweet tooth; partially because he was poor growing up--not so poor that they didn't eat, but sweets were by and large out of the question--and plus, they keep him jazzed up on missions! So he likes sweet things, a lot.
Man, seriously, next chapter is gonna suck. Hope y'all enjoy it. I mean, I can't see any reason for you to read this fic other than having your heart ripped out.

He alerted them to his presence ten minutes later, just as they were finishing up breakfast. Coulson came in quietly, his eyes bleary as he poured himself a cup of coffee. Clint and Natasha watched him in silence for a minute as he took out two more cups and made them their coffee the way they liked it. It made their hearts ache. Neither of them mentioned that they had already made themselves a cup.

Coulson sat beside them. He noticed they had made cream of wheat for him. The odd little gesture made his heart ache. He didn't say a word. He just smiled.

"Do you think you two would like to go driving again?" He said quietly, finally breaking the silence, 

"Yes, please." Natasha agreed, shifting in her seat and letting her crimson hair catch the light of the sun, where it shone in the red-gold shade of phoenix wings. Clint nodded.

"Yeah, can we? And we're running low on ice cream, so let's go to the grocery store. I'll make the run in!" He promised. Coulson smiled again, and the pride that was so clear on his face made Clint's heart twinge a little.

He had treated Phil so badly, hadn't he? And for what? The agent just seemed so proud of him...so happy for him, and he...

"Hey, Phil?" He asked. "What's your favorite flavor?"

Coulson blinked, stirring his coffee and sinking deep into thought, like the question had never occurred to him. Perhaps it hadn't.

"I suppose I'm a fan of neopolitan," he said, "because it offers me a choice, depending on my mood. Though I do like mint as well." He looked at Clint. If he could tell what Clint was thinking and what he was trying to do—which Clint wouldn't put past him—he didn't show it. "And you?"

"I like every kind." Clint said simply. "Except for butter pecan and rum raisin. They're just kinda gross." He grinned. "I really like strawberry, though."

"You can share my neopolitan, then, if you like." Coulson promised him. 

Clint blinked up at him. Coulson let him grapple with his surprise as he turned to Natasha.

"Do you have any preferences, Natasha?" He asked, curious. Natasha tilted her head.

"Ice cream is all right," she said, "but raspberry sherbet is my favorite. It is...cold, and soft, and it melts nicely."

"If you wouldn't mind getting some of that for Natasha, then, Clint?" Coulson asked. Clint puffed up indignantly.

"'Course I wouldn't!" He said, scandalized. "She's my Nat! I'd do anything for her!"

Natasha smiled and laughed lightly. Coulson blinked, looking away and hiding his sudden pained expression in his mug of coffee.

God, what he would have given to hear her laugh like that for him!

He shook it off and nodded, sipping his coffee and taking a bite of his breakfast.

"All right, then," he agreed, "we'll go for an ice cream run and you can go in, Clint. We'll do it on the way home, so that it won't melt."

"While we are driving, could we perhaps stop by the department store?" Natasha asked suddenly, looking at Coulson. "I am in need of...accessories..."

Coulson's cheeks got a bit darker. He schooled his expression and nodded.

"All right," he said, because he was a grown man and a woman's menses were not cause for embarrassment, "I understand. We'll stop by the department store, then, as well." He laughed suddenly. "Actually, I think we need to stop by the bookstore as well, thanks to you two. Now I'm curious as to what they have in there."

Clint and Natasha nodded in agreement.

"Fair enough," Natasha agreed, "then we ought to finish up breakfast so that we may do all these things and have time to read tonight."

"How about that?" Coulson said, a realization suddenly occurring to him and making him grin. "Sounds like we have errands to run."

"We do," Natasha said, the realization dawning on her suddenly. "It is...nice."

"Yeah," Clint said, wolfing down the rest of his breakfast, ignoring Coulson's pointed look and the unspoken command to eat slower, "which means we gotta go. C'mon!"

Both Coulson and Natasha just looked at each other and smiled as Clint grabbed his jacket and was out the door in seconds. 

...

For a little while, they just drove. The car was warm and sweet and quiet, and Clint and Natasha snuggled up in the back. From time to time, they asked Phil little lazy questions, their tones slow and sleepy. What was his favorite musician? Was there a song he liked more than any other? What movies did he watch? What sort of things did he read?

Coulson answered them all as best as he could, vaguely aware that he was being observed, almost; not judged for his tastes, but listened to, like they wanted to know. Like it mattered to them if he preferred jazz from the pre-WWII era to the post-WWII era. He simply smiled.

He did not ask them those sort of questions back, for he knew in his heart that the way they were, they would not have an answer for him. Instead, he recommended them things; very subtly and very gently, of course, he prodded them forward into the kinds of novels or films he thought they would enjoy. Little things that people took for granted; the hour or so to enjoy a movie, the time to enjoy a nice novel. He did his best to give those things to them, and they accepted the gifts gratefully.

They wound their way through the dusty backroads for a little while, until Coulson changed the CD. That was their cue to begin the trek to the department store, which they did with aplomb, making their way through traffic effortlessly until arriving. 

Natasha disappeared inside with a basket. Coulson didn't protest; he was, in all truth, a little proud that she had gone out on her own. He let her be, sending Clint off after some more soup and boxes of pasta. They could always use some of those, and the department store happened to have a small grocery selection.

It was only Coulson who didn't quite know what to do with himself. 

So he wandered about the department store a bit, meandering about until he realized with a sudden jolt that he was in the health section. On the rack in front of him was a display made up entirely of boxes of tampons and pads.

Coulson's face flared red. 

It wasn't that he was...embarassed...after all, he was a grown man and an agent of S.H.I.E.L.D.; he had seen worse on plenty of missions than a bit of blood. It wasn't that, honestly. It was...well...

To buy them for Natasha felt like he was overstepping some boundary that had been drawn up since she and Clint, well...

And yet. She had kissed him. 

She had kissed him of her own free will; there was no mission objective to be cleared by sleeping with him, no vital information given through her seduction of him. There was nothing for her to gain by making him fall in love. And yet she had kissed him. By her choice. 

Simple, perhaps. But he had been all about the simple things with those two, lately, and he knew full well that for Natasha, the simple act of choosing whom to kiss meant the whole world.

Coulson did not let himself hope. Not yet. But perhaps, for a moment, he dared dream. And in that moment, he managed to talk himself into buying a few boxes of tampons and a few packs of pads.

He couldn't help but chuckle lightly as he went to pay for them, ignoring the look of concern and question the cashier gave him. His mind was somewhere else now; how would he let Natasha know he had gotten her the pads? 

He would just leave them in the bathroom while she was in the bedroom. She would see him, certainly, but he would not call attention to it, and therefore she could use them at her discretion. It worked well for all of them; it didn't put Natasha on the spot, and he wouldn't have to explain why he had bought them. 

Coulson smiled, pleased, as he paid for the items and, as luck would have it, managed to join the two of them just as they finished paying and made their way to the door.

"Did it go well?" He asked them. Clint nodded, gesturing to his bag. Natasha nodded as well, pride in herself clear on her face as she held up her bag. Coulson blinked. It looked too small to hold pads...perhaps she had only bought one pack? If that was true, he was glad he had gotten her extra. Still; right now, it didn't matter. He wanted to praise them for a job well done.

"Then I'm delighted," he told them, "and very proud of you both. You did excellently."

The two of them were still preening over his compliments by the time they made it to the bookstore. Coulson let them be in the car to gossip delightedly over it. He had a few books to buy.

He made his way in and perused the shelves for awhile, selecting a few thrillers. He was always amused to read those and make fun of the terribly written government agents. As if any self-respecting secret agent would behave in such a manner as half of these idiots.

He paid for the few books and made his way back into the car, smiling at the two of them, sprawled out in the backseat and grinning back up at him. The delight at his simple presence was obvious in their eyes, and it made something in his throat catch.

"Ready to go get ice cream?" He asked, his tone gentle and warm. Both of them nodded, eagerly wriggling in their seats, like puppies, wide-eyed and delighted. Coulson cracked a smile, pulling out of the parking lot and driving away.

The three of them drove to the grocery store in peaceful silence, enjoying the simple fact of the others' presence. Clint laid his head on Natasha's shoulder. Coulson didn't say a word. 

Very quietly, Natasha's hand came to rest on the center console. A moment afterwards, so did Clint's.

Coulson reached back and put his hand on top of theirs, a warm comfort that remained with them even when they reached the grocery store and went inside, Clint and Natasha leading the way, Phil smiling with pride.

Chapter 25: Speak Like a Child

Summary:

Natasha reveals a secret.

Notes:

This will all be explained later. Don't hate me too much.

They split up once they arrived; Coulson had a few things apart from ice cream he wanted to pick up that he told Clint and Natasha, (rather intriguingly and mysteriously so, in fact), were "a surprise." Clint and Natasha made a beeline right for the ice cream, little baskets in hand.

Natasha carefully selected two cartons of raspberry sherbet for herself, humming with delight as she found one that was a raspberry sherbert and vanilla ice cream swirl, adding three cartons of that to her basket. She was so wrapped up in her purchases that Clint almost managed to hide away what he had gotten. Natasha had a keen eye, however, so she caught what was in his basket with ease.

Beneath his strawberry and mint chocolate chip and triple-fudge-brownie lay a single carton of neapolitan.

Natasha smiled. She did not, however, push Clint on the matter. Coulson would ring up their groceries, after all. He would notice.

They left the aisle after that, just in time to bump into Coulson, who had already accrued a small shopping cart's worth of food. He just looked at them and smiled, more than a little flustered...but incredibly pleased, as well.

It was then the two of them knew, without even having to share a single look, that the man standing before them with the shopping cart full of their favorite food, smiling nervously and offering up his love, was theirs. Completely and totally. 

Perhaps if they had been normal people—if they had been simply Natasha Romanov and Clint Barton, they would have said this to him. They would have confessed to him then and there and let him know of their desperate, all-consuming love for him. 

They did not confess, because none of them were normal people, and all three of them knew it. Not even their Coulson, the most uniquely human and tender of all the S.H.I.E.L.D. agents they had ever known, was normal. 

But then, something to consider—if they had been normal, would there have ever really been an opportunity to meet and fall in love like this in the first place? Would they have encountered a situation that required confession?

They knew then that nothing as wonderfully tender and beautiful such as what they possessed would come to pass. They would never have found him like this, and never have been able to know him so intimately, were they not so broken as to be unable to anything but bare their souls to him.

After all, both of them knew that the sort of fragile beauty that every flower that blooms in a wasteland has is worth the wait. 

So they paid for their things, then, and if Clint and Natasha noticed that Phil had bought all the ingredients for stew and sleeves of frozen hamburgers coupled with stacks of cheese, they didn't say a word. If Phil noticed the carton of neopolitan ice cream that Clint handed over to the cashier personally with another one of his dazzling smiles, he didn't speak of it.

And they all walked out hand in hand, casual and easy, Coulson in between the two of them and Clint and Natasha keeping him upright the entire way home.

...

They drove home, warm and content, making their way through the door with Coulson in front and the two of them following hesitantly behind, as if they were still unsure as they crossed the threshold that it was really "their house." Once they made their way into the kitchen, though, and began to put things away, realizing they knew exactly where everything ought to go and how to put it there, they knew.

So everyone unloaded the groceries with ease, peaceful and gentle in their motions as they unpacked and re-assembled everything where it was meant to go in their house. The peace was made up of silence, golden as the sun and full of meaning. 

It was broken in an instant as suddenly, Clint and Natasha realized Coulson had actually begun to sing.

Not just hum, which the agent often did when the mood struck him. Not a few words, either, or a half-remembered lyric. Coulson was singing, like their kitchen had turned into a dusty club well-worn with the blues and the weight of the thousands of people who had stood on its stage. 

Clint and Natasha put down their groceries and stared. 

Coulson was entirely oblivious to what he was doing, arranging spices neatly on the shelf and re-arranging the vegetables in the crisper, his button-down rumpled and his tie askew, but his eyes brilliant and alive and his hands quick in staccato rhythms, like little birds just testing out their wings. 

He finished the song with a low, soft note, one that laced throughout the atoms of Clint and Natasha's bodies and strung them all together in a all-encompassing web of love, entwining them with a ribbon of music, and shut the refridgerator door. He looked up at the two of them and blinked, concerned.

"Clint, Natasha, the ice cream's going to melt," he chided them gently, "and you two know it goes in the freezer, don't tell me you don't."

They snapped to attention and completed their task after that—they were S.H.I.E.L.D. agents, after all, and that was...sort of an order, to be fair. So they put everything else away and didn't mention to Coulson as they helped prepare dinner that night that the sound of his voice had broken something in them and reformed it into something new and tender and beautiful. They didn't tell him that he had shone in that moment, breaking down the silence and making the very sun stir with life at his voice. They didn't tell him that it had gotten to the point in the two of them that the simple promise of his voice, let alone the strength of his singing, was enough to make them tremble.

They didn't tell him how much they loved him. At least, not out loud.

The three of them sat together that night, seated at the table. Clint spoke of his love in the way that he grasped Coulson's hand when he handed him something and he moved his chair closer, enough so that his thigh rested against Phil's, more like a comfort or a support than a proposition. Natasha spoke of her love in the way she played with her hair, letting it catch the light in a way that she knew full well made Coulson's breath hitch in his throat every time, and the way that her hand, however briefly, rested over his when they talked.

Coulson didn't know what to do with the attention he was receiving. He never considered that they would, perhaps, want him to join them rather than choose between them, and so he remained in a mild state of confusion throughout dinner. 

He did, however, know that regardless of their intent, they were...they were touching him. By their choice, they were remaining close to him, allowing him to get close in return, to touch them back. Their choices. Not as agents. As people.

He loved them so much that his heart ached and he still could not see the reason that, after all this time and all the lessons he had taught them, they would make this choice. He was, in some regards, as blind to life as they were. At least, where it mattered the most.

He had taught them how to be human, and yet, for all that, he had not really understood that in doing so, he would teach them how to love. 

Or perhaps he did. And perhaps he just refused to believe that they would love him.

Regardless of the reasons for his confusion and their inability to speak, the end result was not entirely unpleasant. Sure, they did not lay on the couch that night and make love, but they managed to find pieces of each other that night. Natasha ended up between them on the couch, and Clint sprawled out comfortably over them both, settling in on their laps as they groaned and teased him about how heavy he was. Clint just grinned up at them both, a genuine sparkle to his eyes, and Coulson was so taken with it that for a moment, his hand reached down to rest in Clint's hair.

There was a pause in the room. Neither Clint nor Coulson dared breathe. 

Then Natasha laughed lightly and began to rub his back, her fingers traveling in gentle circles across Clint's well-muscled back and shoulders. That gave Coulson the go-ahead he had been waiting for to wind his way through Clint's hair with gentle, delicate fingers, rubbing his scalp and playing with the short, sandy locks as Clint practically melted across the two of them, more at ease than Coulson had ever seen him. 

Eventually, Clint reached up and tugged Natasha down, wriggling deftly in such a manner that she was spread out over both their laps without much fuss. Coulson probably wouldn't have noticed except for the change in weight, Clint was so careful. 

After that switch, though, they both began to massage Natasha's back, delicate and gentle, because even though they knew, logically, that she was just as strong as the both of them—stronger, even—they wanted to be tender with her, to show her a man could be strong and powerful and yet choose to be gentle. That not every man with well-muscled arms wanted to use them to choke the life from her.

If the soft whines and moans of delight she treated them to were any indication, Natasha understood.

Eventually, the two of them looked up at each other, planning something behind Phil's back. Before Coulson could even open his mouth, he found himself being yanked down onto the couch, his face in Clint's lap, his torso in Natasha's, their hands holding him down for a second to make sure he wouldn't bolt in his shock. Phil relaxed immediately, trying to reassure them he wouldn't leave, even with the sudden upset, and they both grinned with delight, getting to work on his back after that.

Coulson moaned softly throughout the whole thing as the kinks and knots in his back were slowly loosened and unraveled, the realization that he hadn't had a massage in a very, very long time weighing on his mind with every crack of bones setting or discs slipping back into place, the pain swift and sharp but tolerable, and leaving him feeling lighter than ever before.

Eventually, the room fell in shades of shadow around them and they all looked at each other, figuring a good night's sleep was in order. Coulson remembered with a jolt that he still had something to take care of, and so while Natasha dressed in the bedroom and he got ready for bed in the bathroom, he took the bag of supplies out. 

Once all three of them were fully dressed, Clint having made his way in from the hallway, Coulson opened the door to let her see as he carefully placed the boxes in the medicine cabinet, organizing them in the space beside the soap. He didn't notice that there were no other packs of tampons or pads in there as he organized them, but once he surveyed it, he did recall that Natasha hadn't come up here...

He got into bed beside the two of them and laid there beside them, thinking. He didn't know how to bring it up...but he could, perhaps...

"Natasha," he said carefully, "I'm curious; what did you buy at the store today?"

Natasha was silent for a minute.

"Lipstick." She finally said. She didn't say anything else besides that. Coulson awaited a further response, but none came forth. He swallowed. 

He was unsure if he should bring it up...but if she was going through her cycle, then she might be in pain—damn it, he hadn't thought to buy more ibuprofen, but hopefully the first-aid kit might have some—and furthermore, she would make a mess of her pants if she didn't apply anything, and he didn't want her to feel filthy or embarrassed. 

"Natasha," he continued on, "there's things for you to use in the bathroom if you need to. If you're in need of ibuprofen to cure any cramps, I can find some in the first aid kit, as well. Do you need them immediately?"

Natasha wasn't looking at him as she spoke now. Clint wasn't, either. Coulson was confused.

"I do not need them, ever," she told him, "because my body does not go through that cycle. I am sterile."

Chapter 26: Barren

Summary:

Natasha explains. Coulson loses it.

Notes:

Here's the thing; Clark Gregg himself has described Coulson as "calm, but constantly on the verge of madness," a few times, which I find interesting. He's the most put-together out of all the Avengers...and yet that wall of decorum and calmness is there for a reason. Walls hide things and hold them back.
So! His little loss of temper here is fitting, keeping that in mind. Besides, Christ, who wouldn't lose their shit in this kind of situation?
Hope...well, not that you enjoy, this chapter is sad as hell, but...that you like it!

Coulson was suddenly aware of what it was like to have the ground yanked out from underneath him.

He sat up in bed and looked at her, his eyes wide and horrified, his hands trembling.

"Oh, god," he whispered, "Natasha, I'm sorry, I thought—you said you needed, and I—oh god, I'm so sorry—"

"It is all right." She soothed him, stroking his hair. She kissed his forehead, sighing softly. "You did not know, Phil. Please, do not apologize. You were trying to help."

They sat there in silence for awhile. Coulson didn't know what to do or say.

"How did it happen?" He finally asked, his throat dry and his voice hoarse. 

He was expecting injuries on a mission, perhaps. Or that she had simply been born that way. Something, anything else. He was not prepared for the story she told him.

No one could have been.

Natasha blinked; once, twice, slow and careful flutters of her eyelashes, their tips catching shadows on her skin.

"When I was twelve, the blood was everywhere," she explained, "and S.H.I.E.L.D. knew from then on that I was a liability. I was a child, but not for much longer, and not childish enough to keep from having children of my own. The innocence of a young girl coupled with fecundity is enough to tantalize many men that we fight. S.H.I.E.L.D. understands the monsters it fights well."

Coulson felt ill. He knew what was coming. He couldn't deny it. But he wanted to scream and shout and beg for her to stop, as if her silence on the matter would deny it the right to exist, to be true.

"I was still in need of hormones to produce breasts and the growth of a woman," she explained, "so they did not do it all at once. I had my uterus removed a week after my menses began. They put me on estrogen supplements and hormone injections just in case after that."

Coulson wanted to be sick. He wanted to hold her. He wanted to cry. He wanted to bring the beautiful little girl Natasha had been, no matter what her body had said, into his arms and hold her close and love her, comfort her as best as he could, teach her a man's gentle touch before others would show her the strength, untamed and meant to wound. 

He could feel Clint shaking. He did not cry, though. He had to know. And perhaps he grieved quietly, but to weep was out of the question.

"Once my breasts developed fully and I was done with the preparations of womanhood, they decided that my ovaries would be a problem as well. Risks. They did not explain them, but, regardless. I was stripped of those, too." Natasha explained. "I was perhaps seventeen? I do not remember." 

Coulson held onto the blankets like they were the only thing keeping him grounded at that point. Perhaps they were.

"S.H.I.E.L.D. did this to you." He said. His tone was heavy with an emotion he could not place, but it curled up in his stomach and gripped his heart, hot and all-consuming.

Natasha nodded. She tilted her head and looked at him, her eyes dull with pain. Coulson reached out to grab her hand before he realized, in the dark, that he could not find it.

"Correct," she murmured, "they were responsible. Director Fury himself authorized the surgeries." She shrugged. "I do not carry the scars. The doctors were careful and S.H.I.E.L.D. is very advanced in scar treatment."

"Not even on your heart, huh?" Coulson said, his voice thick. How could he still be talking? His entire world was falling to pieces around him and yet he continued to talk. He was astounded. Natasha simply shrugged.

"It was the logical decision for an agent," she said, and Coulson figured if he ever heard those words again, he would go quite mad, "to be sterilized was the sensible option. It keeps me doing my job the way I am meant to when it comes to sex. S.H.I.E.L.D., frankly, expects me to be raped in one way or another on most of my missions; either as part of my torture or in a nonviolent way, simply by being forced to sleep with a man I do not wish to sleep with for information or to keep my cover."

She licked her lips and swallowed, tilting her head. Phil was probably crying by now, if the blurred way her hair bobbed in his line of vision was any indication.  

"Since birth control on a mission could very well easily be unavailable or withheld, this prevents me from becoming pregnant if something goes wrong, and, as such, saves me from the trauma of either a forced birth in captivity, if I am caught and tortured, or the repeated abortions that these pregnancies would bring," she justifies, and Coulson realized now that she was parroting what they had told her back to him, the lines she was fed to keep her from, just once, making the humane choice for herself, "and plus, no one expects S.H.I.E.L.D. agents to last long, or form a relationship in which babies would even come up, or, failing that, to even want a child."

He did. 

He wanted a child. Not just any child; her child. 

He knew it was irrational, but some part of him, secret and small, thought about her every so often, heavily pregnant and being held by him and Clint, his arms around her stomach, feeling the baby kick in recognition of its fathers, heedless of whose seed had given it life. Her breasts would be heavy in his hands when he held them; heavy with life and warmth and the promise of the child to come.

The three of them, then, raising a beautiful, bright child, far away from S.H.I.E.L.D.; someplace where the child could grow strong and powerful without worrying that they would be used against their parents, an advantage for the people who wanted only to harm them. It was a futile dream, but like all dreams, it had been powerful, and it had gripped him on occasion, digging its claws in deep.

It was not, however, for that child that Coulson found his vision getting red with rage. That child would not exist, would never have existed. It was for Natasha, so small and fragile beside him, the most beautiful woman in the world and yet so broken, so broken he could never repair her, for someone who had come before him had taken some of the pieces away before he could even try to put them all back together. He was enraged because they had taken something from Natasha that they had no right to; they had denied her the choice, regardless of how horrible the other option may have been, and this made him seethe and grieve and rage. They had made the logical decision for her. They had never taught her how to make the humane one.

Coulson screamed, then, his heart breaking underneath the sound as he made his way out of bed, the fury beating beneath his skin too much to handle while sedate. He needed to hurt. To howl. To rage and grieve and beat and fight. But there was no enemy now, if there ever really had been. The doctors? Following orders. The surgeons? Following orders.

S.H.I.E.L.D., then? No. No, not all of it. Just. Him.

"Fury," he snarled, and his voice was inhuman, making Natasha and Clint shrink away, clinging to each other for comfort, "he did this. He hurt her. He let this happen!"

He had never questioned S.H.I.E.L.D. in his life. Not once. But perhaps that was only because S.H.I.E.L.D. was a simple government job for him, albeit one that was a bit more high-risk. For agents like Natasha? He couldn't even begin to comprehend them; the lifestyle of the legends of S.H.I.E.L.D., so alien to his own. But he knew what they had done was wrong, regardless of where they stood as agents. And S.H.I.E.L.D. had done it to the woman he loved. And that was enough to set him off. 

And so he was finally truly and genuinely angry. Angry at S.H.I.E.L.D., angry at Fury, and, more irrationally, angry at himself, despite the fact that he hadn't even been at S.H.I.E.L.D. when it had taken place. Still. The breadth of his anger was immense, a yawning cavern of rage. 

But nothing would stir in him. No spark would ignite. Not yet. There was someone he needed to take care of, first. His partner...his Natasha...

"Oh, Nat," Coulson murmured, his tone soft and sweet, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I should've known. I didn't...think they would do such a thing. I didn't...think...not to you..."

He came to her side and stroked her hair, careful and tender as he toyed with the soft strands. 

Not to her, yes. Maybe to someone else. But not her. Why would they? After all, S.H.I.E.L.D. was still, at heart, a force for good, wasn't it? To hurt Natasha...

"I didn't know," Coulson whispered, "I'm sorry. I'm here. I...I'm sorry...I'm sorry I couldn't have been there when you...really needed it..."

Natasha looked up to meet his eyes. It was then that he realized he was not staring at Natasha as she was now; the person that met his eyes then was a little girl with soft auburn hair and wide eyes, a single thin arm reaching up to grasp his hand. Her other arm was wrapped around her stomach. That arm was soaked in blood.

"Oh, god," Coulson fought the urge to retch, instead gripping the hand of the little girl and kissing it, doing his best to offer comfort to someone who did not, could not exist, "oh, Natasha, I didn't—I couldn't—and they did—"

Yes, they did. They hurt her. They tore her apart and sewed her back up again, leaving her hollow and lost. They did it. And she was the one expected to go on, broken, her parts missing. How could they have ever expected her to be repaired if they had taken away all her parts?

...They didn't.

That knowledge was what made him stop. It changed his thoughts entirely, shifted gears and made him see everything in a whole new light.

They didn't want her to save herself. S.H.I.E.L.D. needed her broken. They wanted her to be as broken down as possible so they could take the pieces and reform them as they wished. This had never been about saving Natasha or Clint, not to them. All they wanted was for him to get them back to doing their jobs until eventually, not even he could do that.

It was then Clint and Natasha saw the sweetness and careful concern of their caretaker, their beloved Coulson, stripped away to reveal anger and rage, the humanity within him coming to a boiling point at the callousness visited upon his love.

Coulson was pretty damn scary when he was angry. They knew that much already. And the storm hadn't even broken. When it did?

Even they trembled at the idea of the results.

"Damn him!" He shouted, slamming his fists on the dresser, so hard the mirror began to crack. "Damn him to hell, that manipulative, monstrous bastard!" 

He began to pace the room, like a tiger that had gone mad after years spent in captivity. His eyes were wild, his knuckles white as he clenched his hands so tight he could feel blood gathering in his palms.

Coulson ranted, unheeding of the likely fact that there were bugs or wiretaps within the house; let Fury know he was angry. Let him acknowledge that what he had done had hurt three of his best agents. Let him know he was furious.

"Not Natasha, no," he spat, "not her, not anyone, you don't—you don't make those choices, not for little girls, not—not her!" He didn't seem to notice Natasha herself in bed anymore, ranting to unseen forces. If he had noticed Natasha and Clint curled close to each other in terror, eyes wide, so frightened of the beast that had suddenly clawed its way out from within their Coulson, he might have stopped. As it was, he simply got angrier.

"Damn this entire place to hell," he snarled, slamming his hands down on the dresser again, the wood creaking in protest, "thinking they're any better than the people who would've hurt her in the first place! THEY DID WORSE! THEY DID THIS! ALL OF IT! THEY BROKE HER! THIS IS THEIR FAULT!"

He looked up into the mirror only to realize it was in pieces now, a web of cracks lacing through it. He licked his lips only to realize that he had bitten them, somewhere in his ranting. His hands trembled as he pressed them against the broken glass.

He was at fault here, too. Wasn't that right? He was a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent. One of the best. By the book. Understood procedure. This was in the handbook somewhere, perhaps. He couldn't remember right now.

"Oh, god," he murmured, his voice soft and full of sudden pain, "I don't...I can't. This is wrong. All of this is wrong. I...I'm an agent. I should—orders—but I...no, not for her. Not like this. Please, god, forgive me. I have to accept these orders. But I can't ever approve of them."

He laid his head against the broken mirror, the cool glass calming him. His heart was beating against his chest, harsh and vicious, like war drums.

"This should never have happened," he told himself, shaking his head. "Not ever. Not even if it was logical. We are still human. We are. They can't...take that away...not from her...not from any of us." He swallowed. "Monsters. Monsters, all of them." 

He met his own gaze in the mirror, then, blinking back tears and shuddering with disgust, gripping the mirror with bloodied palms, leaving stains across the cracks.

"And I...I'm part of all this, aren't I? I'm an agent. I follow orders. I...I just...never...I never thought there could even be orders like this..." He shook his head.

He was talking more to himself at this point than anything, trying to put all the pieces together. It seemed like everything he had thought himself to be—as a man and as an agent—was breaking down now, getting torn apart and crushed. He was trying to put the pieces back together, but his hands...his hands were bleeding...

The rage still smoldered in him, still, and so he snarled again, desperate and low, sounding more like a wounded animal than an enraged one.

Never again, he promised himself, they're not going to hurt her, and they're not going to hurt Clint, either, not ever. I can't trust S.H.I.E.L.D., not anymore. Not after this. Not after they hurt her. Not after they made the choice for her.

He knew that now. It was too late to fix her, but he could, at least, defend and protect. Keep them from breaking her down any more. He would save them. He would. But he shouldn't have had to in the first place. This should not have happened...

He turned and went for the window, throwing it open, the night air caressing his face like a worried lover, tender and cool.

"Hell with this. Hell with all of them! This was not their choice to make!" He shouted, the night receiving his cries and accepting his sorrows.

Coulson would have gone on, perhaps, because as he recognized it in such a naked form, he knew it to be true; S.H.I.E.L.D. was flawed and broken and festering, and as much as he had been able to ignore it for a time, he couldn't any longer. Not as long as his Natasha was at his side, forever a reminder. This changed everything. And he was angry, because to be confronted with such a horror is not something most people wish to experience generally, let alone about the life they have chosen.

But then he turned and looked at the bed.

Natasha's face was buried into Clint's chest, turned away from him in terror. Clint had gripped his pillow in a single arm for comfort, burying his face into the top of Natasha's head, fright clear in his bearing.

He was scaring them.

Something way deep down in Phil broke, making him bleed in places he hadn't known could even be hurt, ever.

"Darlings," he whispered, "oh, darlings. Please, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to frighten you..."

It was then that he really understood just how much his love and comfort meant to them. They were hardened S.H.I.E.L.D. agents, tough and proud, able to withstand even the darkest horrors of the battlefield, and yet the sight of him losing his temper terrified them.

Without another word, Coulson went into the bathroom and washed his hands, wrapping them in bandages. He applied antibiotic creams to the cut on his lip. He came back out into the room and took the mirror off of the dresser, carrying it downstairs and throwing it into the trash before coming back up into the bedroom, quiet and careful in his gait.

"I'm so sorry." He told them. He reached out to put his hands on their shoulders, gentle and soothing as he whispered, "I didn't mean to frighten you. I was just so angry. Not at you, darlings. Never you. I'm your partner. I take care of you. I'm only angry because...because this time...I couldn't..."

They lifted their heads up to look at him, their eyes full of fright and panic. Coulson just continued to break, cutting himself open on the pieces, and he feared that when he spoke next, nothing but blood would rush forth.

"I'm sorry I couldn't protect you, Natasha," he said, "and all I can do is offer my protection now, when it's too late. I promise, I will take care of you. I'll protect you both—I won't let S.H.I.E.L.D. make the choice for you any more. I promise. You're both going to be all right. I'll keep you safe. You're my partners..."

Clint snuggled a little closer to Natasha and met his eyes. 

"You're really scary when you're angry, Phil." He finally said. Coulson shook his head and sighed, nodding in agreement.

"I'm sorry, Clint. I promise, I won't lose my temper again around you two, either. I was just as scared and sad as you, and I just became...overtaken. I won't get angry like that again. Not when you two are around me." Coulson promised. He looked at Natasha. "Nat? Are you all right, Natasha?"

She stirred, then, looking up into his eyes. The pain in her gaze as they locked eyes made Coulson's knees weak, the weight of it crushing him.

"You were angry," she said, sounding mystified, "you were so angry; not because I would not bear your children, but because..."

"Because you couldn't make the choice to have children, even if you wanted to, Nat." Coulson promised her gently. "Believe me, I couldn't care less if you never have children. But that wasn't S.H.I.E.L.D.'s decision to make for you. That's why I got angry. But...I won't get angry again, I promise. I'll devote all my emotion and energy towards protecting you two."

"We shall give our all to protect you in return."Natasha promised softly. When Coulson opened his mouth to protest that, she reached up and pressed a finger to his lips.

"It is our choice," she said sternly, "to protect you and defend you. Not just as partners, but as..." Something caught in her throat for a second, but before Coulson's heart could swell with hope, she finished, "as comrades and friends. We will be there for you. In all ways, for all time."

The unchecked longing between all three of them would have driven any other person to confess. But right now, even if they were in any way normal, was not the time to confess. Now was just time to love unspoken and make promises you'd do anything to keep.

"All right, then." Coulson finally said. "I guess I've pretty much spent all this time with you to teach you that sort of thing...so not letting you do it would be rather unfair, don't you think?"

"Yes, I do," Natasha said, unable to hide a smile, "so please, come to bed. I...I wish to be held."

He got into bed and took them both into his arms without another word, kissing the tops of their heads and hugging them tightly.

"Listen to me," he said, his voice rough with poorly restrained emotion, "you two have been hurt by S.H.I.E.L.D., I know that. When I say I'm going to protect you, I don't just mean from enemies. I mean from them, too."

"I understand." Clint and Natasha chorused quietly, snuggling closer into his touch. Coulson kissed Natasha's forehead.

"And Natasha, please understand; whether or not you can have children does not make me care any less about you." Coulson said.

He paused. Natasha just watched him. All the love in his bearing and the longing in his eyes couldn't force him to confess. Not now. She didn't need that.

"As a partner." He finally spoke again. "Agent Romanov."

"Oh, Phil." Natasha murmured. There was something in her voice he could name, but refused to do as much. If he did, it might go from breaking him down to killing him outright.

"Goodnight, Clint. Goodnight, Natasha." Coulson said, tucking them both underneath the covers, settling in with them still in his arms. They curled closer and made sure he was covered safely by the blanket as well.

"Goodnight, Phil." Natasha whispered. 

Then she planted a tender kiss on his forehead, all her longing made physical, for the barest of instants. 

"Night, Phil." Clint murmured.

Then he kissed Phil's cheek, nuzzling the skin and settling in beside him, his head on his shoulder.

Coulson stayed awake after that, even after he felt them both relax and fall asleep within his arms.

He had done it, then. He had finally found the people whom he would put before S.H.I.E.L.D.—before his own life, in fact. He had promised them that he would protect him; from the world that meant to hurt him, and the government that already had. And he had known as he made that promise that it might change his entire life.

And he was more than all right with that. 

For Clint and Natasha, anything.

He stayed awake for as long as he could before his body forced him asleep, holding them close and stroking their hair as the moon shone down on him, as if the light was well pleased with him.

Chapter 27: The Right Words

Summary:

Clint, Nat, and Phil bake some cookies.

Notes:

First off, I just want to give a major thank you to everyone who reads, comments, or likes this story. This one is, for me, deeper and more complex, emotionally than even AatA; knowing other people like it is an enormous relief for me. Thank you, all of you, for continuing to leave words of praise and encouragement; I can't explain properly what it means to me!
As to why Coulson and crew are trying to be all cheerful and peppy today, well...shit, after last chapter, and what's to come, I figure you could all use a break. Plus, this will be relevant later on...though I won't say how.
Hope you enjoy!
P.S. apologies if the formatting is strange--ao3 is not being helpful today.

The next morning, Clint and Natasha were curled up in Coulson's arms, sheathed by his promise of safety and comforted by his unspoken love.
Coulson woke first, as he usually did, only to look down at the two of them and smile, helpless to do anything else. They were in his arms, warm and safe. If they were not his lovers, they were, at least, his partners. And they would be protected. That was all that mattered.

Natasha stirred in her sleep, and he held her a little closer, hoping she wouldn't wake. She needed her rest. And she was more peaceful resting in his arms, beside Clint and curled up against him, than anywhere else...

She did not wake, and for that he was grateful. He held them both close and tight for as long as he could, letting the sun fall over all three of them and warm their skin, reaching down into their bones. Coulson closed his eyes again and probably would have just fallen asleep once more had he not felt Clint stirring beside him.

He opened his eyes to see the archer looking back up at him. There was something in his gaze Coulson couldn't name. Clint opened his mouth.
"I'm glad I trusted you," he finally murmured, "and...I guess I'm just sorry it took so long." He blinked and nuzzled close. "I...I didn't think you were really gonna...take care of us, I mean. I didn't...didn't think we deserved it..."

Coulson held him tighter. Relief flowed through his heart and veins like cool water, and he couldn't help but smile. "Oh, Clint, it's all right," he soothed him, "I know. I understand. I don't blame you. But remember that you do deserve it, and that I will protect you. All right?"

"Mmkay," Clint promised, yawning as he laid his head on Phil's chest, "just...get a codename, okay? Widow and Hawkeye and Phil sorta...falls flat, don't you think?"
Coulson laughed at that, ruffling Clint's hair as the archer grinned and laughed in his grip, relaxed and at peace.

"You're okay, Phil," Clint finally murmured, "and I...I...I'm not." He finished. "I guess you were right. I...I'm broken, too."
Coulson was quiet for a second.

"Yes, you are," he whispered, "but you're getting better. You have been all this time. You're going to be all right." 
Clint just nodded, snuggling close and closing his eyes.

Coulson let them have a few more minutes of sleep before he awoke them and ushered them downstairs for breakfast. Sleep was still the best peace he could give them.
"Phil?" Natasha asked as they all sat at the table and sipped their coffee. "Do we have plans for today?"

"Nothing much," Coulson replied, "our errands were completed yesterday, the house seems to be clean...the only thing I can think of is that we need to refuel the car. Is there anywhere you two need to visit in town?"

"Nah, not that I can think of," Clint piped up, "so why don't we go refuel the car and then watch TV or something?"

"Sounds like a plan." Coulson agreed. "But finish your breakfast first, all right?"

As they did, Coulson noticed it was the first time he had seen Clint eat anything slowly. He didn't say anything about it, but he ruffled Clint's hair and grinned on the way out to the car.
The three of them drove, the windows down and the wind whipping around them, until they reached the gas station. Coulson refueled the tank while Clint went inside to get them sodas. By the time he had paid and gotten back in the car, Clint had gone through half of his orange soda, starting in on the potato chips. Coulson groaned.

"Clint," he chided him, pulling out of the gas station and heading back home, "you just ate breakfast."

"Aw, come on!" Clint whined. "Potato chips are second breakfast! Haven't you ever heard of second breakfast?"
Natasha took the bag of chips from his hands as Clint complained. When he howled, pointing an accusatory finger at her and wailing, "Nat, those were mine, c'mon," Natasha just smiled and hid them behind her back.

"What potato chips, precious?" She teased. Clint howled.

"You aren't funny!" He yelled, wrestling her in the backseat for the potato chips. Coulson just sighed and smiled, grabbing the chips from the two of them while they were busy scuffling, taking a few as he continued to drive home.

The three burst through the door and somehow found their way onto the couch, cuddling together like sleepy puppies caught in a sunbeam; Clint sandwiched between Coulson and Natasha, content and grinning, pleased. Coulson sank into the couch with a sigh, more amused than exasperated, and Natasha laid on top of both of them, her hands entwining in theirs.
For a little while, they laid there and listened to the rustle of the trees outside. Then Coulson nudged them both and met their eyes.

"Hey," he said, his voice warm, "I bought flour and sugar and eggs, and everything else we'd need to make cookies. Do you two want to learn?"

"Yes, please." Natasha replied. Clint nodded eagerly in agreement. Coulson smiled.

"All right, then, dears," he said, "then could you please let me up?"

They both looked at each other and grinned before nodding and getting up off of Phil, letting him stretch out on the couch before he brushed off his suit jacket, huffed primly when he found it wrinkled, and made his way into the kitchen, the two of them following behind eagerly.

He warmed up the oven while Clint assembled the ingredients. Natasha flipped through the small cookbook Coulson had also purchased, her eyes blinking owlishly as she took in the recipes.

"I want chocolate chip." She announced, flipping through the pages. "Clint? Phil?"

"Is there such a thing as an everything cookie? I want an everything cookie." Clint asked. Natasha smiled and shook her head.

"No, but there's a recipe in here for triple-chocolate espresso chunk with macadamia nuts and almond drizzle. I think that is as close as we are likely to get." She offered. Clint grinned, nodding in agreement.

"Yeah, definitely. That sounds like a good cookie as any, though. So—Phil?" Clint asked. Coulson went through the ingredients and hummed for a moment before looking up at the both of them.

"I'll be fine with biscotti," he said, "it's good on its own, but considering the amount of coffee we all drink..."

"Yeah, true." Clint winced and grinned. "But you make good biscotti, I bet!"

"Yes, I've learned how to make it properly from my grandmother. So we'll do all that, then?" Coulson asked. Clint nodded eagerly.

"Yeah, and we'll have ice cream with it!" He said. At the other two's amused looks, he shrugged. "What? I don't get fat. You know that."

"I think your body's just given up. Trying to make you gain all the weight that you ought to, the way you eat, would be more hassle than it's worth." Natasha teased. Clint groaned and nuzzled her playfully, batting at her hair and ruffling it, the two of them more like puppies chewing on each others' ears than bickering adults. Coulson sighed, amused, and lightly pushed the both of them towards the mixing bowls, breaking their little scuffle up.

"Natasha, why don't you work on the triple-chocolate espresso chunk with macadamia nuts and almond drizzle? Clint, you make her chocolate chip. And I..." Coulson shrugged. "I'll make my biscotti, I guess."

"No, no!" Clint protested. "You make the chocolate chip! I'll make the biscotti!"

Coulson blinked. Clint's chin was up, his eyes defiant. He grabbed the recipe book and hugged it against his chest, like he was holding it hostage.

"If we're gonna trade off, then it isn't fair you gotta make your own. I'll make it for you. It's the least I can do. Please." Clint said.

Coulson stared at him. Clint looked like he would have to be dragged from the kitchen by wild bulls before he let Phil make his own cookies.
Coulson laughed quietly, nodding in agreement.

"All right, all right. I'll give you Gran's recipe, it's fine. You win, Clint." He promised, handing him over the tattered paper sandwiched neatly in the recipe book. Clint cheered with triumph, more like he'd succeeded in an entire mission than just wheedled a recipe from his partner. Coulson and Natasha shared a quick grin as Clint settled in at the mixing bowl, the expression on his face utterly focused as his hands flickered across the counter lightly, deftly, and with care, selecting things and keeping one eye trained on the recipe.

Coulson and Natasha watched as within five minutes, Clint had the batter completed. He covered the counter in wax paper, and with his broad, strong hands, had the batter rolled out into two neat loaves on the covered counter in a few minutes. He put the dough rolls on the baking tins, opened the oven and pushed the tins in, before closing the oven and going to wash his hands.

"...I'll...start in on the chocolate chip, then." Coulson murmured. Natasha nodded, covering her mouth with her hand to hide a small smile as she sat at her own mixing bowl, putting her cookies together as Phil watched Clint, clearly impressed.

Clint looked so self-satisfied as Coulson continued to mix the chocolate chip batter together that he couldn't help but want to smile. This had made Clint happy—the act of making something he would like...
Was there hope, then, maybe? If he asked them...if he...if he said...he said he loved them, loved them with all his heart, and wanted to protect them as a lover and a partner both...would they let him in? Would he be allowed to take them into his arms and hold them close and kiss them to sleep?

Coulson swallowed as he finished up the dough. Too many questions and no clear answer. Truth be told, he had time, though. He would wait the two weeks. On the last day...if he was certain of his own feelings...he would tell them. And if it didn't play out properly, well—partners were partners. Always. And being back at S.H.I.E.L.D. would remind them of that. So he would still have them...even if it wasn't in the way he had dreamed.

Coulson smiled, content, as he finished up his batter and put it in the fridge, going to help Natasha with her far more complex recipe while his mixture cooled. Eventually, Clint came over to help as well.
The three made the batter and put it in the fridge to chill just as the biscotti timer dinged. Clint put on oven mitts and took it out quickly, setting it down on the stove to cool for a minute before cutting them. Coulson let him handle that as he bustled about the kitchen, cleaning up the mess they had made in their wake before they continued on in their cookie-baking.

By the time he turned back to them, the kitchen now spotless, Clint had put the cut biscotti in the oven and Natasha was putting the chocolate chip cookies onto pans. Coulson helped her a little in the beginning, but seeing that she had gotten the hang of it after a few tries, hung back and fled to the fridge to pull out the last batch of dough and look for some lunch.

As Clint started separating the everything-but-the-kitchen-sink cookies into balls, Coulson heated up the leftover spaghetti, the two of them passing each other back and forth in the kitchen like a particularly complex dance. Natasha perched on her kitchen chair and rolled the dough, watching in amusement as their hips brushed and they both looked away, embarrassed. She wanted to kiss them both. That would settle the matter.

Clint jumped as both the microwave timer and the over timer dinged simultaneously, tensing up. Coulson put his hand on his shoulder and squeezed gently, shushing him.
"Just the timers, Clint," he soothed him, "I've got them. You're fine."

That got Clint's back up; pride was, of course, a dangerous thing, and god only knew Clint had tons of it. He managed to slip past Coulson, going to grab the cookies.
"No! I've got the cookies, they're my responsibility!" Clint snapped, moving to open the oven door and yank out the tray before Coulson could. He yanked his hand back and yowled, agonized; it was only then that he remembered he hadn't put oven mitts on before trying to complete his task. Coulson sighed and grabbed his wrist gently, pulling him over to the sink and turning on the cold water.

"I know they are, Clint, but perhaps you could be responsible about your responsibility and not burn your hand?" He chided him lightly. Clint stuck his tongue out at him. Coulson laughed, going to the freezer to get ice as Natasha got up to make sure Clint was running his hand in the water still.

"I just wanted to make cookies for you..." Clint murmured dejectedly. Coulson sighed and came back to his side with the ice pack, wrapping it around his hand, shushing him gently.

"I know you did, Clint, and I'm very grateful. Please just be careful when you want to do things, okay? I mean, there's no use in giving me cookies if your hands are burnt. I care about keeping you safe more than...well, anything. Both of you." He murmured.

Clint and Natasha looked at him. He swallowed, looking away. The intensity of both their gazes on him at once would be the death of him, surely.

"Sorry I didn't use oven mitts, Phil..." Clint apologized. Coulson shook his head.

"It's fine, I'm not angry—I'm just worried about your hands, Clint." He tsked softly and ran his fingers over the burn. "It doesn't look too bad...I think a day or two should fix it right up. And we'll keep ice on it."

"Okay..." Clint whimpered, clearly distraught, murmuring, "but Phil...my arrows..."

"You should be able to shoot just fine in a few days, Clint. You'll be all right." Coulson shushed him gently and smiled, adding, "but you know we've got more than a few days left. You won't need your arrows for a little while longer."

"Yeah, I guess..." Clint nodded, smiling brightly. "Thanks for helping me, both of you."
He kissed Natasha's cheek, quick and almost as if on reflex; like kissing her was as natural as breathing to him. Coulson turned away.

Then he felt lips against his cheek.

Clint pulled away in the time it took for him to look back at him, eyes wide. Clint smiled hesitantly.

"Thanks, Phil," he said, "and, uhm...I hope the cookies are worth my burn, yeah?"
Coulson looked at him for a second, his throat dry.

"I'm sure they will be," he finally managed to force out, voice hoarse, "after all, you made them for me." He turned around and grabbed the oven mitt.

"Let me just get them for you." He murmured.

This time, Clint let him.
...
The cookies were made and cooled around the time dinner was to be started; Coulson shooed both Clint and Natasha out of the kitchen, promising them that they had helped enough for the day and deserved the rest. He would let them help with dinner tomorrow, he swore, but tonight he was going to make them something.

Coulson hummed contentedly as he mixed up ingredients, saving the remainders for later, frying beef and stirring gravy, lost in his cooking. His mind was so caught up in the process that his mouth began to move for him, singing a slow, sweet song that rumbled throughout the house like a river, breaking down aches and woes into sand and dust, skirting them along on its cool, clear path.
He didn't notice that the second he had opened his mouth, the television had been turned off, so lost was he in preparations. That worked in Clint and Natasha's favor; they sat there quietly, content to watch him, loving him more with every note he sang, trying so desperately to make their mouths move and say the words, but their minds told them that they would never match the beauty of his song, regardless of what they said.

So they held their tongues as the river wound down to a cool, deep pond, stillness and peace. They were soothed and comforted, but they were not whole, not yet. That, however, was coming. The waters would be still no longer. They would speak.

Just, not yet. Not until they found words beautiful enough to match the river.

They didn't turn the television back on until Coulson, about an hour later, came out with a plate and a deep bowl.
They knew exactly what he had made before they even looked.

He set the bowl of stew down gently in front of Natasha and placed the plate of fries and a cheeseburger down on Clint's lap. They both looked up at him, blinking, clearly shocked.
"Before you two ask," he said, amused, "yes, I made myself dinner. There's a bowl of tomato soup on the counter now, in fact." He stroked their hair before heading back into the kitchen to get it, adding, "I just figured you would appreciate that."

They didn't answer him. Not out loud. They had yet to find the words for even that small act. But their arms were around him as he sat on the couch, and that was response enough for Phil, who had a very satisfied smile on his face in between bites.

...

The three of them did eventually end up watching television; it felt nice to have the normalized ritual of television after dinner. It was nothing special—a re-run of a sitcom—but Natasha laughed, the show entirely new and fresh to her, and it made Coulson grin. Clint was falling asleep on the couch, though, too worn out to keep his eyes open. Coulson just stroked his hair idly for awhile until he caught Natasha watching him do so; he blushed, then, and jerked his hand away like he had been burned.

For a second, he thought she looked disconsolate—like she had wanted him to continue—but he wrote it off as his own wishful thinking fast enough. If Clint whined a little at the loss of contact, surely he was imagining that, too.

After about two hour's worth of television watching, Natasha yawned and stretched, nuzzling Coulson and sighing.

"Phil, could we go up to bed?" She asked. "I believe there's still something Clint needs to do."

"Mbuh?" Clint grunted, clearly too tired to even answer coherently. Natasha huffed.

"I know we've been busy the past few days, but today has been a nice, slow day; didn't you want to read aloud?" Natasha asked.

Clint jumped up and grinned, nodding so eagerly Coulson had a hard time believing the same man standing in front of him had just been half-asleep in front of the television.

"Yeah, finally!" He said. "It's been forever! You have to listen tonight, Phil, okay?" He rounded on the other man, who held up his hands in a gesture of surrender.

"Okay, okay," Coulson agreed, "it's fine, I'd love to. Natasha, go get dressed, all right? We'll wait down here until you're dressed."

"I would not mind you in there." Natasha blurted out.
Coulson said nothing. Clint winced.

"Your privacy is important to me, Agent Romanov, and your body is your own." Coulson reminded her quietly. Natasha huffed.

"Yes, it is mine," she said, "and it is also mine to share and display if I so choose!"

Coulson stared at her for a minute.

Then he sighed and stood up, going to get dressed in the bathroom himself. Natasha wanted to scream at him as he left, but if nothing else, this incident had proved more than anything that she still needed to find just the right words...

Chapter 28: A Story

Summary:

S.H.I.E.L.D. has not forgotten. Clint reads a story.

Notes:

Blah blah blah symbolism and stuff. And a twist! Hope it's good.

They had forgotten the beast.

It was easy to do that, though, in their defense. The three of them were lost in exploring emotions they never had been allowed or capable of feeling before, and that tended to occupy a person's time.
S.H.I.E.L.D. was a ghost to them during this time; a vaguely real presence that could be felt in everything they did, but ignored and swatted aside easily. They did not remember that the two weeks of solitude were not, in fact, reality; the leave was the dream. And reality had not forgotten about them.

It was night; close to midnight, in fact. There were only two people left on base; the Director and his loyal companion.
Nick went over his files with a soft sigh of frustration, drumming his fingers on his desktop. Maria stood beside him quietly and waited. She knew he would speak soon and tell her everything.
"Nefaria's up to his old tricks again," he said finally, his voice quiet, "and he's got more men with him this time. He knows he's playing with the big boys now, Hill. And that means we need to bring out the big guns in return."

Maria nodded, looking over Nick's shoulder and examining the file. She raised an eyebrow.

"That is a lot of men in his camp, sir." She commented. Nick nodded.

"Indeed. We don't have many agents that would be able to infiltrate this camp and manage to capture or kill this number of people while trying to get at Count Nefaria's secrets." Nick remarked. "But if we don't act fast, with this number of people, and with the technology our current intel says he has at his disposal...we could be in a lot of trouble."
"Well, then we ought to send the agents out, sir," Maria said, tilting her head, as if this was patently obvious, "whom do you think are the most well-suited for the job?"

Nick chuckled. There was no real humor in it.

"You know as well as I do just whom I want in that camp, Hill." He looked up at her and said quietly. Maria didn't say a word.

"They're the only ones who've survived a run in with Nefaria's men," Nick reminded her, "and they know his techniques, his tactics, and how to handle him and his militia."

Maria bit her lip. For the first time ever, she felt a twinge of regret about the orders she knew were coming.

"Get me Hawkeye and Widow." He told her.

Maria picked up the phone.
...

Coulson joined them in the bedroom after ten minutes, getting into bed quietly between them. Natasha had adjusted to their new arrangement, for she could still hold Clint's hand in her sleep, and Phil's body against hers was a soothing comfort unlike any she had ever known. 

Clint had a book in his hands. He did not speak for a little while, pondering. They both let him be; he had to find the right words, it seemed.

Clint could have read the actual story—some silly little fluff piece about a courtesan and her newfound lover—and done something that would've perhaps made them smile. But he knew he would have time for that later; now, he had something else to say.

He would not speak with his words but a story's words, so much purer and yet more distant than his own; something that would say for him what he needed to express better than just outright speaking it would.
Clint opened the book as he opened his mouth and began to speak in a voice that didn't quite feel like his own.

"Once, not too long ago," he began, "there was a man with careful hands who was strong and sad and lonely, and feeling like he had lost purpose. He was powerful and tender and stern, loving with a firm touch, but he had no one to love, and so he wandered and waited."

Coulson began to stir. Natasha's eyes started to glow with understanding. Clint just read on.

"Along with this man, there were two others; a man with a tiger underneath his skin, and circus sawdust in his veins, and a woman with antidote in one hand and venom in her other, as beautiful as the night and just as alien to all but a few. They were strong and sad and lonely, and had gotten their purpose killed long ago. They were powerful and fragile, needing to be reshaped with a loving, firm touch, but there was no one with hands careful enough, and so they wandered and waited." He read.

Coulson swallowed only to find a lump in his throat preventing him from doing so. Clint didn't look at him as he continued forward.

"Eventually, their paths crossed, through luck or fate or something even better, and the venom woman and the tiger man met the man with careful hands, and they did not understand," Clint explained, "because the tiger underneath the tiger man's skin roared so loud he was deaf to all promises of aid, and the tiger's claws were too sharp to take the careful hand he was offered. The woman with her venom and her antidote reached out and drew back just as quickly, for she had, in her time spent fighting, forgotten which hand held salvation and which, venom."

Natasha looked away at that. Clint squeezed her hand before he continued, a small gesture of quiet comfort.

"But the man with careful hands had a heart of gold and steel, as well, and so he persisted out of love, even though he had been ordered to heal. He was a man who followed orders, but for once, his heart won out, and so he stayed." Clint said. The relief and delight in his voice was unmistakable. Coulson wanted to cry.

"He loved them, and they loved each other," Clint murmured, "but they loved him, too. It was a confusing mess, but the tiger man and the woman with the poison and the antidote in her hands held each other tight throughout it, hoping only to be able to let go long enough to take the man with the careful hands into their fold as well."

Coulson swallowed. He didn't know what to say. He had no words, and from the look of it, neither did Natasha. They simply continued to listen.

"Eventually, the tiger man confronted him, only to find the man with careful hands in pain like he had never seen. The tiger was quiet; the solitary man healed him as best as he could. His grief at seeing the pain he had caused drowned out any of the tiger's roaring protests afterwards." Clint blushed a little, holding the book against his chest.

"The woman with the antidote and the poison was hurt by poison not her own, too, and it was a hurt she had no cure for," Clint murmured, "a hurt that, not knowing how deep it ran, the man with careful hands did his best to tend. He didn't shun her scars, but he accepted them...he promised her they didn't matter. She started to remember which hand held the poison, and which, the antidote." Clint swallowed.

Coulson tensed, his hands twitching nervously for a second, as if he was going to reach out and hug Clint. But he was talking again, and so Coulson pulled back.

"And then he found out the tiger man had scars, too, from both other's claws and his own, and he promised to take the tiger and tame him, so he would never scar himself again. He promised the tiger that if he tamed him, he would protect him and love him, and keep him safe. The tiger man was rough, and raw, and the people who had tried to tame him before had beaten him into submission, so he was frightened," Clint explained, "but the man with careful hands did not beat him with strong fists. He soothed him gently and in just such a way that he could keep him calm as he picked up the broken pieces that made up the tiger man and put them all together, without putting any more scars on him."

Coulson pursed his lips, desperately trying not to cry. Clint looked up at him, then, and managed a small smile. It soothed the ache in his chest enough that he did not cry, and so he let Clint continue.

"But even though he didn't scar the tiger man anymore, the deeper scars of the woman with her poison and her antidote were still there, waiting for him to find them," Clint murmured, "and he did, ironically, because of how much he cared for her and loved her. He let her show him her scars and the poison she had been forced to take, so young, and the pieces of her self that had been taken from her, so that he could not repair them. Even his careful hands had begun to shake a little. For a little while, he was as lost and angry as they were..." Clint sighed.

Guilt stabbed Coulson's heart at his outburst, realizing yet again how much they relied on him for stability and comfort.

"But then," Clint said, lightening Coulson's heart a little, "he took them into his arms and he promised them both safety and gentleness and love. He held the woman's hands in his and took the antidote from her hand, offering it to her. She did not know how he knew—or even if he knew—but she trusted him, and so she took the antidote. As she did, he stroked the stripes of the tiger man, and promised him protection and kindess. With careful hands, then and there, he tamed the tiger completely. And as the woman felt the antidote running through her body, filling up the places where pieces had been taken from her, she knew she was safe as well, and that she could trust the man with the careful hands."

Neither of them spoke. For a second, they thought Clint had finished.

"And then what?" Natasha finally asked. Clint smiled.

"Then he promise to love them and protect him, and for the first time ever, both of them could believe someone when they said that. He did not love them as agents, or tigers, or poison..."
Clint shut the book and looked at the both of them.

"He loved them as people," Clint whispered, "and that made all the difference."

The silence that fell after that felt more final, beautiful in its own way, a resolution to the story as much as his last words.

Coulson looked at the both of them for a very long, slow minute.

"You mean more to me than anyone else in the world," he said, and it was not a declaration of love but a statement of fact, yet it set both Clint and Natasha on fire, falling into his arms to be cooled and soothed and tamed. Coulson held them close, kissing their foreheads, speaking in silent gestures what he could not say in words.

They were beginning to understand and hope for the best, though...and that made all the difference.

Chapter 29: The Sound of Silence

Summary:

A phone rings at 3 AM.

Notes:

No, it's okay, I hate me too.
Yeah, I...well. This chapter.
Maria's phone conversation isn't highlighted because so fucking much of the dialogue is on the phone this chapter. If that bothers anyone, lemme know, I'll edit it.
Also, to address a few comments unrelated to the story, I've seen a few cries of "OOC," and...guys, they're secret agents who have been on black ops squads since before they could legally hit the bars. I mean, shit. PTSD is a GIVEN. This is the first time anyone's given a single fuck about their problems; Clint and Natasha are trying to heal!
I think that's a common theme in my work; no I'm not writing them being world-exploding badasses all the time, because while they are, I tend to write fic that explores the downsides, the emotional hang-ups and issues that the movies can't. Plus I admit I drew a bit more from the comics for both AatA and AMaHTS due to the movie having not come out yet, haha. So...I dunno.
Whatever, if you're reading this and loving it, I love you, okay? Thank you so much. It makes me happier than I can say.

At three in the morning, the phone began to ring.

It was never a good sign when the phone rang at three in the morning.

Still, Coulson was an agent, and so he answered the phone, out of reflex more than anything. Natasha stirred and grumbled a little in her sleep; he had needed to reach around her to grab it. Coulson shushed her gently before turning his phone on.

"Coulson."

The one word had him tense, sitting up in bed with shaking hands. Clint and Natasha had begun to stir, mewling softly with confusion at the lack of Phil between them. He shushed them soothingly, a bit of panic creeping into his motions.

"Commander Hill," he greeted her, "to what do I owe the honor at three in the morning?"

"We need Hawkeye and Widow." She said.

Coulson's face turned white. All the light was snuffed from his eyes in an instant. Beside him, Clint and Natasha opened their eyes to look up at the conversation taking place. Phil gripped his phone.

"No," he replied through gritted teeth, "no, you don't. They have two weeks leave, Hill. I don't know where your orders came from or why, but you are not—"

"From Director Fury himself, agent." Maria cut him off. "We need them in Europe. Count Nefaria is amassing an army, and the government has placed it under our jurisdiction to gather intel on this army and sow discord within it. They were the only two people to have ever survived such a mission, and we need them to do it again."

"No you don't!" Coulson screamed. Oh, god. He was probably scaring them. That was okay, though. He could soothe them when they were scared; tuck them back into bed and kiss their foreheads and lull them to sleep. He could not save them from this. Better he scare them than lose them.

"They are healing, Commander, and you can't—you can't let them go out on a mission yet, the handbook—they're still in need of care, a mission would be detrimental to their health—you can't—my partners, you can't—"

"I can, and I will," Maria said, "and you should know better than to keep arguing with me, Phil. The handbook isn't the end-all be-all for every situation. We need them. Simple as that. They're agents; it's what they do."

"No they're not," Coulson snarled, "they're people, they're my people, and you cannot just expect me to let them leave in the middle of their time off to get broken down again! I refuse! They can't go! I won't let them!"

In the midst of his argument, he didn't see Clint and Natasha get up out of bed, stripping off their pajamas and making their way to the one drawer none of them had touched. They took out their uniforms and began to put them on, buckling and zipping up leather and kevlar. Clint helped Natasha put on her stingers with a well-practiced air about him. He kissed her hand before pulling away.

"If we need an agent, their leave of absence can be revoked. And we need them, Phil. The fate of the world might rest on their shoulders. Don't be irresponsible; you're better than this. They'll be back before you know it, and all this worrying will have been for nothing. We don't expect them to be too long." Maria told him.

"No, no. No, you can't—put Fury on the phone, Hill, put the Director on the phone, you are not sending these two out yet—they aren't ready, they're not healed, you're going to break them, kill them—get me the Director god damn you, I will speak with Fury myself—" Coulson's voice was sharp, harsh, cracking under the strain.

"The Director is busy, agent. And we are expecting them at base in twenty minutes. Whether or not they're healed is another matter—one that isn't of our concern." Maria said.

Clint picked up his quiver and checked all his arrows, settling them in. He took his bow and held it tight, testing the strings. Natasha handed him his sunglasses and gloves. He put them on quietly.

"Well it damn well fucking ought to be, Commander, because if these two are broken again—" Coulson's throat worked reflexively, bile threatening to burn it as he gripped the phone.

"Well, if they're broken—that's what you're there for, right? That's why you were assigned there in the first place. Don't tell me you're not up for doing your job anymore, Phil." Maria said. "I mean, you're one of our best and brightest. So good with orders. You might even have my job when I get Fury's. So don't mouth off, all right? You're their nanny. You can deal with them when we're done. We know that. That's why we're sending them out now."

This was his fault.

That fact broke something deep and terrible inside Phil, and a wound that he hadn't even known existed opened up and began to spew bloodied agonies throughout his body, choking his arteries, stopping his heart.
This was all his fault. If he hadn't healed them so well, so completely...they wouldn't be going off to be broken again.

As his entire brain was thrown into chaos trying to handle that fact, Clint and Natasha laced up their boots and opened the door, slipping out as quietly as the stroke of midnight.

"No." Coulson said, and his dead, quiet voice made Maria flinch on the other end of the line. "No, not my partners. Do you hear me, Hill? I'll stop them. They won't go. I forbid it. Not them. Not like this. They are not ready. No. No, they're not going—they won't go, they can't—" He stopped and looked up. It took him a minute in the darkness to realize what had gone so terribly, terribly wrong, and so he continued talking before it really hit him.

"They're not going, Hill. I won't let them. Clint? Natasha? You're not going. It's okay. Come back to bed. Come on—Clint—Clint, Natasha, Natasha, come back—you're not going—no, no—no, no—DARLINGS, NO—"

The phone was thrown against the wall as the darkness finally revealed emptiness and nothing more. Phil's screams rang like static in Maria's ear as she sighed and hung up the phone, rolling her eyes and waiting for the agents' arrival.

Back at home, Phil was still screaming, bolting down the steps, his mind disjointed and panicked, exhaustion making all his thoughts incoherent jumbles of mustnotleave and makethemstay as he made his way into the living room.

They stood at the door and watched him. It was only as he met their eyes then and there that Phil realized he had never seen them like this before.

The man and woman in front of him were not Clint and Natasha, his prideful, snide darling with a tender, nurturing side of him he hid for fear of rejection, nor his beautiful, poised darling with a hesitant smile and scars she trusted him to keep safe.

They were Hawkeye and Black Widow. Agents. Legends. And they were going off to die.

"No, please," Coulson begged, because he was left with nothing else but pleading at three A.M., when shadows made his mind fuzzy and his words like ashes in his mouth, "please, please, darlings, please. You don't need to go on this mission, darlings. Get back into bed. I'm sorry I frightened you. I won't yell anymore. I'll never yell again, ever. I'll tuck you in and put you to bed, I promise. You don't have to go. I'll take any punishment for you both—darlings, go back to bed, it's late...you should be sleeping..."

The look in Natasha's eyes was one he had never seen before, and it made him weep as she stepped forward to lie her head against his shoulder, for but a minute.
"We are agents, Phil," she whispered, "this is what we do. We are soldiers, and we are their toys. It is not so bad. It is like a dream, now. This is our reality. We will come back to it. When we are done sleeping, we will be home. But we have to be the dream now, Phil. They need us."

"No they don't! Not like I do! Not like I do!" Coulson begged, his throat raw, his despair the salt in its wound. "Clint—Clint, please, it's late, your hand—let's get some ice for it, darling, then back to bed with you—please, please, Natasha, Clint, no no no, no—"

Natasha put his head in her hands and kissed him.

"This is the antidote," she said as she pulled away, "and the poison will fade. I will come home."

As she stepped back, Clint took his head in his hands and kissed him.

"This is the tiger," he murmured, "and I guess you tamed him, Phil. He'll come home for you now."

"He could stay," Coulson managed to choke out, "and the poison would fade faster if you stayed, Nat. Please. Please, stay. This isn't you anymore. You're people. You're my partners. You're all I have."

"We know," Natasha said softly, "but they do not. And it does not matter to them anyway."

She put her gun in its holster and looked at him. The love in her eyes was a terrible ache, poisoning him from the inside out.

"We will come back home," she said, "when we have proved to them we can still be agents. They will allow us to be with you, then. And then we will just be people. Forever and always. We will be your people." 

She opened the door and walked away, getting into her car and shutting the door quietly.

Clint made to follow her out. Coulson held up a hand to stop him.

"No," he said, "you always were. Tell her that, Clint. You always were. My people. My partners. You always were."

Clint looked at him for a second.

Then he nodded, getting on his motorcycle and putting his helmet on, the semi-silent purr of Natasha's car a contrast to the tiger's-roar of his bike as they both pulled away and disappeared into the night, the stars swallowing them whole, the night breaking them down into nothing.

Coulson watched the night for a long time, his mind so dead with exhaustion that he couldn't quite remember what he was supposed to be grieving for.

It was only when he went back upstairs to bed and got into it alone that he remembered.

He laid there and wept until morning.

...

The next morning, back at the office, there was a neat pile of paperwork on Fury's desk, everything signed, sealed, and delivered with perfect precision and obvious care taken with the reports. The recruits were re-organized, the meeting room cleaned, the schedule for the training room finally edited so that it was coherent and worked everyone in, and the coffee machine ran for the whole day.

In the office of the man responsible, there was a desk, a bookshelf, and a little table for his personal coffee machine and mug. Behind the desk had once sat a single leather chair, soft and comfortable, well-worn with the weight of an almost constant presence within.

Now there were three chairs behind the desk; one off to each side of the first chair, both of them a certain kind of empty that said they were just aching to be filled.

The bookshelf had once contained the S.H.I.E.L.D. handbook and little else. Now the handbook was somewhere else, shoved away into a dark corner, and the bookshelf was covered in novels that had covers to make any man blush. There were dozens of them on the shelf, all of them undisturbed.

The coffee machine puttered on as usual, but now there were three mugs rather than just one.

And so Coulson waited.

Chapter 30: The Quiet Dreaming

Summary:

Trippy dream sequence, Phil's slow breaking. Maria has a few issues to take up with Fury.

Notes:

Okay, so there's a few things I would like to address.
The first is a minor one; Coulson broke like that because it was 3 AM and he was half-asleep and incoherent. It's hard to be calm and collected when you're yanked out of sleep, which is why Fury deliberately picked a time like that. He knew Phil would be putting them to bed earlier, and thus, he'd be able to catch them off-guard.
The next is a bit longer, so please bear with me.
This is a character study.
This is not a fanfic. Not in the "plot" sense. This is a way to work out character arcs and character issues that are loosely tied together by plot strings. The Altruist and the Anachronism is the same way. The reason why these are both so long is because they're a personal exercise in hammering out character details and creating arcs that deal with problems that are briefly mentioned or implied, (though admittedly, apparently Natasha wasn't raised in SHIELD, thanks movie), and draws partially on the 50-plus years of comic continuity in the case of Clint especially, (though Natasha as well.) This is not meant to be an actiony fic. This is not even really meant to be a romance fic either, though that is a large part of the plot. I wrote this staggering behemoth to write about the characters. That's it.
If you want a fast-paced plot, action, and twists and turns with major events going on constantly, that's fine. I actually have a story like that planned which I intended to take up after my two major fics are over and done with.
But this is not that fic. And neither is AatA.
These are character-driven, slowly unraveling stories in which my major goal is simply to hammer out characteristics. It has only been a week and a half in-verse--remember that. A week and a half is not, frankly, enough time to deal with what the three of them, (Clint and Nat especially), have dealt with.
There are plenty of fics that deal with these three being badass all the time. I love those kind of fics. One day I'd like to write one. But this is not that fic. If that bothers you so badly, well, sorry, this isn't the kind of fic you want to read.
On to actual fic-related stuff; the dream sequence is obviously supposed to make no fucking sense and be trippy as shit--but I did add plenty of symbolism in there, most of it plot related. Good on you if you get it all!
And yes, to make things totally clear--Phil is in denial now. He's refused to accept that they're gone and simply keeps making excuses as to why they aren't around. This isn't permanent--it's just a coping mechanism. He's keeping up the routine and by doing so, he's trying to pretend they're still around. He KNOWS they're gone, but he's trying to trick himself into thinking otherwise.

Coulson went home that day to an empty house and idly considered putting a few bullets in the walls. Then he decided he didn't want to worry the two of them when they came home to a mess, and so he went to walk away only to realize his gun had already been raised and aimed.

He was not going to survive this. Not unless he found some way to comfort himself.

Very quietly, Phil went into the kitchen and rifled through the cabinets. He prepared himself something easy and quick, but the plate of cheeseburgers and fries and bowl of stew that sat next to him as he settled in to eat his own dinner had taken much longer, tended to with much more care.

He waited until they had gone cold to throw them away. When his darlings came back, he would make them more, nice and hot, so they would smile. They would be back soon.

Coulson took out the carton of ice cream Clint had bought him, preparing himself a bowl of strawberry and vanilla. He made his way upstairs into the bedroom and turned on the television. He watched all the shows he had put on for Clint and Natasha before they had left him; they did not make him laugh, but he could imagine how they would smile at them, and that was a small comfort in and of itself.

Phil looked up at the clock and raised an eyebrow. Midnight. Yes, he ought to go to bed. His darlings would already be prepared for bed by now...except...

He got out of bed and undressed, heading into the bathroom. He needed a shower.

Phil let the hot water pour over his back and soothe aching, exhausted muscles as he scrubbed and tended to himself. He hoped someone had let them shower before they went on their mission. Clint liked to be clean, and Natasha loved the warmth.

He finished his shower, wrapping himself up in Clint's robe after he toweled himself off. Phil crawled back into bed, taking their blankets and laying them both over himself, comforting and soft. It was not the feel of their bodies' weight beside him. But...it made the bed feel a little less empty.

How could he have ever thought they would need another bed? This bed was far too big for one person. It needed three. It...it needed...he needed...

Phil fell asleep before he could finish that thought.

...

Phil was not the dreaming type. It wasn't that he had nothing to dream about—there were things he had done as an agent that would never let him go, and he knew it—but he never remembered having them, nor were they ever much more than half-remembered recollections filtered through his subconscious.

Tonight was different.

Tonight, he stood in his room. Not as it was; as it had been when he was younger, before his grandmother had died. There was a city outside the window. He didn't see it, but he knew if he looked, it would be there. He had heard it and felt it and lived it many times before.

He was naked, but that was how dreams worked, he supposed. Phil wasn't really bothered by nakedness at this point; he was a grown man and an agent of S.H.I.E.L.D.; he had seen bodies before. Most of them were mangled. At least his was intact.

Then he realized it wasn't.

There was blood dripping from his lower abdomen, like a river. There was no cut, but the blood was flowing without end, from skin with no wounds or scars.
He went to touch it and heard a baby crying. He jerked his hand back like he had been burned.

The blood continued to flow, pouring over his floor and spilling across his rug, his records, the photos of himself and his grandmother that S.H.I.E.L.D. had ordered him to burn, and so he had, crying, and now blood mixed with ashes and tears and soaked the bed, weighing it down.

He closed his eyes for just a second, if only to make the pain stop.

When he opened them again, Clint and Natasha sat on the bed, waiting for him silently. They were naked as well, and that...bothered him. Not in a bad way. But it did something to him that he couldn't piece together in the dream.

Their nakedness laid every scar on their bodies bare. Phil went to touch them, to show the two of them he did not fear or revile the marks made upon their flesh, only to find that as he touched them, gentle as a cloud of dust under the wheels of a car in the desert, they began to bleed, opening up like raw mouths begging for a kiss as blood spewed forth in drops as red as lipstick, with no pads to stop the bleeding.

There were so many scars. Enough to drown all of them in blood.

He took them into his arms and let the blood wash over him, choking him, kissing both their foreheads and putting them into bed.

He went to his dresser and put a record on.

After that, he made his way back into bed, holding them both as their blood flowed over him, wrapped in blankets soaked in scarlet, tiger-stripes of blood that slashed across the clean fabric, poisoning it.

They died to the strains of low, powerful saxophones, beautiful enough to make them all weep.

...

He awoke after that, because once you die in a dream, it doesn't seem to know what to do with you and lets you float away back onto the shores of waking, and went to take a shower.
He stood under the shower for awhile and let hot water pour over his back, washing away blood he knew full well wasn't there. It was all right, though. He wouldn't spend much longer in the shower. Clint and Natasha still needed to take theirs, and they both loved hot water...

Phil got out of the shower and toweled off, going back into their room to get dressed and make the bed. He smoothed out the blankets and fluffed up Clint and Natasha's pillows for them, laying their blankets over the bed. He hoped they were all right. They didn't like waking without their partner. Hopefully each other's comfort would be enough.

He kissed both pillows and went downstairs to make coffee, his briefcase and suit jacket in hand. He poured three cups; his own, which he added his sugar and cream to, and theirs. He made their coffee with tender hands, making sure none of it spilled as he added in a lot of cream for Clint, (much less for Natasha, his little darling who preferred her coffee with some bite), and plenty of sugar for Clint, (who seemed to be in a race with his body to see what could put him in a diabetic coma the fastest), and a little less for Natasha, but not much—she liked a bit of bite, but she did not like it to cut too deep.

He left them out on the counter beside a bowl of cereal for them both—they would need to eat, of course—and went to get himself an apple for the car ride, biting into it pre-emptively as he took his own coffee and headed out the door.

He drove in silence, save for the record; his darlings liked to listen to music in the mornings. They were half-asleep in the back, of course, quiet as snow, and he wouldn't disturb them. If he turned around they might hear him and wake. He could not look back. He could not turn to see.

Phil drove to base and made his way in, greeting a few people without really seeing them. His darlings had gone to the training room. They were going to need to be strong now. They were safe, but they had to be strong. He couldn't be there all the time...all the time to protect them...

From what? What did he need to protect them from?

"Agent Coulson!"

Fury.

He began to walk beside him, matching his pace effortlessly. Phil wondered if he was going to check on his darlings during their training. He hoped not. They needed peace so they could practice efficiently. He would not bother them.

"Good to see you back, Phil." Fury said. "How's the paperwork? You've filed your reports on your leave, haven't you?"

"Yes, of course. I'll have them on your desk once I get to my office and get the papers sorted. I'll let Clint and Natasha know they need to start them; they're busy at the moment, but I'll talk to them." Coulson said. It wasn't a good topic at the dinner table, but it couldn't be helped. His darlings had to get better at paperwork. He would help them. He was always helping them. Always keeping them safe.

Except...

"Of course, after they're through. It's a tough job, agent. You should be proud they can do it." Fury told him.

Of course. Training could harm the body just as much as a mission could. He hoped his darlings would pace themselves.

"Certainly, sir. I know they can handle it. Regardless, paperwork must be done." He sighed, stopping at his office door. "I'll deliver the paperwork to you in a few minutes; I simply need to get it in order. Is that all right?"

"Fine, agent. If you can't find me, Hill should be out and about; hunt her down and hand it to her. Just...try to get things in order around here today if you can, all right? God knows we've missed that with you gone." Fury chided him.

Phil nodded, heading into his office and closing the door behind him.

He adjusted the chairs for his darlings so that they could rest content once training was over and brewed himself a pot of coffee. He would make theirs fresh when they came back.

He took the files off his desk, humming quietly as he prepared the paperwork, skimming over it. It was only once he reached the end that he raised an eyebrow, confused.
Hm. His darlings...what had happened to his darlings?

There was a blank space here.

Phil shrugged and filled it in for them; they had to return to base for the time being, but would continue their leave later. Simple enough...though why none of them had put it in before, he was unsure.

He hummed to himself, getting up and straightening out Natasha's novels for her, making sure the one she had been reading was lying down so she could grab it from the shelf easily. He poured himself another cup of coffee and yawned, taking a sip. He hoped his darlings had brought water down to the training room; Clint whined when he got thirsty.

He smiled at the thought of Clint as he went to file paperwork. He hoped his darling was being careful with his hand. He wouldn't want him to hurt himself training because of the burn...

Phil filed paperwork for the rest of the morning. They had been on leave a long time, and his office had suffered for it; he dusted as he worked, cleaning the entire office and straightening everything up. He organized the paperwork that he had finished before going on leave and placed it aside to send to Fury later, and started in on a new pile of paperwork that had begun to pile up while he was away.

Eventually, though, his stomach growled, and Phil had to leave his office to find lunch. He took his report on their leave with him, humming softly as he made his way through the halls of the base. He hoped his darlings would remember to eat. He didn't want them to train so hard and not at least have some water and a snack...

He would go visit them, perhaps...

...No. No, he couldn't. They were...were someplace he couldn't...couldn't follow.

No, that was ridiculous! The training room was to the left and three stairways down. He could follow them.

But it was better if they were alone for their training. They had to focus. He would just be in the way.

Phil sighed and managed a small smile. No matter. Tonight...tonight would be better. He would tuck them both in after a tiring day; if he was lucky and they were willing, perhaps he would shower them off, scrub them clean, and put them to bed. He might read to them, perhaps. They were starting to like television a little too much...

Coulson chuckled with amusement at the idea of his darlings becoming couch potatoes and continued down the hallway, stopping only when he bumped into Maria.

She backed away, like she was frightened of him. Her eyes were wide and her hand was inching towards her gun, more on reflex than anything else. Phil blushed, startled, and shook his head.

"Oh! Forgive me, Commander Hill. I was lost in a train of thought. Would you take my leave report to Fury? I really need to get food." He said.

Maria stared at him, clearly stunned by something. Coulson didn't understand why; had the recruits been spreading rumors that he was some kind of robot again? Surely Maria knew better than that. He had to eat...and so did his darlings. Oh, please let them have brought food. He couldn't disturb them. They had to take care of themselves...

Coulson tilted his head. A shiver had just run down his spine, and he wasn't quite sure as to why. Still, he was ignoring Maria, and that was rude.

"Commander Hill? Is something wrong?" He asked politely.

Maria shook her head and took the reports from him.

"You've adjusted quite well so suddenly, agent," she said. "It's commendable, I must admit. No wonder Fury gave them to you."

"Yes, living with Clint and Natasha is a bit stressful, but after the adjustment period, we've really sorted everything out. It's all in the leave report, if you'd like to look." Coulson said graciously.

Maria stared at him for another second before looking down at the report and raising an eyebrow. She pursed her lips and shrugged.

"...Of course, Phil." She said. There was an odd tone to her voice Coulson didn't understand. She tucked a piece of her hair behind her ear and gave him a look. "I'll...look it over. Why don't you get lunch?"

"Yes, of course. Goodbye, Commander." He said, leaving her behind. Maria stared at his retreating back as he left, thoroughly confused.

Then she turned on her heel and stormed off to find Fury. Nick would explain this. He had to know just what was going on—and she was going to know soon enough, or there would be hell to pay.

Chapter 31: The World is Quiet Here

Summary:

Maria confronts Fury, then Phil. There is a lot of quiet disturbance.

Notes:

Maria starts to play more and more of a vital role, and her relationship with Victoria is delved into because lesbians. And I love them. Just so you know.
So, yeah. In case you haven't realized by now, Fury's kind of a dick. He's actually a lot like an author; putting his "characters" under duress to see how they break and what that reveals about them. Unlike me, however, he has no guarantee of a happy ending for these people--nor are they just characters to him. So, y'know. The worst.
As for Maria--she's not the Director yet. She's never had to make these kind of choices for people she knows. New agents, maybe, or people she's never worked with, but this is the first time she's ever been tied up in a case of separated partners. It's her first look at ugliness in SHIELD.
Coulson's still...kind of snapped. Don't worry, though; this isn't permanent--and this won't be the worst of it.

Maria Hill was literally the only person in S.H.I.E.L.D. not afraid to just burst into Fury's office, throw down a file on his desk, and ask, "What the hell happened here?"

Fury had made her his second in command for a reason.

"Coulson has had a mental break." He explained. "I take it you noticed how he doesn't seem to register Barton and Romanov as gone?"

"It was the creepiest fucking thing I've ever seen in my life!" Maria exclaimed. "Jesus Christ, sir, I thought he was going to shoot me! And he just apologizes and hands me the goddamn report! What the hell could make him have a mental breakdown!?"

"Losing the only two people he's ever cared about." Fury replied. "I wasn't expecting it that fast...but...isn't that interesting?" He chuckled, low and dark. "It was a wonderful idea to test that theory out. He broke quicker than I'd expected."

"...Sir?" Maria ventured. Fury smiled.

"Maria, this was all an experiment," he explained. "I wanted to see the kind of bond those three would forge, and how it could be tested and broken."

Maria sat in her chair quietly for a moment. Her entire mind had been thrown into overhaul by the revelation—the curtain pulled back long enough to reveal the man standing behind it, pushing all their buttons and tearing apart all their lives. She could only stand idly by, as the Commander. She had her orders. She was an agent.

"I see." She finally said.

"Don't look so surprised." Fury chided her. "You know S.H.I.E.L.D.; it's the nature of the beast." He shrugged. "Coulson is a good dog. Does what he's told. Doesn't question his orders. But...that was easy for him to do. He had nothing to care about; no friends, no family, no nothing. He was a lonely man dying alone with his records." He smiled.

"So I gave him something to care about," he said. "And then I took it from him. Because being a good man who follows orders doesn't really matter if you've nothing to lose."

He opened the file on his desk and made a few notes.

"Plus, we really couldn't have handled Nefaria without the two of them on that mission." He remarked. There was a sort of dry amusement to his tone.

Maria stared at him for a minute longer.

"I suppose we couldn't have, sir." She agreed. She closed her eyes, trying to block out anything but the words, the motions she had to go through. "I have to go oversee the recruits; Phil's on break. May I be dismissed?"

"You may," Fury remarked. "And thank you for the reports, Maria."

"It was no trouble, sir." Not for me, at least.

She left the room without another word, her boots thudding softly on the thin carpets of S.H.I.E.L.D. base, searching for something so intently no one thought to question her or why she was heading away from the training room, not towards.

She found Phil sitting on the outside veranda they kept for—well, agents like Barton, who preferred to see the entirety of their surroundings while at work. He was nibbling at an apple that shone like blood, glinting with waxy dullness in the light of the sun.

"...Agent Coulson," she said, making him start for a second before he turned to her, wide-eyed, "I've just come back from overseeing the recruits. Your...partners...were there, training."

The naked delight in his eyes was agony.

"They told me to tell you they'll be working a little later to get back on track...but...that they miss you and love you, very much." Maria said.

Phil actually smiled. It was then Maria realized she had spent ten years working with the man and never seen him smile. She didn't know what, exactly, to say to that.

"Thank you, Maria." He said warmly. "If you go back there, could you please let them know it's all right, so long as they're home before midnight, and I'll have dinner waiting?"

I bet you will.

"Of course, Phil. You enjoy your break." She said.

Maria turned on her heel and left after that, unable to stand being in his presence any longer. There was just something so very terribly wrong about him now, in a way that was almost unnoticable; like a soft bag, thick and sturdy, full to the brim with broken glass.

She headed into the training room like she had promised Fury and went over standard katas with the agents. Before she left, though, she took one of Barton's bows and placed it in the nest he kept in the training room. Better to keep up the charade.

...

Coulson went back to his office after that, humming contentedly and putting on a record as he looked over files. Reading the typical S.H.I.E.L.D. jargon and going over missions reports was such a familiar, almost comforting thing that by the time he looked up again it was ten o'clock and he could hear the others going home.

He decided to retire for the night as well; he was caught up with his reports, and besides, Clint and Natasha needed someone to make dinner for them.

He drove home in silence, the record filling in all the words he might've said. He pulled up to their house and entered, turning the lights on. He checked the kitchen and frowned.

The coffee and cereal remained untouched.

For a few seconds, the wall of denial threatened to crumble.

Then he wondered; what wall? His darlings had already been out in the car, awaiting for him to come and drive them all to work that morning. Of course they hadn't had the coffee he had made; they were already in the car.

Phil tsked, chiding himself gently for not bringing it out to them, before dumping the coffee down the drain and tossing the stale cereal away, taking out supplies and starting dinner.

He hummed quietly as he grilled Clint's cheeseburger and started the stew for Nat, putting a record on while he waited for the fries to bake. He heated himself up some leftovers and made another cup of coffee, adding a little extra sugar. He needed something sweet.

After about two hours of cooking, everything was finished. It was almost midnight. Coulson set the plates down on the table and sighed, rubbing his eyes and wincing.

Why was he so tired? His whole body felt achy right down to his bones, and he wanted to lie down and sleep for as long as he could. He'd just had a cup of coffee—this shouldn't be happening!

Coulson looked at the door and sighed, biting his lip. He would leave it unlocked for his darlings, and he would await them upstairs. They would eat and then come join him, safe and sound, tucked away in bed; exactly where they belonged.

He trudged up the steps and hung up his suit jacket and pants, unbuttoning his shirt and taking off his tie, pulling on a loose shirt over his briefs and falling into bed, snuggling into his spot. Clint and Natasha would be beside him soon, their warmth on either side of him, surrounding him and promising him safety.

The clock struck midnight.

Coulson fell asleep alone.

Chapter 32: Burn

Summary:

A flashback, a miss, and a killing field.

Notes:

Nothing is ever easy.
Also, seriously, major trigger warnings for gore in this chapter. It's not horrible, (certainly not the worst I've written), but the flashback gets pretty bloody. Scroll past all of it.
Anyways, to everyone sending kind words my way; bless you, it makes my day in ways I can't describe. Especially for this fic. I'm so proud of it.
Hope you enjoy!

Clint had snuggled up in Natasha's lap on the plane ride to Europe, not speaking. She did not push him. She understood. She wished she would have someone to hold her as she held Clint now...but there was nothing she could do. Nothing about anything.

She stroked his hair and shushed him gently, kissing his forehead. Clint did not weep. She admired him for that. She could see the tears in his eyes and she knew full well the strength it took for him to keep them locked away. He was doing it for her...

She squeezed his hand as tight as she could, to remind him of her own strength. He winced—the burn was still aching, if only a little. Natasha cooed softly and took off his glove to kiss it.

"We were always his people, Nat." Clint said. "That's what he said. Remember?"

"So you have said, my love, and I believe you." Natasha replied. Clint seemed on edge. His tone was rough and dark, and she did not like it.

"We were always his people. Even when we were bad and broken, before we knew him." Clint licked his lips and hugged himself, snuggling against Natasha and inhaling slowly. "That means we have to stay good, like he wants, okay? We have to remember we're going back. We're gonna wake up soon, Nat; this is just a bad dream. We're still with him, somewhere."

"I know, Clint," Natasha said, though there was a shade of grief to her tone that said she did not quite believe him, "I suppose we are. In his heart. As he is in ours. But...even if this is a bad dream..."

She wrapped her arms around Clint and kissed him.

"Dreams always feel real while you're having them, don't they?" She whispered.

...

The two of them were dropped off ten miles away from the camp, so that they could sneak in without the jets betraying their location. The two of them moved like tigers through the woods, their steps as quiet as midnight. Clint held his bow in his hand; Natasha rubbed her stingers for comfort and a reminder that she had a defense against the other tigers in the night.

The two of them could not help but think of the agent beside them, his leather shoes scuffing on the leaf litter, his soft suit jacket getting caught on the branches, a muffled curse when thorns whipped across his thighs. Phil was powerful, but he was not the night; this was not his place. He was the dawn, the sun that walked beside them and kept them warm and safe and alive. He had no place in the night with tigers. But he had come down to them anyway, in the place he did not know nor could survive in for very long, and fumbled about in the darkness until he had found them and embraced them, promised them safety and peace.

Then that promise had been broken by another. He still intended to keep it, however, the best he could...and so they trudged onward, strengthened only by the hope of his promise and the dawn it brought their hearts.

...

The walk was long and the road was rough, but they were prepared for the trip, and so they did not mind when it became muddy and stones bumped insistently at their feet. They just kept imagining their Coulson at their backs, his hands on their shoulders as he urged them gently forward.

The faster the dream is over, the faster you'll wake up, he promised them. They believed him, of course, because he was their brave, calm Coulson, who knew everything. If they were the hands, he was the mind and heart, and so they trusted him. Even if it was a dream, what did that matter? They were in a dream now as well.

So Clint and Natasha trudged on forward across the road and over a river until Nefaria's camps were in sight, set up on the outskirts of his grand castle. It was, admittedly, a beautiful castle, done up in granite and obsidian; neither of them denied that. It had also been the site of their last killing field, which tainted the beauty somewhat in their eyes.

They took an hour to creep about the perimeter, searching, carefully examining everything. If they could find a weak point, they would perch there and wait. Snipe Nefaria from afar when he came to check on the recruits. With that finished, they could pick off the other officials in the chaos and be home with their Coulson in less than two days.

The perimeter, unfortunately, did not hold any major weakpoints; Nefaria was incredibly well-supported this time. Perhaps after their last run-in with him, he had styled himself a martyr, a victim of an overzealous American security system. No matter. They did not need major weakpoints; just the little gap they had found in between a copse of trees and a guardtower. They were agents of S.H.I.E.L.D., after all, and they knew that would be enough for them.

So the two of them scrabbled up quickly into the copse of trees and settled in to wait. The branch was strong, with a good view of the guardtower. Clint's burn ached every time he shifted on the branch, but nothing else save that twinge of pain interrupted their grey, emotionless state. They were agents now and nothing else. Their agonies could not touch them. Their despair had no room to flourish here.

There would come a time where that would end, but that time was not now. This time was the target, and the waiting, and the hope that this would all be over soon.

Sunset moved in slow, broad strokes across the sky, as if someone had dragged a paintbrush across the thin bubble of existence that was the sky above them. Deliriously, exhausted and worn down, Natasha wondered what might happen should she pop the veil of sky and let the rest of existence fall through. That might bring them home. Then again, it might all just be a dream. If it woke her up, though, she wouldn't mind that either.

Clint winced as a blister popped on the palm of his hand; it was rough and it ached, and the gloves were too confining, made the burn hurt worse. Natasha cooed quietly and kissed his hand, trying to remain quiet and observant despite her worries. Clint looked ashamed, and nothing she could do or say would change that. Only being home without being in danger could. Only Phil could.

They sat up in the tree for hours, observing the back and forth between the guards, the faint view of the castle within. Watching them, Natasha recalled the way they had clawed themselves out of the bowels of that castle. The men they had killed simply to meet with one another again were innumerable, inconsequential yet vast. The floors had been slick with blood as they embraced one another. They did not slip as they made their way up the dungeon steps and into the main castle.

There had been others to try and stop them. Some they recognized; others were unknown to either of them. They died regardless. No one was clean in this place, least of all the two of them.

They had hacked and tore and slashed into the deep caverns of flesh that seemed to spill right from the castle walls--all these men, so eager to die beneath their pilfered knives and stolen guns. They looted the weapons they needed and worked with what they had. It was not a bow and arrow, nor wrists full of bite, but it would do.

They finally made their way from the castle, corpses following in their path like some macabre bridal train, only to enter the fields surrounding the castle. The huge trodden ground that had sufficed as a training area.
Natasha and Clint had looked at each other, locking gazes for the first time since the slaughter had begun, and they knew with a grim certainty that weighed on them both as they drew their guns that this would be a killing field.

As they mowed down their torturerers, their jailers, the men that had dared separate them, they found themselves caring less and less. The only thing that remained as a minor nuisance was the smell, and perhaps the soaking-wet feel of their boots as they waded through the blood and gristle.

It was as if the massacre and what followed after were in fact preordained by some grim, bloodthirsty god; the two of them dropped their weapons at some point to realize there were no men left alive in the castle nor the surrounding grounds, and they were in fact in terrible pain.

Clint collapsed first; Natasha supported him, letting his pain become her own, their suffering mingling together as they dragged one another past the campgrounds. The process was slow, but there was no one left alive to stop them.

To further the notion of some great and gory play being acted out, just as Natasha's bare, bruised feet crossed the threshold of the castle grounds and the cool forests beyond greeted her, she heard the whining thud of helicopter blades striking at the air. A S.H.I.E.L.D. aircraft descended to earth before them, like some wrought-iron angel.

Maria Hill stood in front of her, sleek black body armor covering her entire lithe form. Natasha raised her hand to salute until she realized her wrist was broken.

"Commander," she rasped. "Not all of this is mine."

Maria looked past her and into the castle grounds, confused and concerned.

The men behind her screamed. She heard one of her agents vomit. There was cursing, screaming, panicking as they were confronted with bodies and blood, enough to form an ocean and a few twisted, rotting islands of flesh. A monument to their suffering as vast and brutal as the scope of their torture had been.

Maria just watched, unflinching, still with the grim knowledge that the sight would be burned into her retinas and imprinted on the dark crevices of her brain for as long as she lived.

Natasha just stroked Clint's hair and helped him onto the helicopter as the agents behind them handled the killing field. That might matter to them. To her, nothing mattered but the man before her, the reason there had ever been a killing field in the first place.

Clint's lips against her cheek startled Natasha out of her reverie; she looked up at him, and when their gazes met, she knew that he knew exactly what had been on her mind.

"You were still so beautiful," he promised. "Nothing could have touched you then, Natasha. Certainly not their blood. You have no regrets about that day and neither do I."

"No," she murmured. "No, I do not. But I worry about what this day might bring."

"Fair enough," Clint agreed. "Whatever it is, though, we'll face it together."

Comforted as much as could be possible by that comment, Natasha kissed his cheek in kind and settled down beside him to continue her watch. Beside him, she thought nothing of the killing field, or the blood. She thought only of Clint, and it grounded her as she watched the castle.

Night fell in drops that landed upon the canvas of the sky and bled outwards, like a watercolor. The watercolor sky, so faint and purplish with dusk, was sprinkled with stars; flecks of foam in the water that glimmered like soapshine, likely to burst and reveal what lay beneath.

The two of them continued to wait in their grey shells. There was no signal. They could not burst free. Not yet. When they did, however, Hawk and Widow would take flight.

Eventually, however, the guard left his post to greet Nefaria, who approached with his guard of men. Clint could not help a snarl. The burn in his hand throbbed as if in agreement. Natasha simply kissed his cheek to silence him.

He got his bow and nocked an arrow in it. The subtle, unspoken agreement had always been that Clint got the kill. They had taken Natasha from him. Made him watch. They had stolen her away first. And Clint was to call in that debt.

Perhaps it was not the best idea, however. Not today at least. Because as he strung his bow, the warmth of a kitchen and cookies and love with the people he trusted beside him began to burn. His hand was unsteady. It ached. Perhaps it was not just the burn, but a desire to return home that had come to a boil within him.

For the first time in a very long time, Clint missed.

His arrow landed at Nefaria's feet. It was not a miss by much; even a burned hand could not blind Hawkeye as well, and Clint was the best there was. But it was not the kill.

There was a horrible silence as Nefaria knelt and picked up the arrow, examining it closely. Then his lips pulled back in a gruesome, glittering grin as he spat out a command to his guards.

The two of them looked at each other and fled, streaking away into the night like startled deer, panic making their hearts beat like wildfire as they heard guards thundering after them, their calls to one another like tiger roars.

Chapter 33: The Mission

Summary:

Clint and Natasha prepare. Phil is oblivious.

Notes:

Yes, Fury knew. No he's not a nice person.
I have the new Pokemon game. BRB, going to become even more of a recluse than I was before!
And so the rumor mill starts up. Hope y'all enjoy this chapter--it sets up what's to come pretty well, I'd say.

Fury checked the mission reports and tsked. Nothing from Clint and Natasha yet. That bode ill. He had thought, perhaps, it really would have been over in a few days; that they would kill him quickly and return home.

They did not want to drag this mission out, he knew that much.

But Clint's hand.

Of course he had known; the whole house had been under surveillance. The scene had almost been cute, but it couldn't have lasted. He had been curious to see how that would affect the mission. Evidently, it wasn't helping them much.

Not that he was surprised. Nor was he particularly concerned. It wouldn't be fair if Phil got his lovers back in just a few days, certainly.

Fury had to admit that his break was a cause for concern, but a small one if that. He had seen it happen before. He knew how the results inevitably occurred. Phil was a good man, a strong one—it would be a little different.

But he'd broken good men before. In the end, he would end up the same.

Fury debated telling him. The mission might last months now.

He decided against it after a few minutes of deep thought; Phil might snap in a way that threw a wrench into everything, and that was the last thing he wanted. He would realize they were gone on his own, in time.

Until then, he would watch the fall. After that, well...it would be interesting to see how hard Phil landed.

Fury took out his files on the trio and took down a few notes, humming tunelessly to himself.

...

Clint shoved Natasha into the crevice as gently as he could. He did not want to hurt or startle her too much, but escape was key. He slid in after her, steadying his breathing, controlling his heart rate. He could hear the barking of dogs behind them, and he shuddered. Thankfully, they had the good sense to run back through the river again, so that wasn't his concern.

The fact that he had ruined their mission was.

Oh, sure, they could still salvage it. They would camoflauge themselves, disguise themselves as the average citizen, with just enough physical prowess to get close to him and dispatch him from there, undercover. That was feasible.

But it was not quick. It was not going to get them home in two days. It was not going to bring them back to Phil.

Clint wanted to go back to Phil. Clint wanted to go home to Phil with Natasha and beg for their Coulson to love them, to accept them as lovers fully and completely. He wanted Phil to take them home and cuddle them and accept Clint's apology for the way he treated him, and to hold them both and keep them safe. To never let them go on a mission alone again. To never be alone again, period. He wanted to go home. The misson was not home anymore. A dusty little town in New Mexico was. Or, more to the point, Phil was.

But S.H.I.E.L.D. didn't send you home because you were homesick and wanted to curl up in your lover's arms and cry for hours and ask him to forgive you and be with you. S.H.I.E.L.D. sent you home if you were dead. And that was it.

So Clint would keep Natasha safe, as he had done for so many years and would continue to do. He would plan the mission, acquire the ways to camoflauge themselves so that they might slip into Nefaria's camp. He would make sure they got close. And then he would put an arrow in him. Through the eye, this time. And Clint would never miss again. Not for anything.

He stroked Natasha's hair and soothed her until the guards passed, their shouts signifying they would be returning back to camp. Natasha took his hand, then, and led him out of the cave.

They looked at each other. Then Natasha took his glove off, very gently, very carefully. She cupped his burned palm in her hands. Clint swallowed. Shame burned in him, hot and fierce. Weakness made him tremble. He could not meet her eyes.

"It is all right," Natasha finally said. "It was the last reminder we had of Coulson. No wonder it caused you pain."

Clint gasped, agonized. Natasha let him heave for a minute before she led him through the woods quietly, taking him to one of the hide-aways they had built last time. It still stood, thankfully, though it took them enough time to reach that dawn was breaking over the horizon by the time they did.

Clint settled her onto the bed and began rifling through the trunk of things they had left behind; food packs, medicine, caffeine pills, and thankfully, within its depths, a knife.

Clint looked at Natasha and raised an eyebrow. She shook her head.

"Cutting my hair will not be enough," she said firmly. "It was short when we saw him last anyway. I have a pack of hair bleach and brown dye at the bottom of my trunk of supplies, Clint. If you could get a bottle of water, I will dye it."

Clint sighed and nodded, rifling through Natasha's supplies, which included a lot more clothing than his—she was more used to undercover than he was—and tossed her a bottle of hair bleach. Natasha kissed his forehead.

"You should be all right, my love; there are plenty of men with brown hair. I am not so lucky." Natasha frowned, but she was applying the bleach as they spoke. "You and I shall go and sneak in once we have prepared ourselves." She sighed. "For now...we shall wait a few hours. When the sun has risen a bit higher, we will make our way in with the masses. Remember—we leave the bow at the safe house. My stingers, as well. We musn't call attention to our skills. Just enough to get close."

"I know, Nat," Clint whispered. "It's...all my fault."

She kissed him. It was gentle and slow, but there was fire to it; she was more concerned with reassuring him than being tender or kind. Clint could not help but moan, even when she bit his lip so hard he felt her draw a bit of blood.

"Do not think like that," she said sternly. "This is but a dream. Dreamers cannot control the dream. The nightmare simply closes deeper in..." She sighed. "I'm sorry. I know that is frightening. I do not want it either. But we will be strong, together. And we will wake up and return to him soon. This was not your fault, are we clear?"

Clint didn't look at her for a minute.

"...Crystal." He finally muttered. Natasha nodded, kissing him once more, a bit gentler this time, and tossing him some clothes. He sighed, slipping out of his uniform with more than a hint of hesitation and frustration, but he dressed in the standard rough pants and shirt, lacing a pair of beat up shoes onto his feet as Natasha finished the bleach job, being careful to make it look convincing.

Eventually, she turned back to him with mousy brown hair. With a pair of contacts, which she produced from a side pouch in the trunk's lining, she looked like an average brunette, bright blue eyes and slightly-messy hair.

Clint knew it was Natasha underneath that mask, though, and that made all the difference.

He patted his lap and spread his legs a little more so she knew she could come sit. They both knew they weren't sleeping for what little was left of the night, but at the very least, they could curl up together and watch the sun rise.

She laid her head on his chest as she curled up against him, closing her eyes and sighing softly.

"Will he recognize me?" Natasha murmured. "When we come back?"

"Dye fades, babylove," Clint promised. "You'll be just fine. He'll remember you."

"Love you." She mumbled, snuggling closer and sighing softly, stroking his hair. Clint rubbed her back, soothing the aching muscles for awhile, until eventually, against their initial plans, they fell asleep on the bed, the sun peeking in hesitantly through the windows.

They, like Phil, did not dream.

...

Phil awoke the next morning and frowned at the empty bed. His little darlings needed to stay in bed a bit longer. It wasn't good for them to get up so early. Especially just to go back to base...

He sighed and smiled, shaking his head. They were dedicated, his little darlings. So focused on their mission. Phil was proud of them for that, and grateful they had learned when to balance the two parts of their life out.

He went downstairs and made them coffee, making his own cup as theirs sat steaming on the counter. He hummed pleasantly, the low strains of a song half-remembered, and ate his breakfast, gathering two protein bars apiece for his darlings. They were obviously eager to get to the base; he wouldn't push them to eat breakfast. But they would have to eat a big dinner, especially if they were training all day downstairs—he knew his loves wouldn't eat lunch unless they were forced.

Maybe he would go down and see them? Make them come up and eat something?

Phil paused, his hand on the door.

No. No, he couldn't do that.

But why?

Phil dismissed it as Fury's orders and went back to his coffee. Within him, the wound continued to quietly fester. He did not feel the pain.

...

Coulson drove to base and worked with the recruits for the larger part of the day. He did not question their stares and muted whispers; his reputation was admittedly not the one of mythic proportions Clint and Natasha had acquired, but all the recruits knew who he was. The agent who never smiled. The one who could melt easily into the background, unnoticed, before bringing down an entire company or government. The one that half of them probably honestly believed was a robot. Coulson didn't mind; they listened to him in training, and that was what he really cared about.

Since he was used to the whispers, he tuned them out. As a result, he did not hear just what they were really whispering about. He didn't catch the names of his darlings, or the few hastily whispers of "lovers," or the fact that the whispering, this time, came with a twinge of pity and understanding rather than awe or apprehension.

No one said anything to his face when Coulson took out a novel done up in shades of rose and scarlet, making notes and annotations in it as he sipped his coffee. Some of the senior agents looked at each other, and the partners among them understood. The ones who had lost partners had no one to look to...but they understood as well, even more so.

No, no one spoke to him about it. But they had begun to notice, a little, and wonder about what had happened during that leave of absence.

No one said anything yet. Not above a whisper. And certainly not to Coulson himself.

But even secret-keepers cannot keep secrets forever, and in all truth, it is the ones who hold all the secrets who enjoy gossip the most.

So gossip began to spread. More than just whispers. Things got tangled and twisted and muddied; by the time that everyone was going home that day, there were at least five agents swearing up and down that they had walked in on all three of the agents having sex in Fury's office before their leave of absence, Clint and Natasha still covered in the gore from their previous mission.

It would only get worse. But Coulson did not hear. He had eyes and ears only for the fantasies he had concocted for himself; his darlings were in the training room all day, working late, getting used to the routine again. He heard only the half-remembered whispers of their voices as he rounded corners and saw only shadows of them from the corner of his eye.

He continued on like that for the night, making them dinner and leaving it out for them to eat when they got home, going up to bed to wait for them. Of course he fell asleep before they came home, but he resolved to try harder to stay awake...

Chapter 34: Training

Summary:

Fury plots. Clint and Natasha infiltrate.

Notes:

Not much to say except this fic is almost winding down--at least in writing. Once I've finished writing it, the chapter length should increase, since I don't need to worry about keeping up with updates. Same with AatA, though writing that has been put on a minor break as I finish up this fic!
Hope you enjoy this chapter. Fury's still a dick. Surprise!
And Nefaria is in fact a canon comics character, though his counterpart in this is wildly different. (Aside from the wealth/assumed nobility.)

Fury sighed and listened to the recordings of the day's gossip, making notes on it. It was very unusual to have such a large focal point for the gossip of so many people, but then again, Clint and Natasha and Phil usually ended up as part of the gossip whether they knew it or not. All three of them together? Grist for the rumor mill like it had never known.

Fury tsked lightly. They would be coming up on the third day of this little situation tomorrow. Sure, getting Phil to crack hadn't been his top priority—getting rid of Nefaria had been—but seeing the agent finally come to grips with the loss of his partners was something he had wanted to see for a long time. After all, Coulson was an anomaly among S.H.I.E.L.D.; his partner had died before he had ever really known him, and as such, could never really grieve. He had been careful to only take teams or solo work after that.

And yet Fury had forced his hand, given him two people to love like he had probably never loved another person in the world, and pulled that rug out from underneath him. He had heard the whole conversation the day he took those two away; hell, he had heard most of their conversations. The house was bugged, after all.

He loved them. And wasn't that just hilarious; the middle-aged, unassuming, incredibly plain, slightly-pudgy and matronly agent with a receding hairline had snagged not just Hawkeye, a living recreation of Adonis himself, but the Black Widow—the most beautiful woman of S.H.I.E.L.D., the wet dream for every recruit and half the senior agents, even those who had seen her rip out throats with her teeth. Perhaps that was part of the appeal once you got that high up in the ranks.

Still, all that said, Coulson was obviously in love, obviously torn-up over their loss, and clearly, the other agents were starting to catch on. But—nothing. He hadn't had a breakdown and started sobbing in the middle of the training room, like the last pair he had split up; he hadn't needed to be sedated for weeks and kept in a drug-induced stupor like the sole member of a trio he had kept at base for a monthlong mission, nor had he tried to attack any other agents, like even his own second in command had done when he had taken her assistant and sent her on a mission. Fury had, in fact, been impressed with Maria's combat skills even in her grief; she had incapacitated two other agents twice her size and weight before he got to her and sedated her.

Nothing. Nothing so grand as a showdown, nothing so tragic as a nervous breakdown, nothing so dissonant as a drug binge. Nothing at all. Coulson went about his routine as normal.

But...there might be something to that fact. Normal. Completely and utterly normal. Like...like they were still there.

Fury paused and grinned, slow and wide, like a wolf.

That was just it, then. Coulson's break extended into denial; he thought that the two of them were still there. He had to admire the agent's tenacity in the face of despair, he would give him that. But the evidence bore out—Maria's encounter with him, his own—those weren't discussions even a man who followed orders and never questioned his superiors would have. There was no madness or despair in his eyes. He might've been able to choke it down in his voice, but never his eyes.

So he didn't know, then. He had blocked it out. He was still waiting for them to come out of the training room.

Fury smiled, taking down a few notes. He would deal with Phil's little wall of denial later. He might give him another day, perhaps; see if the wall crumbled on its own. He would deal with him after that.

He made his way to his office without a word, settling in to go over files for the night, planning, his face inscrutable and his mind full of calculations.

...

Clint and Natasha woke up with sore limbs and heavy hearts, sighing in frustration as they worked the kinks out of their muscles, doing morning exercises to limber up before they went back to the camp. Natasha ran a brush through her hair, and Clint threw together a few changes of clothes into a sack for the two of them, grabbing them both protein bars as they looked at their bow, quiver, and stingers.

"...We have to leave them here." Natasha murmured. Her voice was heavy with sorrow at the thought; such vulnerability worried her. Clint kissed her cheek.

"I know, babe, but we'll have each other. The weapons don't matter if we're together. We're each others' greatest weapon, you know that." He soothed her, stroking her forehead. Natasha nodded, nuzzling his neck.
"I...I suppose," she agreed. "And we have no choice, regardless. We'll keep them hidden a bit better and barricade the door. No one shall have our weapons."

Clint helped her lock up the place and hide their weapons beneath the floorboards before they crept out the window before boarding that up as well. The two of them dropped to the forest floor effortlessly, jogging through the woods at a slow, semi-casual pace until they got closer to the camp.

It was easy to slip into the huge group of people milling in through the gates, easier still to make their way inside. They did not leave each others' side; the others noticed, allowed them a bit of space. Good. Being lovers wasn't a half bad cover. It would keep them together and establish a bit of rapport among the others. If they needed information they might get it easier under the guise of worry for their partner.

The two groups split off into men and women; Clint looked at Natasha, nervous. He didn't want to leave her. He had already lost Phil. Not Nat, please...

She gave him a tender kiss, lips pressed against his forehead, and nudged him gently towards the other men. They cheered for him, clapped him on the shoulder, laughed with shared delight, and Clint couldn't help but slip into the role of "nervous but devoted husband," joking around with the other men. As Natasha went with the other women, there were awed stares at her beauty and the rough handsomeness of her partner, but for the moment, they simply flitted about her like moths, more curious to observe and file away tidbits for gossip. 

They were led towards the biggest open field of the camps; here mats were scattered about carelessly, with the guards stationed all around them. The scent of sweat and blood and panic reeked strongest here; Natasha could already practically hear the thump of bodies hitting the crude mats as she looked at the men standing around them.

It was very clear they were being tested, and, as Natasha watched, very clear they did not expect much from the women. Most of what she was picking up was that the women were off to work in the kitchens or as errand runners—or in the case of some of the younger ones, as playthings for the guards.

She grit her teeth and let her muscles go loose. It was easier to move and fight if she was fluid. She would remain fluid, like the river, and when her turn came...the dam would break and the flood would drown all of them, who looked at her with undisguised lust and barely disguised scorn.

Eventually, she was called to the front; not by name, but the pointing was enough. That and the guard at her arm yanking her foward.

Natasha did not resist the pull, nor did she betray anything on her face when she stood alone on the mats. She could not see the men, but the very idea of Clint was solace enough as she stood there. That relaxation and solace was enough to keep her loose, limber, and together, enough so that when the first punch was thrown, she ducked it effortlessly before slamming a foot into his side.

Not his kidneys, no; that would show too much finesse, make an enemy out of him and make her stand out. But strength behind her kick was good. It made her noticeable, made her worth something—made her liable to get into the guard, close to Nefaria.

So she slammed him in the side and threw the other two to the ground without more than two steps from her original position, simply using their own weight against them and tossing them to the ground. She stood up and pushed a lock of hair behind her ear, looking about at everyone. The mutters about her had become darker, but more interested, intense.

The largest man stepped forward and offered her a hand. She took it without a word in such a way that she could snap his wrist if he decided to start a fight. He did not, however—in fact, he seemed pleased by her performance, and was eagerly dragging her over to another small throng of guards before they parted and she realized who stood in front of her.

Luchino Nefaria had bronze skin, like a statue come to life, and teeth filed into points. He thought it made him look more intimidating; Natasha privately wondered how he did not have shredded lips. His hair was a rich, deep brown, silvering at the temples, and he dressed like a nobleman, a chancellor of some kind; a rich purple suit and a deep red shirt. He observed her carefully as he settled into his throne, his fingernails clicking on his chair as he watched her stand in front of him.

Natasha could only think of how those same fingers had dug into her skin and those teeth had ripped open her back; how that hand had smashed into her face or been shoved violently up into the hot, wet places that were so full of hurt and ache every time there was a mission. She thought of how she had been alone in the dark with only the glint of those too-bright teeth for company. She thought of how many guards had beaten her and stripped her bare, leaving her to the mercy of rats or dogs for the night, based on a wave of those bronze hands and a smile from those pointed teeth.

She thought of how the occasional scream of agony that she could identify as Clint's became a relief, a balm on her frayed nerves, because it meant he was alive, and she had not been with him in so long. She would scream in return, like a wolf howling to the rest of its pack, and they would shut her up, in one creative way or another.

She thought of months of torture and mapped them all out in her head, but they did not show on her face or in her eyes. Those were blank as a moonless, starless night sky. Her face was a mask. When she looked up and met his eyes, it was as if she was encountering him again through a dream. It did not feel real, so she felt no terror. Instead, there was a faint feeling that a veil had been thrown over her, and she had to fight her way out from underneath it—

Just a little push—just a little push and she would wake up, having thrown the blankets off of her, the veil would be broken and it would be morning, the dawn shining free and unfettered on her face, Clint and Phil beside her.

She did not have the strength to raise her arms up and push it away, however. And so she continued to watch Nefaria through the veil, unmoving.

"Clever girl, aren't we?" Nefaria said, surveying her up and down. "Beautiful, too. I have not seen a woman such as you in my army in a long time." He looked at her hands. "Formal training?"

"None, sir," Natasha responded, feeling like someone else was talking, someone else was living this life, experiencing this, "just hard work and a rough life, sir."

"Good, good. Other training will simply get in the way. We will train you. I myself will see to that. Your name?" Nefaria asked, leaning forward to look deeper into her eyes.

"Nina Couls." Natasha said, and so it was complete; she was not Natasha in this dream, but Nina. Natasha pitied Nina for this nightmare.

"Nina, Nina...welcome, love, welcome. Mendev! Take her to my castle. Situate her in a room. I will see to her and the others chosen shortly." Nefaria said, getting up out of his chair and heading off. Natasha was led inside by a man who dwarfed her by a good two feet, and his footsteps dragged a bit as he led her into a small but well-furnished room. He seemed eager to leave her presence; perhaps she frightened him. She was all right with that.

She took a few minutes to take in her surroundings, until she was startled out of that by a knock on the door. It was only once she turned around and saw it open that she gasped with quiet relief and ran into Clint's arms, throwing her arms around his neck and kissing his cheek.

"He got you too, babe?" Clint whispered into her ear. Natasha nodded.

"My name is Nina Couls, now." She said quietly. "What did you tell him?"

They had agreed upon a shared surname before, in the crowd, but not a first name; Clint stroked her hair before replying, "Phil. Philip Couls."

"Oh, Clint." She whispered, because the sentiment ached, but it was one she understood, and had in fact encouraged. The choice of surname had been hers, after all.

"Miss him." Clint mumbled. Natasha nodded.

"As do I." She replied. "Back to your room with you, all right? We shouldn't..." She trailed off, allowing anyone who might be listening to fill in the details for themselves. Clint nodded, kissing her forehead and heading off, slipping back into his room.

She sighed and turned back to her own quarters. They reeked of incense and spices, probably to cloud her thoughts a bit. Still, as she took out a few clothes from her rough sack, she smiled and buried her face in them. The earthy scent of Clint and the woods was enough to banish the incense, and so her mind was clear as she looked about the room and settled in on the plush bed, awaiting summons.
She waited for about an hour, simply sitting on the bed, the sun setting behind her. The guard from before came in, bowing hesitantly before saying in a rough accent, "Dinner, ma'am."

"Thank you." She said in Russian, placing his accent; the man tensed and she knew she was correct. She simply smiled at him and wiggled her fingers a little before slipping downstairs. Best to make as many allies as she could.

She followed him downstairs and into a dining room. A few other men and women were dining with them, but Natasha's eyes immediately fell on Clint. She didn't say much, but she did sit across from him, and her foot nudged his from beneath the table.

Dinner was lavish and ornate; everything glittered with a honeyed glaze and smelled of roasted flesh, hot and crispy, the grease sliding into Natasha's senses, invading her nose and mouth, coating them with a reminder of its succulence and the warm way that juice leaked from its flesh when she bit deep into it. Even the apples and pears tasted of grease and flesh, honeyed juices leaking into her mouth as she ate, never once taking her gaze away from Nefaria.

It was subtle. Natasha was a good spy after all. But it was, in fact, there, because she knew if she didn't watch the dream it might go dark, morph into a nightmare, and then she and Clint were both lost.
So she was quiet. She waited and watched the man as still as a statue and bit into flesh that settled into her stomach like stone.
Finally, Nefaria leaned forward and spoke.

"I know you all require training, but I believe you have the raw power to make it worthwhile. You are going to be my guards, my attendants, and, perhaps, my apprentices, should you show that much potential. This is a dark game you're playing," he warned them, "but there is much for you to win, should you be willing to bet everything and be ruthless about winning. We are fighting for our independence, friends, like our brothers and sisters in Latveria. We shall be kept under the boot of America no longer; S.H.I.E.L.D. will have no jurisdiction here, and you will personally hunt down and skin every last one of the dogs they send hunting for us. And I will put the knife and gun in your hands so that you may do it. This I swear."

No one said anything. Nefaria hadn't been expecting them to. He simply tapped his cane twice.

"Rest, friends. I will summon you in the morning for training. For now, get a good night's sleep. Our exercise shall be rigorous; you will have need of it." He told them.

Clint and Natasha waited until a few people had left before slipping out with the crowd. It felt good to not have Nefaria in the room with them; to be aware of his presence, to know he was in the same room as them, his very existence bleeding into theirs, warping the dream into a nightmare...it was a relief, to say the least, to see the last of him.

It was only once they headed up to bed that Natasha realized that she and Clint had separate rooms.

Normally she would have grit her teeth and endured it; yes, she wanted nothing but to be with Clint always, her protector and partner and friend, but she had learned to deal with small separations.
Not now, though. Not on this mission. Not when one part of her heart was already missing.

So she gripped the arm of the guard from before, the man who had feared her, who spoke her mother language, and begged in Russian, "Please...please, he is my husband, please..."

He looked at her, and then at Clint. Clint's face was impassive, smooth as stone, but his eyes were tender and just a little hopeful. Natasha played the part of the distraught newlywed well—though how much of her begging was an act, not even she could say.

Without a word he led her to Clint's room and held a finger to his lips. Natasha nodded, smiled, and put a finger on her lips in return.

The guard slipped away, quiet as snow, and Natasha shut the door even quieter before turning to Clint and letting herself fall into his arms, burying herself into his embrace, sinking into the soft comfort and letting it numb her to the horrors around her.

She eventually pulled away to prepare for bed, showering first. The showers were ornate and wrought in brass, looking both regal and well-weathered as she turned on the taps and was confronted with her first hot shower in days. The scent of steam, clean and moist and tinged with metal, reached her as she scrubbed down with soap that smelled like muted earth and wildflowers after the rain.

She savored the shower for a few minutes before toweling off, heading back out to allow Clint some time to soak up the warmth. He kissed her neck, which was flushed red from the shower, and grinned before slipping into the bathroom and cleaning himself off. Natasha could hear him playing with the soap and couldn't help but smile as she dressed herself for bed.

He came out and wrapped her up in one strong arm, planting a kiss on her forehead as he smiled, his eyes sparkling with amused mischief as she wriggled and laughed in his grip. Clint set her down on the bed with care before planting a kiss to her lips, quick and warm. For a second, as he dressed, Natasha could believe this was a normal evening, and Phil would be up to join them shortly.

It took her a few minutes after he got into bed and wrapped his arms around her to realize that no, the dream was not broken, and they were alone.

From the way Clint held her tighter, she knew he realized it, too.

She had to change the subject. Make him think about something else other than the empty space in their beds and their hearts.

"So...our plan, darling?" She whispered to him in French. Neither of them had heard anyone speaking French; for the moment it was a safe bet they would go unheard, or at least, unintelligible.

"Get in, kill him, get out, go home, wake up." Clint responded. Natasha sighed.

"I suppose...but we need a better method. How shall we get closer, darling?" She asked. Clint shrugged.

"He can't know I'm an archer. Too suspicious. Good with guns, maybe. But no bows and arrows. Same with you and getting too good with your hand-to-hand, Nat. Act like you need this training." Clint advised. Natasha nodded, kissing his forehead.

"I will, my love, I will. We will get close, become his guards. Once that happens, give us some time to prove ourselves, be alone with him. Show sudden bursts of improvement; make him impressed and proud. Get him close, get him alone...and then we strike." Natasha said. "Then it is done. The dream is over and it will be morning."

"I hope so, beloved," Clint sighed. "I hope so. For now...rest with me, won't you?"

Natasha nodded, snuggling close and allowing him to wrap his arms around her. His weight was a warm comfort, but it was not enough to drag her down into the depths of sleep easily. For a few minutes she lay there awake, thinking of another man's arms around them both, before the ache of missing him, strangely enough, was enough to lull her to sleep.

Chapter 35: The Push

Summary:

Maria and Phil prepare. Fury waits.

Notes:

Maria starts to become more prominent--as does Victoria/Maria, because you'll all ship my obscure lesbian ships if it kills me.
And Fury's being a jerk, no surprise there!
Also, yes, Phil's just getting worse and worse. Whee!
OH and I'm sorry! TRIGGER WARNING FOR RAPE; just in the opening monologue with Fury, you can skip that and be fine. Thanks to the anon who alerted me; didn't even think.

Phil woke up the next morning with an ache in his chest he couldn't explain. He put his hand over it and frowned, squeezing the skin, feeling his heart beating beneath him.

Something hurt...but there was no wound or bruise. He hoped it wasn't serious. If he couldn't tend to his darlings, they would be so distraught...

Speaking of, he had to make them coffee.

Phil hummed quietly as he got out of bed and dressed for work, buttoning up his shirt and putting his tie on, making his way downstairs. Clint and Natasha were in the shower; they would join him shortly...

It was only halfway through making the coffee that the realization suddenly occurred to him; he had not heard the shower running.

Phil groaned and laughed, shaking his head and making their coffee.

"Darlings, we are going to have a talk about you two and all this work you're putting in lately!" He called out, chiding them with gentle love in his voice. "I think we're going to take a little break, Saturday. Would you like to go driving? I would, my loves. We'll go driving, someplace warm and sunny, and I'll buy you ice cream."

Satisfied with his plan, Phil continued to get ready, making breakfast for three as the house echoed emptily about him.

A few minutes after prepping some cereal and granola bars, Phil climbed into the car, putting the two other cups of coffee in the cupholders in the back. He did not look back there, though, simply placed them out of memory. He could not look back. He didn't know why, but he just couldn't...

There was something back there Phil knew he was not meant to see.

Emptiness weighed down on the car heavily as he drove forward, towards S.H.I.E.L.D. base, away from the rising sun.

...

Fury tapped his pen on his desk and listened to some of the recordings of basetalk from last night. He had ordered the computers to pick up specific code words and give him the files; now, he listened to the gossip on Phil, Clint, and Natasha that the late-night agents had to share with each other—and by proxy, himself.

Fury couldn't help but smirk, amused by what they thought was true and what they thought false.

Some of them, the newer ones, swore vehemently that they had seen Widow and Hawkeye after Phil the whole time, and that the leave was because Natasha had gotten pregnant.

If they only knew.

Others thought that the two of them had raped Phil, which was why they were on a mission and no longer on base.

He wishes they would've, probably.

Still others thought the reverse, which was why only Phil had come back.

No, but I bet they wished for it, too.

Fury sighed and continued to listen to the natter. Nothing particularly...interesting yet. Honestly, he was a bit disappointed in his people; normally everyone was abuzz by this point, and the night gossip was the most laviscious.

Perhaps he shouldn't break the news to Coulson yet. Perhaps he should just...put him in a situation with the others where they would see his denial. That would get everyone moving, certainly, and make the gossip more interesting. Perhaps if it ran wild and fast like a river, Phil's little mental dam would break, and Fury wouldn't have to tell him straight. He never liked telling people straight, if he could help it.

That settled, Fury smiled and began to map out Phil's schedule for the day.

...

Phil drove on to work, unawares of what was planned for him that day. He pulled into his normal spot at base and hummed, content, getting out and leaving the door open for his darlings; they would need a few moments to stir, surely, and he had to check in anyway; if Clint forgot to shut the door, like he was apt to do, Phil could come out and lock it.

He checked in with the guards, greeting them pleasantly, inquiring after their day. He was so lost to his denial that there was no pain in his eyes, but that just made the empathy and understanding deepen, and so the pain in their eyes as they looked upon Phil Coulson was deep and intense—and promptly filed away for discussion when they changed shifts.

Phil took a few minutes to get his things together before sighing, amused, as he caught the open door. He rushed back to his car and shut it, reminding himself to chide Clint about leaving doors open—his love needed to be more careful...

Phil headed in, his briefcase bumping against his knee every step or two, going right for his office. He opened the door, and for a second, the emptiness within made his wall wobble, crumble, just a little.

Then he groaned and laughed, calling out, "Darlings, we're going to have a talk about you spending all this time in the training room, you know! My office is starting to get rather lonely!"

Phil was still chuckling as he set his briefcase on his desk, taking down one of Natasha's novels for her if she got back before him. If not, he would read it on his break, perhaps—

His phone rang, and immediately, he picked it up, checking the caller ID. Once he saw it, he winced before accepting the call.

—That is, if he got one, now.

"Director Fury," he said, "what can I do for you, sir?"

"I need you in the training room today, Coulson. Just go make sure the recruits and rookies have all their lessons down, all right?" Fury said.

Phil paused.

"...Sir, I musn't go down there..." He murmured, his voice rough with an emotion he didn't understand. "Sir, please, I—they're training, sir, I can't disturb them—"

"Disturb who, agent? Seems to me like you're the only disturbed one in this place." Fury said. Phil bit his lip. The wall developed a small, thin crack.

"I want you down there in five minutes, agent. Maria will go with you. I'll want a report back tonight. Until then, agent."

Fury hung up after that, and Phil was left staring at his phone in quiet horror.

No, no he couldn't. His darlings...his darlings were training. He musn't disturb them, they were working so hard...

Surely they would understand, though? Because they loved him, yes...because they loved him. They would take a break from their training and be with him. He couldn't wait. They were finally coming home to him.

Phil couldn't help but smile as he set his things down and headed for the training room.

...

Maria didn't want to go. Fury had ordered her, and so she had done it, but she didn't want to go. Victoria had been the best girlfriend ever and agreed to walk her to the training room, but she had work to attend to, and a quick walk wouldn't belay the fact that she had to go in there and face Phil Coulson.

Still, she kissed Victoria's forehead, promised to be home in time for dinner, even if dinner was at eight and out of takeout boxes again, and sent her off for her budget management. Maria grit her teeth and went into the training room, her head held high.

He wasn't there yet, thank god. Maria relaxed for a second, allowing herself a few minutes to limber up and get ready to spar; even the junior agents, when she had to fight thirty or forty, could give her a major workout, and Victoria got pissy when she came home battered and bruised. She didn't like how angry at Fury Victoria got when that happened...it wasn't his fault, right? Fury wasn't out to hurt them or anything—

The door swung open and Agent Coulson walked in, his shoes echoing on the mats as he adjusted his tie and stood in front of her.

"Commander Hill," he greeted her. "Good morning. Are you ready to train?"

Not with a man who's gone completely insane, no.

"Of course, agent. And please; you know this is an informal place, you've permission to refer to me by my first name." Maria said. "So...whenever you're ready—"

"Darlings?" Phil called out. Maria flinched. Phil didn't appear to notice. He made his way over to the ladder that led up to one of Clint's nests. "Are you all right? I didn't mean to disturb you...I know you've been training hard..."

Maria's throat was dry as a bone, rattling away in an unmarked agent's grave. She swallowed, but it did no good. Still, she forced herself to speak.

"They left, Phil." She murmured.

He whirled on her suddenly with a savage pain in his eyes that made her step back a few inches, just enough that she might outrun him to the door. She had to fix this, fast.

"They left—uh, for your office, Phil. They didn't know you were coming, so...they wanted to surprise you by visiting you...and getting some paperwork done, so you three could relax at home tonight...and you wouldn't be so busy. That's all. Let them help you out. They've...they've been in here long enough." Maria murmured.

Everyone was watching with interest now. Phil still looked like he was either going to break down sobbing or shoot her.

He came closer, closer still, so close that Maria wanted to back away but couldn't, her whole body tense with fear.

Then he turned around.

"Oh," he murmured, "my darling did leave his bow up in his nest. I thought I saw it there." He looked at Maria. "Should I leave it there for him?"

Maria didn't trust herself to speak, so she just nodded.

"...We've got other things to do," she finally managed to force out from her throat, "he'll...he'll come back for it later."

Coulson actually smiled. Maria bit her lip and tried not to scream.

Chapter 36: The Training

Summary:

Maria fights ghosts and has a talk. There are lesbians. Coulson has some problems.

Notes:

First really big Victoria/Maria moment so I hope that means people other than myself will end up shipping it!
Also feels. Apologies for how this really does not get better for a long, long time. Oops. I love you guys.

She settled the recruits and agents into sparring sessions easily enough, putting them through their paces and pushing them into new moves to make them work this practice. She let them partner up and work, watching them intently.

"Phil," she called, his name half-clawed from her throat, dragged screaming and mewling like a rabid animals out past her lips, "I need you to come spar with me."

Those words meant she was in for one hell of a day. Maria didn't expect much else from S.H.I.E.L.D., though. She could handle this. She could...she could handle this.

As she went through her paces, light and quick on her feet, he moved with her, entirely focused on the moves. He didn't seem to be lost in Clint or Natasha, either; there was nothing beyond that blankness that she could see. No grief or loss had even touched him yet. He had locked it so far down deep that not even his eyes betrayed him. He was the same placid, nurturing, obedient agent as he had been before.

But the way he blocked her now was a move she recognized as a signature of Natasha's. When she got caught off guard from a blow, it was because it was not a punch like his regular fighting style; it was all Clint, right down to the way he shifted his feet. They were there with him, but their loss was not in his eyes. He did not know. He did not understand. At least, not in any place where she could see it.

There were other places where a man could understand loss, though; Maria knew. She had felt them. Loss stirred within her, wet and hungry for her heart in those places, and she knew they were not places others could see. No, Phil felt his loss there, but it was buried down deep, deeper than even he knew. Parts of it bubbled up to the surface, though; just in ways he wouldn't need to acknowledge, like how he fought as his lovers had now.

It was so, so much worse to know that loss and loneliness lurked deep in places Maria couldn't see in him than to just simply see it on his face. That was bad enough. That was a look she knew, had seen on others, on herself. This...this ran deeper than grief, hid itself beneath grief and rage and sorrow, so that the knives of those raw, visceral emotions could not cut and tear at the few fragile shreds of hope Phil had left.

She fought him, and it was like sparring with ghosts.

Clint and Natasha were at his side, guiding his punches, settling him into his stances, forcing his blows further, pushing him out of the way of her own punches back, making his dodges elegant and quick.

Maria knew the agents were watching them. Some of the more asute ones had even noticed what Phil was doing, so unconscious of it himself. They had already begun to whisper to their comrades and partners. She had expected it, from the junior agents especially; they were seasoned enough to understand partner bonds, but green enough to never have had them tested, never been forced to consider how deep those bonds ran.

Phil was breaking to pieces in front of her and she couldn't even see it in his eyes. That frustrated Maria the most.

She could handle broken. She could handle disturbed, angry, self-pitying, psychotic partners who were separated. She could handle begging and pleading for safe returns, nights spent staring at the walls as if they would turn to doors and bring their partners home. She could handle drinking, smoking, drugs, all the vices an agent could think of to make the hurt stop. She had felt it all, done it all, went through it all.

But she could not handle someone who was, to the casual viewer, totally whole. Whole yet hollow; that was Phil right now. He was not disturbed, (not on the outside, anyway), not angry or self-pitying, nor had he gone psychotic. There was no begging or pleading yet. No staring at walls; no drinking, smoking, or drug binges. He was going insane, and it was all behind closed doors.

Maria didn't know what to do.

So she fought him. She punched and kicked and fought, as if she could shatter that facade and pull all the pain and grief to the surface, so that she could confront it, so that everyone could see it, so that they would understand what this man had gained and given up in the span of just two weeks. She wanted all of S.H.I.E.L.D. to see his scars and understand. Phil was owed that much for what they had done.

Maria didn't pity him, though. Not really. She just understood him. That was enough to grieve for him, however, at least a little.

So she punched hard and kicked fiercely, trying to break down the wall. But the ghosts fought with him, and Phil remained standing.

Maria finally pulled away after what might've been hours, or simply minutes. She didn't know, nor did she care.

"Right," she said. "Break for twenty. Get something to eat and meet us back in here."

They dispersed with the gossip already bubbling up from within them to coat their lips like venom. Maria watched them all leave.

"I should stay in here," Phil murmured. "My darlings are in our office working. I don't want to disturb them. I'll...clean up Clint's nest. He's always so messy..."

Maria nodded, numb from both the workout and what she wanted to see in Phil's eyes but couldn't.

"I'll bring you something back, agent." She promised.

With that, Maria turned on her heel and left the room as fast as she possibly could.

Phil just went up into Clint's nest, climbing the ladder with a careless sort of grace, as Clint might have done.

...

Victoria chewed on her pen, crossing and uncrossing her legs, humming quietly as she made a few adjustments to her calculations. Fury wanted a preliminary budget for his new Avengers Initiative, and she had been picked to do the spreadsheets.

Her hair hung in her face as she sighed, tilting her head a little to try alleviate some of the soreness that had built up. She had spent two hours poring over these papers, and that much inactivity bothered her. She would ask Maria to spar with her tomorrow, maybe. She liked doing it with her; it was intimate and fierce, and made up for the occasional lack of other contact in their lives, considering their schedules. Plus, she learned a lot from her lover in regards to defense...

There was a quiet knock at her door. Victoria ignored it, adjusting a few numbers and sketching in potential deficits.

The knock got more insistent. Victoria just adjusted her glasses.

The knock turned into a sharp bang, and before Victoria could so much as jump, Maria stood in the doorway, her eyes wild.

...Maybe she would wait another few days before sparring with her girlfriend.

It was times like this where Victoria, as much as she loved Maria, almost...feared her. Not that she believed Maria would hurt her...but that she would hurt herself, or someone else. Her rage was vicious when unleashed, and simply being in its presence alternately made Victoria tremble and her heart sing.

Maria crossed the room in two brisk strides, yanking a wire and cutting off the video feed that played in the office. There was something in her hand. Victoria didn't ask about it. She didn't so much as breathe.

"You need to eat." Maria finally said. She set a box in front of Victoria; one of the ones from the Japanese takeout five minutes from base, Victoria's favorite. She blinked, raising an eyebrow, but didn't refuse, even if it meant she was abandoning her work until the end of Maria's break.

She opened the box up as Maria took out her own lunch and bit fiercely into an apple, ripping a chunk away. The predator comparison from earlier was simply intensified. Victoria said nothing about it, simply taking one of the takoyaki from the takeout box and eating. That seemed to satisfy Maria, and for about five minutes, the two ate in total silence.

"Do you remember when you went with Stiles' crew on a mission?" Maria asked, the question so jarring in their comfortable quiet. Victoria blinked.

"...Yes," she said. "It wasn't exactly pleasant, but I do remember it. Not particularly abnormal in its length; two weeks, if I remember right."

"You shouldn't have gone," Maria said. There was something creeping into her tone that put Victoria on edge. "You're a fucking accountant, for Christ's sake."

"And your personal assistant." Victoria reminded her, her pride a little wounded. Maria sighed and smiled ruefully at her.

"Yes, darling. My personal assistant. But you're still not...not the kind of agent who should be out on field missions. It's not that I think you're not capable, I do, I've sparred with you, believe me—it's just—it's just—"

Maria choked for a second, tears filling her throat, strangling her voice and making her eyes burn. Victoria looked up at her.

"Just what, Maria?" She asked.

In response, she suddenly had a lapful of Maria, her girlfriend gripping her shoulders, twisting her about, pushing her onto the desk, her back colliding with the piles of paper on top of it. Victoria didn't struggle. There was no need to. This was a ferocious beast, but it was all hers. And she liked it that way.

"You were supposed to be safe," Maria snarled, her voice like broken glass, tearing her throat and forcing tears from her eyes. "You aren't that kind of agent. You don't go on missions. You stay here. You stay with me. You stay safe. But I'm the reason you went out there, Victoria. It's all my fault. B-because you're m-my partner. Even if you don't fight, you're my partner. And he knew. And that's why he sent you. Even though it's not your fight. It's mine. But that's all he needs."

Victoria was very quiet.

She reached up and began to stroke Maria's hair, still silent.

"This is about Phil, isn't it." She finally said. Maria grit her teeth in a way that let Victoria know she was right.

"They took you from me for no good goddamn reason," she growled. "Took you away just to hurt me. I'm the Commander, Victoria. And they still took my partner away. They put you in danger just to prove to me that I could lose you. Like I didn't know that. Like that isn't what scares me every fucking day of my life."

She buried her face into Victoria's neck and inhaled slowly, counting the beats of Victoria's pulse beneath her lips. Victoria didn't protest; she just wound an arm around Maria's waist and held her close.

"They told me you went down and fought two of the biggest guys in S.H.I.E.L.D. after I left," Victoria said. "Fury had to sedate you. You wouldn't stop. You...you were angry. You were lost. You were scared."

"Damn right I was," Maria snapped. "I thought you were going to die. I thought I had lost you. And I knew it was all my fault. I almost...lost it."

"But I didn't, and you didn't." Victoria reminded her gently. "So this is about Phil—but why?"

"Because the same thing happened to him, and he isn't reacting!" Maria shouted, frustrated. "Fuck, he—he's angry, he's lost, he's scared, he's probably gone crazy, but he isn't showing it! He's just put this wall up and there's no way around it, and it's frustrating! I want him to break! If he breaks, they'll leave him alone! They'll never do this to him again, because he's learned his lesson, they won't need to!"

She closed her eyes and held Victoria tight, reminding herself of the reality of her weight in her arms.

"But if he doesn't," she murmured, "they'll never stop. If he doesn't break, they'll make him. Or they'll kill Clint and Natasha trying to do it. It's why we all break down. Because if we don't, everyone we love ends up broken instead."

Victoria felt the beast receding, only to be replaced by a grey sea of despair. She lifted herself up off the desk, pushing Maria back into her chair and sitting on her lap. She took her hands and pressed them against her heart, so Maria could feel it still beating beneath her fingertips.

"I'm still here." She promised.

"I know," Maria replied. "I know. I'm so glad." She closed her eyes and sighed. "Should...should I tell Phil?"

"No," Victoria told her. "You called him and told him Fury's orders. He'll take it out on you, and you don't deserve that. Believe me, he'll break. He's a good man. That's what they do when things like this happen. He'll break, and you just...have to stay out of his way once he does. So you're safe. Okay?"

"Okay." Maria promised, cupping her cheek and pulling her into a kiss.

They remained that way for a time, not speaking, just meeting at all the soft, vulnerable places they shared only with each other.

When Maria pulled away, the look in her eyes had softened, sweetened, and her touch was gentle as she stroked Victoria's hip with her free hand as she fed her bites of her lunch with her other. They sat together for as long as they could, remaining whole in each others' presence, reminding the other that they had not ended up broken.

"If he breaks, you have to go." Victoria said as Maria got up and went for the door a few minutes later. Maria stood at the threshold and sighed.

"...I'll try." She promised. "I won't let him hurt me, okay? Besides, it isn't me who he wants to hurt."

"Who, then? Fury?" Victoria asked. Maria shook her head.

"No. Himself," she said. "Because he thinks this is all his fault, too. Like I did. Like we all do."

She left the room and shut the door quietly, so that Victoria might have privacy to work.

Victoria stared at the closed door for a few minutes.

Then she sat back in her chair and mediated quietly, regulating her breathing and soothing herself. She was not in the right state of mind to do any work for Fury right now.

Chapter 37: The Wall

Summary:

Maria fetches Coulson. A cut back to Clint and Natasha. There is something behind the wall.

Notes:

An extra-long update for two reasons! One, this fic is officially being finished written. There's minor editing and tweaks to be made but the story itself is over. That means updates can get longer!
Second, I'm in NJ; Hurricane Sandy is going to come barreling down on us pretty soon. God only knows when I'll have power, let alone internet. So I'm updating both fics and hoping it tides y'all over. Sorry about this!

Back in the training room, Phil hummed as he took the nest in, quiet and content. It was cluttered, but in a comfortable sort of way; he liked it. It looked very much like something his darling would love.

He walked around its perimeter, observing; a few half-empty bags of cheetos, discarded arrows, a bow, a blanket and pillow, a few bullseyes drawn on the wall in marker, and a "HAWKEYE WAS HERE" scribbled over them. Phil's fingers brushed against his name, tracking the letters with his fingers, as if by memorizing the feel of Clint's codename with his fingertips, he could snap his fingers and bring his darling—

Phil stopped midthought, his fingers resting on the last letter. Bring his darling...where, exactly?

Up here to clean, of course. His darling was so messy; he didn't know how his meticulous Natasha had stood it before he had come along.

Phil chuckled, shaking his head. No, he couldn't bring Clint up here...no...

Because he would just make it worse, of course; Clint had a glorious eye for detail, but the second he was asked to pick things up off the floor, he conveniently forgot they existed and just stepped over them.

Phil smiled and shrugged, re-arranging a few things; touching up the bullseyes with a sharpie from his pocket, putting the arrows in a neat pyramid on the floor, throwing out the stale cheetos, and just generally clearing the place free of debris.

When he reached the blanket and pillow, though, he stopped.

Phil looked around, checking to see if any of the others had come back. No sign of anyone, not even Maria.

Seeing that, he sat down in the nest, took the pillow, and hugged it tight against his chest. He took the blanket and wrapped it around his shoulders, letting it drape over him, a comfort, a weight dragging him down, choking him, a cover, a safe haven, a blinder, and it all smelled and felt like Clint, and for whatever reason, Coulson began to sob.

Why was he crying? The blanket was soft and warm and Clint's. Why was that a reason to cry?

Coulson hugged the pillow tighter, but it too felt like Clint, smelled like him, for a second beneath his fingers was him, and it just made him sob harder, weeping up in the nest alone but for the arrows, the bow, and Clint's name, stark red on the wall, like the answer to a question Phil had forgotten.

He sat there for another ten minutes in the dark until the others came back. He knew some of them saw him up there, but hopefully, none of them had his Clint's sharp eyes, and at least they wouldn't see him crying.

Phil buried his face into the pillow for a second before he folded up the blanket, laid it on top of the pillow, set them both on the floor, and climbed down, completely placid, his face smooth and untroubled by tears.

The other agents stared at him, but they were getting better at it, and therefore he only saw them looking from the corner of his eye for a few seconds. Nothing more.

But he knew they were watching as he sparred with Maria again, their gazes heavy weight on his wall, threatening its strength. He ignored the cracks beginning to form in the wall and kept fighting.

If he kept fighting long enough...if he just kept going forward...

What? What would happen?

The answer lay beyond the wall.

Coulson decided he didn't need to know that badly after all.

...

A week in Nefaria's camps was an interesting experience, to say the least.

No, they did not sympathize with his cause. He had tortured them, brutally, and worse, separated them, they who were two halves of one whole. But they sympathized with these people, who clearly just wanted something better. It was S.H.I.E.L.D.'s fault if they had gotten it through Nefaria and not through them. It was up to the two of them not to just kill Nefaria...but make sure these people got something from it as well. Clint and Natasha could be content with revenge. These people just wanted bread.

Some of them had never seen so much food in their lives; it was clear in the way they regarded the daily feasts, even if it wasn't always how they ate. They ate sparingly, sure, considering they were usually worked to the point where the body shoved hunger aside to deal with the ache in its muscles, but they ate every bite with awe filling their eyes and making even the morsels of bread seem like lavish treats.

Most of them were like what Natasha and Clint pretended to be; young men and women with rough lives and rougher skills. Natasha pulled more punches in ten minutes with one opponent than she did in two weeks with ten of the greenest S.H.I.E.L.D. recruits. She did not particularly mind that, however; it aided her cover.

The careful tutoring made them like her a little more as well; while some still remained fearful of the woman that crept about the training field like a lioness when not sparring herself, her big eyes watchful, there were others still who asked her to sit beside them at the table and conversed with her in thickly accented English.

She learned bits and pieces about all the women's lives, as Clint learned about the men; the women had married young and wanted better than scrabbling in the dirt until they died, most of them desperate for whatever opportunity life chanced to toss their way.

Natasha understood the sentiment, and pitied them, though she did not show pity on her face; instead, she kept her face neutral and murmured empathy to them, words of comfort. She could use the words her Coulson had taught her...but the veil fluttered over her still, reminding her of what she had lost, and she found her face was too dangerous as of late; so much chance for betrayal. Words were smoother. Words could resound in her head in his voice and comfort her as much as they comforted the women.

Clint and the other men trained in a separate room; initially, they were afraid to approach him, because even bowless, a slowly-healing burn on his hand, and doing his best to be inconspicuous, there was a tiger that lurked underneath his skin. They preferred to watch him spar; Clint, like Natasha, pulled so many punches that he would end up working a punching bag over just to feel his whole body flowing with force, rather than a half-assed tap to pale, unmarred skin, no well-worn muscle beneath.

They were curious about Natasha, though, and so they dared approach him every so often to ask about her, to ask about him, and Clint found, with a dry sort of amusement to the thought, that he didn't need to make up much; a hard life, terrible parents, on the run for awhile, until he found her and they tried to settle down and find something better.

There were so many parts missing, but that was all right with Clint; those parts remained in his heart, safe and sound, and so he did not protest. He knew they were content with the morsels of story he offered, and so he let them accept him into their little pack, enjoying the company of normal men, at least a little. It was rowdy at the dinner table now that they had all settled in; in all truth, it reminded him a little of the circus.

Clint never showed the pity or understanding he had for these men, who lived rough lives and fought rough in return, and would so then die rough deaths, because his face would betray him, he knew that. He knew better words, though, finally; he knew just the right words to say, the things these people deserved to hear, because he had been taught them by one who would know all about broken people. So he gave words, because they were more likely to hit the mark, resound in his head in his voice, and comfort him like they might have comforted the men.

Clint and Natasha wished to speak those words to each other, when they laid in bed together and held on to one another tight; they knew if they did, however, he would be too close to them, so close they would break the dream, just to touch him, just to even have the hope of touching him, and then they would be lost. They would be Clint Barton and Natasha Romanov again, and they would be dead.

So they never said the words to each other; if they overheard them being discussed with the others, they might bask in him, but they would never say the words to themselves. They built up the barest scraps of a past for Nina and Phil, though even that was not necessary, all things considered; all that mattered now was training, purging the roughness and sharpening their skills.

Clint and Natasha were careful that first week, showing no prowess outside what was required, training in groups to blend in, never going near the targets or letting their muscles relax and the dam burst, the river of their strength running deep and fierce to choke and drown everyone else.

But they did not forget, even among these people and trapped in this dream, who they were. They did not forget they were killers and soldiers. They did not forget they were here to murder the man who presided over their dinner table, all the blood washed clean from his hands. They did not forget that these people might stop them when they did that, and how they would inevitably be forced to cut down the people who sat beside them and shared their lives with them. They did not forget what this would do to them. What things like this had done to them before.

They did not forget, however, that in spite of all this, they had to do this. Because they did not forget there was a man ten thousand miles away who was waiting for them to come home. They did not forget there was a man who would look past all this and love them as people waiting back where it was safe and warm and full of love.

They did not forget Coulson. They could never, ever forget Coulson.

And as the week wore on, that made all the difference.

...

Natasha laid in bed with Clint that night; it had been their first week's end, and the feast had been grand. Nefaria had given them a speech on their improvement—and singled the two of them out specifically. Everything was going as it was meant to go...

"In a month, maybe," Clint whispered in quiet Chinese; they had overheard one of the guards speaking French and decided on another language no one was liable to speak. "In a month or so, we'll be home, and we'll tell Phil as soon as he comes and gets us from the plane."

"You think he'll be there to meet us?" Natasha murmured. Clint snorted, amused.

"Darling, I think he might intercept the jet midflight if he could. He'll be there the second we open that door and get off the plane. And we'll tell him. In front of Fury himself if we gotta. But I'm not waiting a second longer. I refuse." Clint muttered. Natasha nodded in agreement and stroked his hair.

"It is all right, Clint. I promise. I don't know if we'll be back in a month," she murmured, "but not much longer than that. We musn't remain too long. Our Coulson will be alone..."

"...Yeah." Clint whispered, the thought suddenly occurring to him. It took him a second, but it hit him with the full force of all that loneliness, and he actually whimpered in pain at the thought. "Oh, god, Nat, he's alone, all alone, and you know no one's helping him—Nat, oh god..." Clint choked back a few tears. "Nat, we left him alone. Nat, he's scared. Nat, he misses us..."

"I know, sweetheart," Natasha replied, her voice gentle as she stroked his hair. "We had no choice. He knew that. He is a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent. He understood, darling. He understood. And he waits for us. He is not angry. He is frightened for us, but he is brave. All will be well. He knows he is not alone."

Clint sniffled, burying his face into her chest, seeking comfort in the softness of her breasts and the safety of her warmth and her heartbeat. She was with him. She was his Natasha, and she promised him his Coulson would be safe. All would be well. Natasha had promised.

Natasha watched him curl up against her with a small, sad smile on her face. She had never seen Clint like this, so lost and afraid. It was heartbreaking and heartwarming in equal measure; it spoke of his pride that she had never seen him in such a way, and spoke even more of his love for their Coulson that he would forsake it so. 

Clint curled up and let her stroke his hair, lulling him to sleep. He reached up and squeezed her hand before he dropped off entirely, however; he wanted her to know he would take care of her, too. Natasha smiled at the gesture, knowing Clint's strength was always with her, even in his worst moments.

"Soon, darling. We will be home soon." Natasha promised. It was the last thing Clint heard before he slipped into the darkness, her arms his only support as he drifted through a dream in which the only things that existed were the backseat of a car and the warmth of a desert that he was driving through, the people he loved all around him, safe and sound and not alone...

...

Coulson finished up the week easily; still, his wall of denial was intact. There had been a few things that had put cracks in it, wearing it down, but all those incidents were smoothed aside, forgotten about. He made dinner for his darlings every night, but he went to the grocery store alone now. The first time, that had threatened to bring the whole wall down. Then he reminded himself that his darlings were back at work now, training harder than ever...no wonder they couldn't come with him.

So he bought up plenty of supplies and continued to cook dinner and make coffee, and the week wound down and slipped into the weekend. He normally took at least half of Sunday off; this weekend, he did not leave his office.

This did not escape the notice of the gossip hounds, and the murmurs began growing into a dull roar. A lot of them, all of them outlandish, but with enough truth to some of them that it would break Coulson, should he ever find out.

Fury listened and thought the same thing. Naturally, he then summoned Maria to his office.

His second in command stood in front of him, her face like stone, as Fury gestured to the recordings in front of him.

"The agents are getting restless. It's been a week, Maria. They know the ritual at this point; you all do. He hasn't even shown any hint of deterioration. They want blood. They can smell it under his skin, but you have to cut him and let it get out." Fury said.

Maria was quiet. Something flickered behind her eyes, but she knew who she was talking to, and so she stifled it quickly.

"...A few more days, sir." She murmured, thinking not of Phil now, but a suitcase neatly packed and a kiss at the door before she left to die, and the dye on her hands, bright pink and yet so close to blood to her broken heart and tear-filled eyes.

Fury raised an eyebrow, but he did not say anything yet. He just watched her, awaiting her justification.

"Sir, this mission has the potential to last for months. We received word that the two are undercover, trying to get close to Nefaria through his new guard. If we tell him right now, then his mental state will be shattered—probably until they return home. That could be months. We can't have Coulson out of commission for months. Just a few more days, sir. See if he figures it out on his own. See if someone breaks it to him anyway. But don't force it, not yet. At least in denial, he's doing his job." Maria told him.

Her heart pounded; she didn't honestly think it would work. Not for the Director, who loved this game better than anyone else.

A few more beats passed.

"...True enough." Fury said. Maria's heart almost stopped.

"Still," Fury added, "I want you to keep an eye on him. Make him interact with people. Try to tear down that wall, Commander. He can't keep it up anymore. It doesn't help anyone."

Maria privately disagreed with that idea, but she said nothing. She just nodded in agreement, saluted him, and left the room, her boots thudding softly on the steel floors of the base.

The others had started to notice how often she paid Coulson a visit these days; as she made her way to his office, one of the senior agents stopped her. She liked Stiles; she had never held a grudge against him for taking Victoria with him on that mission. It wasn't his fault. If it hadn't been his team, it would have been someone else's.

"He all right, Commander?" Stiles asked. "You've been paying a lot of attention to 'im lately. Phil's a good guy. He didn't do anythin'."

"No, agent. That isn't...that isn't it." Maria said, touched by the man's immediate defense. She sighed and massaged her temples. "He's fine, I swear. We're not looking to hurt him. I...I'm just here to oversee him for awhile after his leave of absence. Especially considering...what happened."

"Yeah, I keep up with the gossip. Dunno how much of it's true, but I heard the greens talking about it during lunch. They said he was like a ghost when you fought with him." Stiles met her eyes, steady and strong in his gaze. "Did it feel like that, Commander?"

Maria took a second to answer, due in large part to the chill that had been sent skittering down her spine at that question.

"...A bit, agent. It did, just a bit." She chewed her lip and sighed, making her way down to Coulson's office. Stiles followed after her.

"He's better now, though. And you can tell the recruits I don't want gossip," she said, knowing as well as Stiles that it would do them both no good to give the order. She suspected Fury liked it that way. "I've got to go see him. And Magnusson wants to see you about another mission, I believe."

He saluted her and left, heading off in the opposite direction as Maria sighed and reached Coulson's door.

"Agent Coulson? Are you in?" She called.

She didn't want him to open the door. It was hiding something, hiding it from her, from Phil, who even knew anymore—but it was keeping something back, too, something dangerous and fierce and deadly. She did not want to open that door. Not for anything.

"Yes, I am, Commander. I'll be with you in a second." He said, his tone the same genial, polite murmur it always was when he spoke to anyone in S.H.I.E.L.D., even her.

The only person his tone changed around was the Director, now that Maria thought about it. And when he spoke to the Director as of late...

There was something there. Something dark and grieving and full of rage. But it was all blocked off by that wall. All of it...

The door opened and Maria tensed, more on instinct than anything; as if she was stepping onto a killing field rather than into a fellow agent's office. She would've scolded herself for her stupidity had she not gotten a glimpse behind Coulson's eyes.

Oh, that look. If only she could forget that look forever.

There was despair there. Despair and rage and pain. So much pain. So much loss. So much red.

His gaze burned like fire, but his eyes were so, so cold. He could kill them all, Maria realized, and he would do it. He would do it all just to get them back. He wouldn't regret it, either.

That wall, perhaps, was not just for his benefit.

Maria did not question the Director. She did not ever question Fury. He knew everything about everyone, and thus, always knew the smartest and most efficient ways to handle a situation.

She would never question him again. She knew that.

But just this once, maybe. Just this once.

Even as she thought that, she knew if she questioned him, though, she would still follow her orders. So it changed nothing. And it would not make that look in Coulson's eyes leave her mind. Nothing would, most likely.

"Hello, Phil," she said, and his mask slipped back into place at the sound of her voice. "I'm just here to tell you Director Fury wants you out of the office for the day. He has a few debriefings you need to attend and a training session he would like you and a few other senior agents to sit in on."

Phil regarded her with blank eyes; Maria still shivered as their gazes met, because now she knew what lurked just beyond that blankness. She wondered if he did. If he really understood just how their loss had affected them. Not yet, most likely. But he would understand soon.

"Of course, Commander," he agreed, his voice still placid. "Will you be accompanying me?"

Maria nodded, trying not to betray the cold shudders that notion sent through her body. She just smiled and nodded, allowing him to collect his things before they were sent off to the briefing.

Chapter 38: Television

Summary:

There is a briefing. Coulson watches television.

Notes:

Hey y'all! Sandy knocked my power out for a week but I'm okay again, and thankfully there was no major damage, but being without power for a week sucked!
Are any of you doing NaNo? Just curious. I'm at 20k because I hate myself, that's what, and it's more fic! With fun times and lesbian threesomes. And suffering. Always.
But yeah no it'll go up on Ao3 once it's done, promise. And hopefully it'll be a bit shorter than these fucking behemoths.
I would've made this update a bit longer but to do so I'd have had to cram in an important turning point in the plot, and I'd rather not. So an update shortly after this one!

She took a seat beside him as the mission objectives and plans were discussed; it wasn't a mission either of them were going on, but Phil was still watching intently. Maria wasn't sure why. She had honestly thought he would zone out, slip back into whatever land of denial the agent now inhabited.

He didn't, though. He watched the whole mission objective carefully, listened to the plans quietly, and finally, when it was announced who would be going on the mission, he stood up.

The whole room fell silent; most of the agents here were green, Maria realized, greener than summer, why had they been sent here—

"Agent Garland, while I think your objective is sound and your plans are solid, you made an error in your selection. There's an agent you're missing. I know you're sending Agent Morse and Agent Drew. Agent Walters needs to accompany them." Phil said.

There was something in his voice that made all of them quiver. Agent Garland, to his credit, did not openly quail beneath that might. Phil just watched him, his eyes calm, his bearing relaxed.

"Agent Coulson, these orders came from Mission Control, and I have no control over them. You have authority, sir, but Mission Control's decrees still override your order—"

Coulson held up a hand to silence the agent before turning to Maria. Her heart seized up in her chest.

"Commander Hill," he said pleasantly, "you've got the say here. I think the mission would go much smoother if you had all three of them on the mission. Wouldn't you agree?"

Fury would kill her.

On reconsideration, the fear of death set aside, however...wasn't this a good way to provoke something? Start a fight of some kind? Make him break?

No, Fury wouldn't kill her. But provoking that fight might.

Still. His orders.

"I agree," she said, tensing herself for the oncoming storm. "They will be placed on this mission as well. It will speed up the mission and improve its rates of success."

There was a beat of silence in the debriefing room.

"Aw, what the hell! So just because he loses his two fuckbuddies, he gets to dictate every mission? I thought we were all supposed to just put up with Mission Control, I mean—"

Coulson had his gun trained on the agent faster than any of them could blink.

None of them moved. None of them so much as breathed.

Not as green as I thought. Maria remarked privately, a strange calm taking over her despite the proceedings. She was not entirely shocked by the calm. It was a calm born of understanding, of having seen this situation and felt these feelings before and knowing exactly how this would play out.

"My darlings," Coulson said quietly, his voice not changing from its placid tone, his expression neutral, "are in the training room. They are working hard. Harder than any of you. I have not lost them. I have them. They are here. I would advise you against stating otherwise. If you do, I will kill you. And no one in this room will stop me."

They really wouldn't. Maria realized, her calm giving way to numbness.

Coulson reholstered his gun and straightened his suit jacket, flicking a stray tangle of dust and carpet fluff from his sleeve.

"Briefing's over," he said, "dismissed."

Technically Agent Garland, as the one in charge of the briefing, or Commander Hill, being the member in the room of highest rank, should have dismissed them.

They all fled anyway—Agent Garland and Commander Hill included.

Coulson remained in the room for a minute, just watching the wall.

He took out his gun with a sharp snap, put three bullets in the wall in front of him, and walked away without a word.

...

Maria ordered them all down to the canteen and sent orders down for someone to break open the whiskey down there. Everyone had looked like they were in sore need of a drink as they left that room—herself included, she was sure, but she couldn't drink. She had to stay sober, much to her frustration, because frankly, considering everyone had decided to question her in regards to Coulson's mental break, she could use the pleasant weightless buzz of being drunk.

"Is he a threat, Commander?" Garland asked, trying to phrase the question as politely as possible despite the worry and anger she could hear in his words. She suspected that agent was a member of his team; when she met his eyes to speak and saw the fear in them, her suspicions were confirmed—and new ones arose.

"No, agent. He isn't. Except, maybe, to himself." Maria sighed. "He's got a lot on his plate right now, all right? The guy just lost both his partners. We all handle it a little differently. You know that."

"Yeah, but not by pretending they're still here!" Garland snapped, frustration getting the better of him. Maria shot him a look. He tensed.

"Sorry, Commander," he mumbled apologetically, "but it's true. He's not "handling" this at all, and he could be dangerous. For the sake of my team and everyone else in S.H.I.E.L.D., I'm asking you—is he a threat? Or will he become one?"

"I don't know." Maria responded. It was as honest as she could be, and that frustrated her. She sighed.

"Go get yourself a drink, agent. You deserve one. I'm going to go deal with him." She said, storming off down the hall before he could respond.

This was ridiculous. She wanted to tell him. A wave of anger took her over at the thought; yes, she wanted to tell him. Let him suffer. Let him realize he had gotten everything taken away from him, because damn it, they all did, they all knew, they had all watched, and what made him so special, why should he get to believe they were safe, why why why—

Maria realized she had come to the training room.

She pushed her way through the doors and stepped inside, still slightly unsure as to why she had come here. Once she saw what was inside, though, she understood.

Coulson had torn half the place apart in a desperate bid to find something. She knew exactly what he was looking for...and knew full well he wouldn't find it.

Still, she watched him.

He scrabbled frantically at the locker doors, ripping them open, desperate to find something, anything of theirs, pacing the training room, calling their names, stopping and checking in the separate, private training rooms as well, still silent in his steps, calm in his calls.

That changed pretty quickly, however, once he saw they weren't there.

His gait became more disjointed, practically oozing desperation; his voice got higher and louder, the sounds of their names beginning to sound like inhuman shouts for mercy, for deliverance, for home; the way Maria bet their names sounded in his dreams.

Coulson made his way around the training room once more. He slammed his fist against the wall in frustration, as an afterthought, almost; as he did, the vibrations his punch sent through the wall knocked the bow teetering on the edge of Clint's nest right off of it, only to have it fall at his feet.

A total silence fell over the training room.

He picked up the bow in one swift, graceful movement. For a minute, he just held it against his chest.

He screamed their names once more and then fell silent.

Maria had to go to him. She could practically see his wall crumbling.

"Phil," she said, and he turned on her with that look in his eyes again, and it took all she had not to tremble. "Phil, go home. You've had a long day. It's time to go home, Phil. Go rest. Please. Just go rest."

He watched her with the red in his eyes, the murderous hate, and when he came closer she grit her teeth and prepared for death.

He put a hand on her shoulder, suddenly, his touch as gentle and polite as it normally was.

"Tell them I've gone home, won't you, Commander?" He said, his voice making her stomach drop to her feet. "Tell them I'll be waiting for them to come home, too. Tell them to be quick. I've waited long enough."

He left after that. The only sound she heard for a long time afterwards was his shoes resounding almost noiselessly on the floor. It sounded like madness as it rung in her ears.

Maria did not move for a long time. She stood there in the empty training room, just looking around, not really seeing.

Then she turned on her heel and went towards her office. She had a mission briefing she needed to find.

...

Phil drove home carefully, quietly, despite the madness lurking just beneath his skin, the swirl of anger and frustration and rage and fear that was making his hands shake as he gripped the wheel. He had to get home. Home was safe. He had to drive faster...

He drove as fast as he could and ran into the house, falling to his knees and gripping the couch for support. He crawled onto it and hugged the nearest throw pillow tight to his chest, his body shuddering and quivering with the effort it took not to weep.

He laid there for a long time. He didn't know how long. It didn't matter. He was just killing time until his darlings came home. Until they came home, nothing mattered. Nothing would ever matter until his lovers came home. They were on their way, surely? Coming home after a long day at work...

Yes. It would have been a very long and stressful day. So he would make them dinner. A nice, warm dinner that they would love. He would make them something warm and beautiful, something delicious...

Phil forced himself to get up and head into the kitchen. Before he did, though, he put on a record; the first one Natasha had listened to. The one that had made her cry.

He started up dinner as it played in the background, the notes threading through the house, reaching out to people who were no longer there.

Tears ran down Phil's face, but he ignored them. He had to finish dinner. His darlings needed to eat, after all...his darlings would need dinner...

The hissing of the oil blended with the music and the bubbling of the stew knocked some sense into him. Phil had to cook. He had to eat. He wouldn't worry his darlings by not eating...

The act of cooking contented him, for a time. He made Clint and Natasha their dinners, and then actually made the effort to make himself something as well; he fried up some stir-fry and ate a full meal for the first time in awhile.

He did not eat at the table; on some subconscious level, he knew the wall was crumbling and so fought against it with all his might. If he had eaten at the table alone, the wall would've come down completely, to be washed away into seas of despair that would drown him in their depths.

He finished his dinner quickly and went upstairs to wait. He turned on the television and settled onto one of the sitcoms Natasha had liked; some cheap, trite one that had nevertheless made his darling smile, pleased. It was all new to her, after all...

Phil curled up with their pillows pressed against his chest and waited.

Hours passed. The shows all began to blend together, becoming blurred and slow with exhaustion, voices distorted and people demented in appearance with his slowly-failing vision. He had to keep holding on, though. His darlings...his darlings would be coming up the stairs any second now, they just thought he was asleep and were just keeping quiet so that they wouldn't wake him...

Coulson fell asleep that night with the sounds of tinny laughter ringing in his ears, repeating over and over from the television's warped, pulsing screen.

Chapter 39: Realization

Summary:

It all comes tumbling down.

Notes:

So...yeah. The first break.
Oh, of course there's another. This is basically the arc of Coulson's suffering. I love him, really. I do. But he's so fascinating and breaking him is just an exercise in fascinating douchebaggery. I am not a nice person, I think.
Anyways, dream sequence dream sequence everybody loves dream sequences!

The dream was cold and dark and the only sound he heard was laughter, broken and keening and verging on hysterical.

He was walking over shards of something that crunched underneath his feet like shattered bones. He could not help but shudder.

Still, he pressed onward. He was needed somewhere. He was needed...by someone...who? He couldn't...remember.

Darlings?

A tiger came to walk beside him. Coulson did not question it. His muscles moved like rippling waves of fire, leaping up into the darkness. His stripes were blackest night; his fur, the sun. When he flexed his claws, they dripped blood.

Coulson buried a hand in his fur; even if the tiger bit his hand off, it would be worth it, but for a second of having touched that warmth, felt the muscle beneath and known it to be strong and real.

The tiger did not so much as twitch.

Coulson knew then that he had tamed whatever monster lurked beneath the tiger-skin, and so he smiled, pleased. The tiger flicked his tail.

The two of them walked along for a little while longer, the bone-crunch resounding in every step. Coulson had to keep a steady hand in the tiger's fur to refrain from shuddering; the tiger began to growl every so often, as if to help silence the noise.

Eventually, they could not walk any longer, and the two of them sat down together. When they did, they dissolved into the darkness, bleeding through the fabric of the dream and falling into something new.

The strands of a web caught them both, holding them steady. Coulson stood up, brushing off his suit jacket, and offered the tiger a helping hand. The tiger got up on his own, however, but bumped his head against Coulson's hand in thanks.

The two of them went forward across the strands of the web. They hummed with a voice that made Coulson moan with desperate longing; the tiger roared with grief.

They both raced forward, eager and desperate, knowing deep in their hearts what lay at the center of the web but having to see it for themselves, running across the strands until finally, after what felt like forever, the two of them made it to the middle of the web, which shone in all the shades of red they could name, and many more they couldn't.

The woman that stood before them was unfamiliar, yet...not. Somewhere inside that woman, there was...someone Coulson knew, someone he loved, but...the pieces had not yet fallen into place...

The tiger bounded joyfully over to her side; he nuzzled her in greeting, and she smiled for him, buried her hands into his fur, and kissed his muzzle.

Coulson's heart burned with jealousy; he couldn't help it. He had been allowed to stroke the tiger, but this...this was something else. This was love. This was...something he didn't have...

Then the woman turned and held out her arms to him, a querying look to her eyes; as if to ask him why he had not run into her arms before this moment.

Coulson stepped forward hesitantly, until he found he could restrain himself no longer; he ran to the woman, buried his face into her chest, and wrapped his arms around her waist, hugging her hourglass body tight.
She stroked his hair for a time as the tiger wound his way around Coulson's legs, growling with delight and nuzzling at his hip. Coulson allowed himself a minute to bury his hands into her hair, before he finally tilted his head up to look at her.

She put a hand over his eyes before he could see her face; he did not struggle or protest, welcoming the darkness. He could not look yet. If he looked, all was lost.

There was something wrong, though. The woman should have something...something in her hands...

The tiger. The woman whom, in one hand, holds the antidote...the other, the poison.

Coulson let the woman take her hand away.

He held the woman's hands in his and took the antidote from her hand, offering it to her. She did not know how he knew—or even if he knew—but she trusted him, and so she took the antidote.

Half-remembered words came back to him in the dream, and it hit him then.

He had given her the antidote. All that was left...was the poison.

It was her poison, though. And he would take any part of her that he could get.

He took her other hand and kissed it. The venom leaked through the red hourglass marking on her hand, and he drank it eagerly. It burned as it slid down his throat, like blood and fire, but it did not matter. It was hers, and so he was hers, and the tiger took him by the throat and tore it out to get at the venom, and that was just fine, because now he was the tiger's too, and he was dying...

Coulson awoke with a sharp gasp, an aching fire in his heart, and the TV still blaring, tinny laughter awakening him just as it had lulled him to sleep. The dream was pulling at him, making him think. There was such emptiness in this bed, such...loss. Loss of what? Why? Where were they? Where was he?

No. Focus on the routine. He had to go make coffee for his darlings. They would want a cup of coffee...they were already at work...oh, dear. They shouldn't have left—

left the television on?

no no that wasn't it no—

left—left for work?

no

left him

Coulson scrambled for the shower and stood under scalding hot water for a good ten minutes. He welcomed the burn.

Eventually, when the hot water sputtered out, Phil got out of the shower and dried off, getting dressed in their bedroom and making his way downstairs.

He made the cups of coffee and stared at them for a very long time. The murky darkness in the cup betrayed no secrets.

Coulson flung both mugs at the wall and left the kitchen, grabbing his briefcase and making his way to the car without so much as a whisper.

He drove all the way to headquarters with his hands shaking as he gripped the wheel. He did not look into the backseat. If he looked back he was lost.

He pulled into the base's parking lot and got out. The tiger walked beside him, head held high, venom dripping from its mouth. The woman walked beside the tiger, her stomach slick with blood and her hands empty.

Coulson did not say a word to anyone. He didn't have to. The mask had fallen, shattered irreparably, and it let them all see what was beneath.

The recruits who had only heard whispers of him trembled and hid as he walked towards his office with a slow, measured step. The agents he had fought alongside and known personally all looked away, unsure of how to reconcile their image of the mild-mannered, put-together agent with the beast that made his way down the hall. The senior agents who had suffered his same fate before all bowed their heads in respect and understanding as he passed. The beast did not frighten them. They had known it well.

Coulson walked the rest of the way to his office, his hands clenched so hard that his nails drew blood.

When he opened the door, blood stained the handle. He shut it with a quiet click, not noticing the blood. The pain meant nothing to him.

He sat in his chair. The tiger sat in one of the chairs beside him, the woman in the other.

A manila folder sat on the desk. It was innocuous; a standard S.H.I.E.L.D. file, stamped "classified," with "MISSION OBJECTIVE" written across it in bright red.

He placed his hand on it to pick it up. When he took his hand away to open it, he noticed the blood this time. He thought it appropriate.

Coulson opened the file and and took out the papers. The illusions beside him melted into nothing as he read the reality before him, set out in thin black typeface.

"Agents Barton and Romanov have been sent on a mission...the two of them have been dispatched to Europe to deal with Count Luchino Nefaria, a Class 4 threat to S.H.I.E.L.D. in the department of "International Security." This is their second mission dealing with the Count. They have been taken off leave to perform the mission; the objective is to assassinate the Count, scatter his camps of followers into disarray by any means necessary, and make sure he is not to rise again. Projected time of mission: 4-6 months."

He read all of this and did not truly process it. Not until the last line.

"Partner: Agent Philip J. Coulson."

He put the file down, and the wall came tumbling down with it.

He had failed to protect them. When they had needed him most—when the wolves had come howling at their door, demanding blood and sacrifice—he had failed to protect them. Orders. Fury's orders. Fury...

Yes. Fury. Fury and pain and the red, so much red, and it was all such a blur—it had been the dead of night, they had been sleeping, and he could protect them from nightmares until they woke up—

Darlings, darlings no—

Coulson stood up and shoved his desk away from him, pushing so hard it tipped over. The clatter sounded like the world breaking.

He stood there for a few minutes, just staring at the fallen desk.

Then he pushed it upright and left his office, shutting the door carefully.

He went down the hall and toward the Director's office.

Fury. Fury, pain and the red. The waking nightmare.

From deep within him, a tiger growled.

Coulson smiled. Venom dripped from the grin.

...

Maria knew something had happened. Everyone was too quiet. There were no more whispers, no more gossiping queries; nothing had been said about Agent Coulson yet this morning.

"Victoria," she said, tugging quickly on her girlfriend's jacket and fixing her with a sharp look, "go. I don't want you on the bridge or in Fury's office for any reason today. Lock yourself in your office and stay there."

Victoria turned to her with every intention of arguing, until she saw the look on Maria's face.

"Is that an order, Commander Hill?" Agent Hand, Chief Accountant of S.H.I.E.L.D. asked.

"It is, agent." Commander Hill, Second in Command of S.H.I.E.L.D. Forces replied.

Victoria kissed her, so quick it was gone before her heart beat twice.

"Be safe. I love you." She whispered.

Maria nodded, too numb to say anything. She held her hand until Victoria's fingers slipped from hers, though, so she figured that was enough for Victoria to understand. She was clever. So clever, so beautiful. Victoria would find another woman if she died today.

Maria grit her teeth, took her gun and gripped it for comfort, and went for her own personal office. She was not staying in Fury's today. There was being prepared for death, and then there was just plain suicidal.

...

Fury was not surprised at all by the knock on his door.

"Come in, Phil." He called out.

Phil walked in and stood in front of his desk, the picture of an attentive, obedient subordinate.

"You took my darlings from me," he said, and the look in his eyes made even Fury uneasy. He did not show it, though; he was better than that.

"Yes, I did," he said. "Do you know why, Coulson?"

"No, sir." Phil responded. Fury chuckled.

"Because you're just like any other agent here, and so are they." He told him, leaning his elbows onto his desk. "You're a rare case, Phil. Your partner died before you ever knew him, and you never found another. These two are just a codependent wreck—and somehow, you wormed your way in between them. Splitting them up would be a horrible idea, but taking the two of them away from you...that's a different story. There's enough loss that they'll know exactly when to toe the line, but work as a coherent unit, and you...you've never lost a partner. Why should you, out of all the people in S.H.I.E.L.D., be special enough to make that claim?"

Coulson watched him for a long, slow minute.

The scars on his body ached with a pain far beyond physical, far beyond the flesh. He did not betray the pain. He just watched Fury as the room ran red around him.

Something deep down inside him snapped then, but it was so far down that he did not truly realize anything had broken. When it broke, everything else seemed to snap back into place—like the breaking had been so far down and so final that whatever else lurked in his mind could benefit from the sacrifice.

He nodded, unaware of the break, and purposefully ignoring the scars.

"Four to six months, then, sir?" He asked. Fury nodded.

"That's right. Four to six months. I wouldn't worry about it. They'll come back alive. They always do." Fury said. "Now, I think you've got some paperwork to finish?"

Fury pushed the file across the desk. Coulson picked it up and read the title, numb.

"Cute story. You did a good job fixing them up. But I never did get an ending from you." Fury told him. There was just the hint of a smirk playing at his lips. "Why don't you finish your report like a good agent, Phil?"

Coulson nodded. His body did not betray him; nothing shook as he met Fury's gaze.

"Of course, sir. Sorry, sir. I'll have it on your desk by the end of today, sir." Coulson promised. Fury nodded.

"Of course. Dismissed." He said, opening another file and skimming its contents. Coulson nodded, turning on his heel and leaving.

It was only once he shut the door that he came up with a reply to Fury's question; something he could never say but knew to be true.

It's not that I'm special. It's not that Clint or Natasha are special. It's that a loss like that shouldn't happen to anyone, ever.

Coulson went for his office, managing to make his way inside and shut the door before he lost it, tears in his eyes as he slumped down in his chair and sobbed, broken and hopeless, two holes in his heart that were slowly letting all of his love pour forth and search about aimlessly in hopes of bringing his darlings home.

He wept for what felt like hours, only forcing himself to take the file in hand and begin to write the rest of the report when he could see beyond the tears. He had to finish this. He couldn't slip up—he had to remain sane and on-task enough to keep doing his job. He couldn't risk losing his darlings because he did something that made Fury think he could take them away again...

He added in the ending. All about how they had been needed by S.H.I.E.L.D. for a mission, and what the mission was...

...But as he put his pen down, he realized he didn't remember just what, exactly, had transpired. His mind still blocked that out, for his own sanity.

However, there was one person who would know.

Coulson picked up the file and headed for Maria Hill's office.

Chapter 40: Backstory

Summary:

Coulson gets some more information. And a sweet new ride.

Notes:

So my headcanon is that Peggy took over the Commandos after Steve's death, wore his leather jacket into battle, and formed S.H.I.E.L.D. with the Howling Commandos as the first team of agents.
I love her so much, you guys.
Anyways, yep; Nefaria is actually a real comics villain, which explains the slightly ridiculous name. He's even stranger in the comics--I just sorta made him a warlord-type.
Oh, Maria. I love you and your complexities.
Anyways, tons and tons of love to everyone who reads this fic; I must confess, I much prefer this one to AatA in terms of complexity and emotional depth, and I'm glad it get the love it does!

Maria had been so worried about Victoria that she had thrown caution to the wind and simply wrenched open the door, hoping it was her lover, safe and sound and smiling.

Once she saw who stood at her door, however, it was all she could do to simply focus on that idea. She wanted her lover at her happiest to be the last thing she saw before she died.

"Agent Coulson." She greeted him like a man marked for execution. Phil did not speak.

Just to check, she looked up into his eyes and met his gaze.

The deep break, the one far down in the darkness, had allowed him to project an air of normality; she saw no murder, no grief, no sorrowful rage in his heart that had come bubbling up to be reflected back in his eyes. She relaxed.

"Commander Hill," he greeted her. "If it's not too much trouble, I have some questions I believe only you can answer about the leave that agents Barton and Romanov took last week."

"...Certainly." Maria said, hesitant. Still, he didn't seem angry, or half-mad with grief; he seemed calm, placid, businesslike—in other words, like the Coulson she had known before his leave.

"Thank you, Commander. I would finish the report myself, but there are a few details I'm still fuzzy on; things I don't remember. It was a rather early-morning call, after all." Coulson said, taking out his pen.

Maria tensed, but that seemed to be it; just the remark, not even pithy or caustic. Simply a statement of fact.

She hadn't thought him acting normal could be terrifying, but considering how broken he had been not but a day ago, she figured the sudden mood-shift was what was truly frightening. That...and the fact that she didn't know the truth.

"So...you know about the...mission, Phil?" She asked, forcing herself to sound simply blandly curious, not terrified she was probing too deep into too fatal a wound.

"Yes, of course. I need some collaborative recollections to finish the report, that's all." He said. "Did I protest, Commander? Did I bargain with you? Did I beg? Did I really want them to stay?"

Maria closed her eyes and tried not to shudder.

Oh hell, Phil. You did what every S.H.I.E.L.D. agent does, in the end. Don't hate yourself for that. You're one of us too, don't you see? Even when it hurts, even when it isn't a good thing—you're one of us.

"Yes, you did," she murmured. "You did what any agent would do, Coulson. Don't feel bad about that. You did exactly what any other agent would do in that situation. You did..." She sighed and shook her head. "You did what I did. If it helps."

"It does. I can finish the report now, Commander. Thank you." Coulson said, taking down a few more notes in pen.

Maria didn't know whether to laugh or scream.

"Why don't I take this to the Director," she offered. "You should go home and get some rest, Phil. You deserve it. I'll tell Fury I authorized it."

Phil nodded, handing her over the mission report without a word of protest. Maria took it, and for a second, her fingers brushed his. She could not help but shudder.

"Thank you, Commander," he said, his voice courteous. "One last thing."

"...Shoot, agent." Maria said, immediately regretting her turn of phrase. Coulson just looked at her.

"When they came to you for the briefing, what did they say?" He asked, his voice soft and agonized. "Did they say anything at all?"

"...Yes," Maria said slowly. "Yes, they did. They said that...that they were your people. That no mission would be enough to make them lose sight of that."

All the agony began to seep back into Phil's bones after that. He hung his head and nodded, like the weight of the world had started to fracture his spine.

"Thank you, Commander. I'll head home now. I appreciate the leave, truly." He murmured.

Before he could depart, Maria stopped him.

"Barton left his bike here," she said. "I don't have the keys to Romanov's car, but I do have his, here—"

She tossed them at him, and he caught them with practiced ease. He cupped them with care and blinked back tears as he looked at them.

"Hope you can ride a motorcycle, agent." Maria murmured. Coulson couldn't help but smile.

"It'll get me home," he promised. The love in his voice made her cringe. "Goodbye, Commander."

He left the room without another word. Maria watched him leave.

For a few minutes, she just stared at the empty door where he had once stood. Then, very quietly, she got up and shut the door, before going back to her chair and putting her head in her hands.

Eventually, she got up and went to give the report to Fury. He didn't say anything, but the way he smiled made Maria's stomach cringe. She just explained the situation and left, unable to control herself enough to do anything else. Five minutes later, she was wrenching Victoria's door open, slamming it shut, going to sit in her lap, and burying her face into her girlfriend's neck before promptly giving up for the day.

Victoria just held her. It was the least Maria deserved.

...

The desert raced past Coulson as he rode home, tears flowing freely down his face and soaking into the embrace of the sand, relaxing in its soft embrace. He gripped the handlebars and urged it forward; the bike responded to him with but a touch, acting almost on his thoughts, and it would have been exhilirating had he not been so broken he couldn't even scream, for fear the pieces of his broken heart would rise up and cut out his tongue.

The desert rushed up to embrace him, like it missed the two people who had come through its roads as well, curled up in the back seat of a beaten up SUV and resting, content, to the sounds of quiet, comforting jazz, the drawl of a saxophone winding down to the sunset as they embraced the rough-hewn heaven that was the sand and stone on the ground before them.

He let it comfort him, but only just, as he tilted his head up to look at the sun shining overhead, like a promise. It warmed him, soothed him, just for awhile, just until he made his way home and put the bike away, only to open the door and find himself in cold darkness again, and the sun, he realized, was much too far away to make any promises, and it was then that he keened, broken and loud and much too far gone to care about dignity or volume.

Coulson massaged his temples and sighed, calming himself down and biting the inside of his cheek to keep from screaming again. It took him a few minutes to force himself to do so, but he did manage to make his way upstairs and undress, making his way out of his clothes and getting into something more comfortable.

He and Clint were not the same pants size—however, he contented himself with wearing one of Clint's shirts. It was warm and soft and clung to him like an embrace, which soothed his nerves enough to convince him he should head downstairs and eat something.

Coulson made his way downstairs and into the kitchen. He didn't cook for his darlings. They were gone, and would be gone for so long, long enough that his heart might very well give out underneath the strain, and truthfully, he was so hungry. He hadn't subsisted on much for himself in the past few days...

He sighed and started cooking, a simple bowl of stir-fry that would be enough to keep him full for the night, and the silence of the house echoed emptily around him until he felt like he would stick his hand into the gas flames, just to scream and break the silence.

Instead, he sang. There was no one there to listen, but he had to fill the silence. It was a slow, mournful song, but it filled the gaps in the loneliness, and so all was well.

He made himself dinner and sat down to eat, taking a bite. It soured in his mouth and he frowned, wondering why, in fact, he was so adverse to the food.

He looked around the empty table and sighed, knowing he had his answer.

It didn't feel right to ignore their presence, as if they had never been a wonderful, wholly perfect part of his life. He had to do something...something to beat back the loneliness, keep the house from collapsing in on him.

Coulson resolved then and there that he would do the best he could to keep them alive, at least, through the only way he could. He would stick to his routine, remain organized, and go through the motions, even if they weren't there. Because that was what Clint and Natasha deserved. Because it was the only way he could survive the loneliness.

He took another bite. The taste bloomed warm and sweet in his mouth.

...

Coulson went upstairs after dinner and got into bed, watching the sitcoms Natasha and Clint loved. He would do paperwork in the morning. For now, he would rest.

He did not dream that night, and when he awoke in the morning, he felt as if he hadn't rested at all. Regardless, he had to go back into work; he knew Fury couldn't think he had won. His darlings would be fine; they would come back to him, safe and sound, and they would never be separated again.

That thought in mind, Coulson got in his car and drove to work; he refused to take Clint's motorcycle. Bringing it back to S.H.I.E.L.D. sat with him wrong, for whatever reason...

He sighed and got his briefcase, coming into base. Everyone he passed tried not to flinch as they saw him, but he wasn't an agent for nothing; he noticed. He couldn't help it. He couldn't blame them, either. He understood. He would be scared of himself too, quite frankly.

Phil went into his office without a word, only to find Maria sitting on his desk, giving him a long, careful look.
"Commander," he greeted her, betraying no surprise, "is something the matter?"

"I don't know, agent," she said, "is there?"

Coulson sighed and put his briefcase down, sitting in his office chair. Maria made to sit in one of the other chairs—then she saw him flinch, and realized whom they belonged to.

She remained where she was on the desk after that.

"This happens to every agent," he said, and his voice was the dull slowness of someone reciting a maxim not their own, "I know that. I know they were needed. I know they're the best S.H.I.E.L.D. has to offer. And damn it, I can do my job without them. I did before."

"I know it hurts, Phil. I'm sorry, truly." Maria murmured. "For what it's worth, they're not on the front lines. They're undercover; where they'll be safe. Your Widow is the best spy we have...and a very capable assassin. Plus, well...this is personal." 

"How so?" Coulson asked. "If it's not classified, Commander."

"You've got the security clearance," Maria dismissed it with a wave. "Besides...if anyone needs to hear this, you do."

"...All right," Phil said slowly, a pit of despair settling into his stomach, "so, what is it, Commander?"

"It must've been a shock to you, getting partnered up with Black Widow and Hawkeye. Everyone in this organization knows full well those two are a single unit; any intruders upon their partnership are forgotten or disposed of in days at best." Maria said, not yet getting to the point. Coulson shrugged.

"Fury said it was for this thing called the "Avengers Initiative;" I was to take care of them. I don't ask questions, Commander. But...off the record, I will admit I was curious." He confessed. Maria nodded.

"Understandable. Truth be told, agent, we assigned you to them because you were a rarity; a singularity within S.H.I.E.L.D. is an anomaly of the highest order, not seen since the days of Director Carter. That said, Clint and Natasha are an anomaly as well; partnerships are not always so deep. It's at the point where they act more like one person than a pair of partners..." Maria sighed. "That was why we decided to give you a shot. But we wouldn't do that without due cause."

"What happened, then?" Coulson asked, almost unsure he wanted to know. Maria sighed and looked away for a second, as if to gather her thoughts.

"You know they went to deal with Count Nefaria," she said slowly. "Well...this wasn't their first time having a run-in with him."

Coulson's blood ran cold. He didn't react in any other way, however; who knew what Maria would tell the Director, should he decide to have a breakdown.

"Before you were assigned to them, they were on an assignment in that area. Nefaria was getting too powerful for our liking; trying to grab for territory and potentially going to war with Latveria. To stop that from happening, we sent Hawkeye and Widow in; the best we had. They went alone, though. Fury insisted we send them alone first, to scope out the scene." Maria began.

A hot, fierce rage welled up in Coulson, like fire reaching up to the sky to devour. He knew how this story would end. He knew already, without having to be told; at this point, it was simply another reason to hate.

"They...they were caught. We don't know how. But they were caught, captured, and over the course of almost four months, tortured." Maria said.

Coulson's knuckles had gone white as he gripped the handle of his briefcase. Maria inched away, just a little.

"During those four months, we got no word from them. Once we did, I assure you...we sent our top trackers and a whole field squad's worth of agents after them." Maria paused for a second. Something dark and fearful flickered in her eyes; Coulson couldn't help but feel a bit of delight at that. Let her suffer. Let them all suffer. Nothing would repay what his darlings had felt, but it would be enough—to start.

"There was no need," she said softly. "By the time we got there, the camp was a sea of blood, gristle, and organs. There had been fifty men in that camp; Nefaria, by pure bad luck, was somewhere else that day. Everyone else was dead. Beyond dead; slaughtered. It was a massacre. They're assassins, not berserkers; Fury knew something in them had snapped."

Coulson was very quiet for a few long minutes. His face betrayed nothing. His eyes betrayed nothing. His hands were still.

"And so then he gave them to me," he said, and the flat, dull tone to his voice made Maria's spine shiver. "The Director gave me his broken toy soldiers to play with; to either destroy them or fix them. He didn't care. He'd find a use for them one way or the other."

"...Yes, we did...transfer them to you after this...incident." Maria said slowly, unsure of what to tell Coulson that wouldn't make the other man slit her throat. "It wasn't a punishment, agent."

To her surprise, Coulson laughed; it was a slow, rasping laugh, as if he was choking on it.

"No," he finally said, "no it wasn't. It was the best thing that had ever happened to me. And that's exactly why it didn't last."

Maria was quiet. Coulson opened his briefcase.

"I have paperwork to file and complete, Commander. Do you require me for anything else?" He asked. His voice was back to clipped professionalism again, but there was still an undertone to it that made Maria shudder.

"No, I don't, agent. I will see you later today; bring the paperwork to me. The Director is busy with another matter." She said.

"I'll bet he is," Coulson said softly, too softly for her to hear. "Very well, Commander. Good day."

She hurried out of his office as fast as was considered polite. Coulson didn't so much as look up from his work.

The empty chairs beside him echoed with reminders of what he lacked as he wrote reams of paperwork, the entire office looming around him, as if it threatened to collapse like a house of cards.

Chapter 41: Driving

Summary:

In which Phil starts to pick up bad habits.

Notes:

Coulson starts to slip, just a little. It'll be a fun time for everyone when he cracks completely.
Not much else to say, just lesbians. Always appreciate a bit of lesbian funtimes in your life, I suppose?

The day was uneventful. Coulson did not leave his office, and as such, did not hear any of the gossip. Maria shut some of it down with a few sharp looks, but she knew full well the rumors were too potent not to spread; this incident was an untapped goldmine, and the agents were eager to hoard it all for the rumor mill.

Victoria was by her side all day; she seemed to know instinctively that Maria wouldn't want to be alone, this day of all days, and so she stayed. Maria was grateful beyond what she could express.

Coulson came to her at the end of the day with an entire box full of paperwork; Maria raised an eyebrow, impressed. Even for him, this was a bit much.

"Kept my mind clear, Commander," Coulson said, answering her silent query. "Is there anything else you require?"

"No, agent. Why don't you clock out for the day? You've done a week's worth of work, and we're not going to put you on field assignments without your partners anyway." Maria said. Coulson did not so much as flinch at the mention of his partners; if there was any sort of twitch or cringe, it was well-hidden, and only stirred in the darkest depths of the agent.

"Thank you, ma'am. I will be on call, should you require me." Coulson said. Maria watched him leave for a second before, to her surprise, Victoria held up a hand to stop him.

"Agent Coulson! I found these in the locker room today. I believe they're, well..." Victoria got up and pressed a set of keys into his hand. Coulson looked down at them, almost disbelieving.

"Be careful driving home. I don't think you're the type to drive a Corvette regularly." Victoria said. Coulson nodded. Something flickered behind his eyes.

"Thank you, Agent Hand." He murmured. Without another word, he turned and left, almost too fast to be polite. They both understood, though.

Maria beckoned Victoria closer and gave her a soft, slow kiss.

"That was a wonderful thing to do, Victoria." Maria murmured, hugging her tight. She knew the Director might protest, but for Maria, the little reminders that her lover was not in fact entirely lost to S.H.I.E.L.D. were always a relief.

"He deserved it. It might be what keeps him...y'know. Sane." Victoria shrugged, uncomfortable. "Fury said you used my office while I was gone. I figured...it worked on the same principle."

Maria sighed and nodded, holding her close, as if all her strength could stop Victoria from being ripped from her arms.

"Yeah, it does," she agreed with a heavy heart. "Why don't you go home too, babe? If you get dinner on the table, I'll love you forever. I'd...rather you not be here today. You could use a break."

"I'll hold you to that promise," Victoria teased, pecking her cheek gently. "See you tonight, then, Maria."

Maria just hugged her tight and waved her goodbye, unable to find the right words to tell her anything. Victoria, fortunately, was enough of a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent to know exactly what that meant.

Maria sighed and went back to sorting through Coulson's paperwork. She didn't comment on the few smudged blotches she could see on some of the papers. An accident with the copier, surely.
...

Coulson tore through the desert in Natasha's car, gripping the steering wheel with bone-white knuckles. It smelled like her; the leather, the metal, it all smelled like her, made him think of nothing but her, her hair, her face, her eyes, the look on her face when she had left him—

His Natasha. His Clint. He rode through the desert and screamed for them both, and in this car, they were beside him. He just couldn't look. To look was to lose them, to lose himself...

For the time, the knowledge that they were there was enough. Coulson drove on, and the desert was ground to dust beneath him.
He pulled into the garage and got out, the motorcycle and the Corvette side by side. Coulson laid a hand on the hood of the car before crossing the garage and gripping the motorcycle's handlebars.

For a second, he let his gaze linger on them both.

Then he went inside and made dinner.

He kept up the routine, like he had promised; he grilled a cheeseburger and made enough stew to last a few days. He ate some of them both, but left the rest out for the night, like an offering.

As he ate, he let his mind wander. He needed some way to stay sane over the coming months. There was too much worry in his heart, too many gruesome scenarios in his mind, and too much at risk for the both of them—and by proxy, himself.

His hand grew hot again, as if it was reminded of the feel of the Corvette's hood, fresh from the drive, beneath his fingers. Coulson smiled suddenly, pleased.

Why not? Driving was as good an escape as any. It would remind him of the time they had spent together, traversing the desert and talking. Driving was in fact the best thing he could think of; to sit in the house alone, with only the phonograph and his records for company, might actually in fact kill him.

Coulson lifted up his mug of coffee in a silent toast before knocking back the whole thing. It was settled, then; he would drive, drive fast enough to escape his problems and turn the whole desert to dust and ashes beneath him. He would drive right into the sunset and remember the way Natasha's hair had shone, or the way Clint's eyes caught the light.

All would be well.

Or at least, he could pretend.

Coulson left the table, the plates still settled on it, as if waiting for someone else to walk in and sit down. He simply went upstairs and didn't come back down until morning.

...

Clint and Natasha sighed and laid down next to each other in bed. It had been a long few days.

They were still worried about Coulson—they had seen other agents break down after the loss of their partners before, and the idea of their Coulson losing his mind in such a manner terrified them—but they had to continue the mission. They could not let their fears weigh down their skill.

So they trained. They were the first chosen to join Nefaria on security detail when he toured the villages; they had been upgraded to unofficial tutors of the other men and women, as well. Nothing was said about their skill by Nefaria himself, but they both saw the way he looked at him—and, more specifically, the way he looked at Natasha.

That couldn't be helped, no matter how much it put Clint's teeth on edge, and so he just concerned himself with continuing to insinuate himself into the group, making up little stories to tell them so as to make himself seem friendly and familiar.

Natasha played up the innocent farm girl; it was much easier than trying to act like a worn woman used to life—there was so much about normalcy Phil hadn't taught them, and a wide-eyed naif was easier to fake. It made the women around her fuss and mother hen about the young girl—it was the first time Clint realized that there really was so little Natasha knew about what being married and living like a normal woman would be like. He didn't care. She was his Nat, and that was woman enough for him.

So the two of them had managed to remain on the others' good sides while inching further into Nefaria's confidence. They knew it would be slow going. It was all right. They would survive. They would come home to Phil. All would be well.

While they trained, they kept tabs, took notes for the intel officers, and, most importantly, reminded themselves of who they were.

Yes, their comrades knew them as Nina and Phil Couls. Yes, those two people were innocent, never having killed or lost a partner, but those were not the people that could kill Nefaria.

With every blow to the punching bags, they pounded their names deeper into their minds. Clint Barton. Natasha Romanov. On and on, until it was bruised right down into their veins, so that when the time came to end his life, they could.

Every time their conviction wavered and the pain threatened to overwhelm them, they sunk deeper and deeper into themselves and sparred each other. As the others watched, awed, they struck blows and pounded his name deeper into themselves.

Phil Coulson. Phil Coulson. Phil Coulson.

...

The rest of the month finished up, and September arrived in a rattle of dry leaves. There weren't many trees around base, but a few stubborn ones clung to life, dropping their skins all over the ground, dried-up leaf husks that skittered about aimlessly in the breeze.

Phil Coulson was S.H.I.E.L.D.'s most efficient agent. This had become the focal point of gossip, once the initial fervor over his partners, (and, as most insisted, lovers), leaving had died down. No one had seen someone break quite like this. Not the senior agents, not Maria, not anyone.

Because he didn't. Not where they could see, at least, and certainly not in a way they understood. He had not begun to drink, nor smoke; there were no pill bottles in his office, rattling away in desk drawers. He handed in his paperwork, he trained the recruits, he gave briefings, he organized meetings and made schedules.

Coulson's dedication to his job, despite the loss of the only partners he had ever had, was alternately impressive and disturbing. How far on either side of that you stood had more to do with how long you had been in S.H.I.E.L.D.; rookies regarded him like a paragon, staring at him wide-eyed as he walked down the hall, briefcase in hand, while senior agents flinched as he passed and waited for the other shoe to drop.

Yet, another week passed, and nothing. September began to wane, and he was still going about his business as normal. The only person who noticed anything was Fury.

He had seen this before. It was rarer, sure; most agents came pre-broken and disturbed before he separated them, and thus, were already halfway down the path to despair.

Others, a very rare few, were like Coulson; caring and brave and as whole as a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent could hope to be. But they broke too, because he had decreed it. And when they did, they broke a lot like Phil.

There were still a few months to go, Fury reasoned, opening up his files and making a few notes in Phil's dossier. Something would come up. And when it did, he would be very interested in seeing how far down the break in Phil's sanity had gone.

...

Phil came home that night and checked the calendar. He blinked with surprise. Today was the first-month anniversary of Clint and Natasha's departure.

He looked out at the dusty desert roads before him and decided tonight would be a much longer drive than normal. He had been careful—three hours in the car or on the motorcycle at most, just to make sure he went to bed at a proper hour, but tonight...

Tonight, Phil didn't care. His darlings were gone, and he could not follow, no matter how fast or far he drove, but he could escape the pain of their loss for a time. That was worth the chemical nausea of exhaustion, surely.

He prepared them dinner, and then grazed his hand over the fridge door. He opened it carefully and took out the ice cream.

"A treat, darlings!" He called out to the empty house. "Just this one time, my loves, but I think you can have ice cream with dinner tonight."

No one answered him, but he busied himself with scooping out the ice cream into bowls, and so he managed to ignore the gnawing pain that gave him.

Phil put the bowls down and finished up dinner. He ate as if desperate, until his stomach ached and he sat staring at the plates before him, tears in his eyes. He was at a loss.
He stood up and went to shower; he needed one, badly. It had been two days since his last shower—work had been hectic and driving took foremost importance in his mind now, for it was a way to calm him down and allow himself a way to cope.

Phil showered under scalding water, as if the pain would in some way offer him redemption. It did no such thing, but it comforted him, at least, allowed himself to focus on the burn. It was enough.

He put on one of Clint's shirts and a pair of Natasha's sunglasses, leaving the house behind and looking at the car and the motorcycle. The motorcycle was when he wanted to feel the world around him, to know his darlings were still alive and out there within it; the Corvette was for when he needed shelter, darkness, a place to hide.

Phil needed the Corvette tonight.

He climbed in it and started it; the car responded with a soft purr as Phil backed out of the driveway. He gripped the wheel and spurred it on; he needed to go driving.

The desert opened up for him as he went. He drove on, accepting its open arms, letting himself lose his mind in the soft embrace that sighed and sang with songs in languages he had never spoken, would never speak.

It was warm and comforting, and he rolled his windows down to accept the soft breeze, to dream of the time when those breezes had stirred warm, golden-red hair, as bright and vivid as a desert sunset. Coulson ached and Coulson mourned. But there was nothing he could do. He just drove on.

The drive lasted so long the moon had begun to leave him as well. Phil looked up to see the sun rising up, bloodred and vicious, a reminder of all his hurts. He sighed and turned around, heading for home. It had felt far too good to stay up that late and drive...

He wouldn't do it again, he promised himself as he pulled into the driveway and went to get ready for work. He wouldn't.

Phil drove to work that day with that lie weighing very heavily on his chest.

Chapter 42: Firework

Summary:

Maria learns a few things. So does Coulson.

Notes:

So Fury slips into Samuel L. Jackson for a moment there. Honestly, I don't see him cursing too often, but I really liked that turn of phrase, so there you go.
And yeah, more feels and stuff. And as for the Commander before Maria, well...my headcanon is Fury's an ex-Black Panther, and got on the government's radar--when they took him down they offered him a job at S.H.I.E.L.D. rather than, y'know, getting arrested. He took it, which was sometime back in the mid-Sixties? So he's had a few Commanders before Maria--most of them were appointed to keep him in line, but by this point, they figure he's mellowed out, and he handpicked Maria, which makes their bond a bit stronger and more genuine. Less likely to backstab each other.

Maria knew something was a little off-kilter when she walked into Phil's office that day and found him surrounded by a stack of files.

"I got all my paperwork done," he said by way of greeting. "I'm going over old files. I have the security clearance."

"I wasn't...doubting that, agent." She said slowly. Worry had begun to seep into her heart as soon as she caught the names on the files.

"Are you sure you should be reading those, Phil?" Maria said, keeping her tone gentle. "You've been hurt enough. Don't drive the knife in deeper."

"...I'd only known them for about a week and a half when they left," Coulson said. "They're more like myths to most of these people, Commander. Myself included." He sighed and put down the files.

"I only knew them for almost two weeks, even though we worked in the same building for ten years. I only had to know them for two weeks to love them. But there's so much I didn't know. So much they couldn't tell me. So much they were afraid to tell me." Phil gestured to the files.

"These are what's left of them. These are all of what exists about them. This is what made them leave. I want to know about all of it." Coulson said calmly.

Maria tensed up, but didn't say a word in protest. She couldn't. She knew he was right. They were more like myths to her as well; even thought she was the Commander, the two of them were beyond her reach, as people and as agents both. She understood why he wanted to dispel the myth and find the people beneath; he alone out of all of S.H.I.E.L.D. had gotten glimpses, and gotten lost in them.

"...All right. Understandable, even." Maria sighed. "I just...hope what you find in there doesn't change your mind about them."

"I love them," Phil said simply. "I love all of them, even the parts I don't know or understand. That's the point, Commander."

"...I suppose it is, agent." Maria replied. She didn't know what to say to the look in his eyes. "I will see you in the training room in two hours, agent. You can't be locked up here all  day."

"Of course, Commander. I'll see you down there for sparring." He said, his voice dissonantly pleasant.

Maria resisted the urge to shudder.

...

Coulson read them in chronological order, so as to keep the pieces of the story intact. He wanted to know everything.

The files on their pre-S.H.I.E.L.D. lives were by and large known to him; he spent more time poring over the photos in those. His Natasha had already possessed haunted, hardened eyes, even as a small child. It ached to see her so fragile and delicate, save for her eyes, sharper and harder than a steel knife.

Clint was a little older, a little rougher; he looked beaten-up, as if he had been tossed about carelessly by fate. There was a bruise on his cheek, and so much pain in his eyes. Coulson ached to look at him. His darling little Clint, soft and raw and vulnerable. No wonder he had let himself take on scars. The world had been more than happy to give him the tools to do it.

He looked at the pictures of them as young children for a long, long time. It would make sure he had the correct mental images as he read through the files of their exploits; he was not looking at warriors or experienced agents, but children. Powerful children, hurting children, extraordinary children, but still just that; children.

Keeping that in mind, Phil continued to read. Reconciling the image of the brotherly, overprotective, mischievous partner-in-crime Clint with the crack shot Hawkeye, who was more than willing to murder for Natasha at such a tender age, and delicate, professional and prim Natasha with the efficient spy, willing to poison her foes before she hit her teens...it was an interesting experience, to say the least, and not entirely pleasant. Still, Phil read on.

Their missions began to bleed together in a flood of sorrow and agony; he read the psychological evaluations, the reports of the two of them coming back in tears, for but a second allowed to be the frightened, hurt children they were, before being wound up, repaired, and sent out once more. Coulson's hands shook on occasion as he continued to read.

The one file he set aside, perhaps to burn should he be able to secure it for himself, was Natasha's surgical file. He couldn't. He was strong. He was brave. But not as brave as her. Not even enough to suffer secondhand. He couldn't even begin to imagine.

Coulson managed to read up until the trio were twenty and sixteen, when a knock came to his door. Victoria Hand stood there, surveying him carefully.

"Hey, Phil. Maria wants you downstairs. You...up for a fight?" She asked. "Y'know, the kind of fight where it doesn't end in fatalities?"

"What a disappointment," Coulson remarked, his voice cold enough to numb even his own heart. "I'll be down there, Agent Hand. And yes. I most certainly am up for a 'fight.' She doesn't need to worry."

He took the file he had been reading and set it down with gentle care, his fingers carressing the names embossed on top of the thick paper. He left the room quietly, his shoes making not the slightest sound on the thick carpet as he went down to the training room.

Suddenly, and with a sharp snap, he turned around to face Victoria, who had still been standing in the doorway, her eyes wide and wary.

"Agent Hand? Aren't you coming?" He asked, his tone deceptively gentle.

For Maria's sake. And that's all. You won't harm her, Phil.

"Yes, of course. I'll be with you shortly." She said, following after him and going down into the depths of the training room, clutching her briefcase like a lifesaver.

...

Phil didn't fight Maria, not yet. He demonstrated katas, specific moves and combinations, defense strategies, and he practiced on the punching bags set up around the perimeter of the training room.

Watching the agent effeciently and effortlessly tear the punching bags clean off the chains and send them flying was, in its own way, worse. Even the greenest of the agents watched wide-eyed at the way Coulson tore the leather apart, letting sand spill across the floor, creating small deserts around his feet; the dusty sands clung to him as if to provide comfort, to remind him of the warmth he had shared with long-gone lovers. 

It wasn't enough. Nothing but their hands on his to soothe the beaten, bloody knuckles and torn skin would have been. It was all right. Let his hands bleed. He was working. He would be bathed in blood, the same as the two of them...his darlings, his darlings...

Was there a place for them to wash off the blood where they were? While they were lost, could they stay clean? He hoped so. They didn't need any more blood on their hands. Enough there for a flood, for a lifetime.

Phil snarled, suddenly, a harsh gasp of breath he found suddenly hurting his ribcage, and tearing at his heart.

"Agent!" Maria's voice called to him, and he was pulled from the sight of the blood on his hands when she stormed up to him, giving him a sharp look.

"Do you honestly think either of them will want to take your hands in theirs when they come back and they're scarred and bruised?" Maria snapped.

The soft, keening groan that left Coulson's lips sent a shiver down her spine. She stepped back, just a little.

"No. No, Commander. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Darlings, please...I didn't mean to frighten you." Coulson whispered, reaching out a hand to grasp the nothingness before him, as if he could pull them out of the barest atoms of air with his bloodstained hands and split knuckles.

"Phil, go to the infirmary. Bandage your damn hands. And for god's sake...don't ruin your suit. They put a lot of trust in that suit. It's more of a comfort than you know." Maria ordered.

"Yes, Commander." Coulson said. He left without another word, the blood on his hands leaving a trail, as if to remind them he had been there when he was gone.

Everyone stared at that trail for awhile. No one knew how to acknowledge it. It dried up slowly and sank into the mats underneath their eyes, as if seeping into skin.

...

Coulson did not go to the infirmary. He went to his office and got the stack of files he had been reading, put them neatly into his briefcase, and left the base, getting in Natasha's Corvette.

For a minute, he simply sat there, allowing the warm darkness of the car to cocoon him, soothing away his hurts for but a second, letting him close his eyes and forget the lonely desert around him.

Then he opened his eyes and the dream fled him, but not forever; Coulson's mind was slipping, and the dreams were there to catch him.

He drove home with bloodied hands, but washed and bandaged them before he even thought of cooking dinner. His darlings did not need any more blood near them.

His hands ached as he ate that night, and he cursed himself, feeling utterly useless. How could he aid his darlings now, when he had injured himself? They needed him...needed his protection, and his love...

Soon, he promised himself as he downed a cup of coffee. Soon, they would receive both these things. They would come home. And he would be waiting.
Until then—he had to drive. It was his only escape.

Coulson got into the car and locked the doors, closing his eyes for just a second, long enough to breathe.

He would not stay out all night. Not tonight. He had files to read.

But he did drive. For a very long time, he just drove, to nowhere in particular. He drove until his eyes ached with the heavy burden of sleep, the desire to sink into bed and relax, and for awhile he wanted to give in, honest...

But then he remembered how vast his bed was now that his lovers were gone, and how it threatened to swallow him alive.

No. No, he did not want to sleep. Not like this.

So he drove home and took their blankets, wrapping them around his frame like an embrace before cracking open his briefcase and delving right back into the files.

He read until the sun came up, poring over stories of them both, weaving the threads of life together into a neat, coherent cloth. This was what their lives had been like before him. This was his darlings' story. He could almost feel them, so close to him...

Coulson hummed quietly as he read the file on their former partners. He felt a bit of cheap, petty triumph at the fact that all the notes in the file were short and simple; the partnerships lasted a few days at best. No one could tame them. But they had come to him willingly, and asked to be tamed, to be treated like people and given guidance. That made all the difference.

Phil closed the file and put them aside. He would read the rest later; he had about two years' worth of missions left. For now, he should get his suit on for work...

Phil went upstairs to dress, blankets in hand. He neatly folded them on the bed before taking a quick shower and putting his suit on, heading downstairs to make breakfast. He was quick and efficient—just three cups of cofee and bowls of cereal.

"Sorry, darlings. A bigger breakfast tomorrow, okay? And we'll have a nice dinner together." Coulson said aloud before he could stop himself. He paused, blinked, and looked around. Had he just been talking to himself?

Phil massaged his temples and sighed, shaking his head. He couldn't start doing that. There was no way it would end well. It was just...just the exhaustion. He would sleep tonight. He would.

"For your sake, right, darlings? We'll watch television and I'll rest. No need to fuss, darlings..." He said again, his mouth moving before his exhausted brain could tell it no.

"And for my own sake," he muttered. "God knows I don't need to be talking to myself..."

Phil finished up his breakfast, taking sips of Clint and Natasha's coffee and bites of their cereal before he left the house, briefcase in hand as he got in the car. He drove all the way to base and did not so much as look back even once.

When he arrived, Commander Hill and Agent Hand were just pulling into the parking lot. Maria tensed; Victoria tilted her head a bit, adjusting her glasses.

"Good morning, agent. You look a little pale. Are you okay, Phil?" Victoria asked. Coulson nodded.

"Yes, thank you, Agent Hand. I'm in the process of writing up a few mission briefings; it kept me up late, that's all. I'll be leaving early today, regardless, from the look on the Commander's face." Phil said, his tone still placid and pleasant as he met Maria's eyes.

She did her best not to flinch and largely succeeded. He was gone. The rage and the pain and the grief were all tamped down and buried, but she could see them in his eyes, clawing up to the surface. He was breaking. Piece by piece, and slower than most...but he was breaking.

She had to talk to Fury.

"Well, you've done admirably well in regards to your paperwork, even more than normal, and you won't be taking field missions, so I am certainly going to insist you leave early. It's for you own good, Phil. I swear." Maria said.

Phil smiled.

"Yes, I suppose that's what Fury told my darlings when he sent them to me." He said. His tone was neutral, but what lurked beyond that neutrality made Maria subconsciously stand in front of Victoria, her sword and shield. "And I'm sure that's what he said when he sent them on the mission, as well."

Phil picked up his briefcase and inclined his head.

"Goodbye, Agent Hand. It was so good to see you both." He said, turning on his heel and heading inside.

The two women were silent for a few minutes.

"Maria, you can stop holding my hand now. I promise, I'm not dead." Victoria finally said, breaking the silence gently. Maria let go, but hesitantly; finger-by-finger, in fact.

"He scares you, doesn't he?" She said. "Because you've never seen him like this. So you don't even know what he's capable of in this kind of situation."

Maria nodded wordlessly. Victoria kissed her cheek.

"Don't worry. Go talk to Fury, then come to my office. I'll protect you. I can do that sometimes, right?" She said, keeping her tone light and teasing. Maria nodded.

"...Yes, you can. I love you, Tori. Thank you." She whispered. Victoria smiled.

"Love you too, Maria," she promised, stroking her hair and cupping her cheek for a second. Maria just gave her a worn, weary smile; genuine but heavy.

Victoria hugged her tight in response before she pulled away and laughed, surprised. "Oh, I just realized; I've never heard you call me that before!"

Maria just smiled; it was a thin smile, and deadened by the reminder that she had to go meet with Fury, but it was there.

"First time for everything, I guess. Now c'mon, scoot. Go get your work done before I show up." She said as they headed inside. Victoria smiled, smoothed her skirt, and went off to her office. Maria looked down the hall, towards Fury's office, and just sighed.

How she had gotten mixed up in this, she didn't know. But she wouldn't back down. Because Phil considered her a part of this fight—and that meant Victoria was, too. Maria would gladly fight so long as Victoria's safety was on the line.

Briefly, she considered that Phil would do the exact same thing for his lovers.

She gave a single dark, sharp bark of laughter before stalking off for Fury's office, trying to ignore her shaking hands.

...

Fury seemed to know she was coming; he didn't say anything, but there was a seat for her and an extra cup of coffee on his desk. Maria sat down, grateful. She took a sip of the coffee to soothe her, and noticed there was a shot of whiskey in it. She really could have kissed him.

"Maria, you've really got to stop letting Phil bother you. You've seen agents break before." Fury reminded her. His gentle tone would have been calming, but the subject matter didn't help.

"I—I can't help it, sir!" She confessed, ashamed. "I...I've never seen an agent break like this, and—"

"You feel responsible. I know, Hill. That's why I figured you'd need to talk, sooner or later." Fury replied. "I get it. You made the call, you listened to him lose them, and you've been in the thick of this for almost two months now. I get it, I do."

Maria nodded, before sighing and letting her shoulders slump as she threw her hands up in defeat.

"I just...don't understand. I've seen other agents break, yes...but not like him. Not ever. I don't understand how this could happen! He's...not that different from the rest of us..."

Maria murmured. "Being without a partner for most of your career shouldn't cause that, right?"

"It isn't just the lack of a partner, Maria; you're right there." Fury agreed, taking a sip of his own coffee. "See, everyone breaks. It's just who they are. Even Phil's slipping, which you've noticed. But there are some agents who just...start out different. And so they break different, too. Make sense?" He said. Maria nodded.

"I suppose, sir...but why is he so different? He follows orders, he takes care of his unit, he's efficient and good at what he does...that doesn't make him special, not really." Maria said. Fury nodded.

"Nope, it doesn't. But he's a good man, and that does." He said. Maria tilted her head; Fury chuckled. "Y'know what I mean, Hill. He bandages up wounds, listens to old hurts, offers advice...he takes care of people. It's why I gave him those two in the first place. Because he's different. And they're different. Which means this is going to be interesting on quite a few levels..."

Maria wasn't sure if she agreed with the Director's definition of "interesting," but she kept her mouth shut about that.

"How are Clint and Natasha doing, sir?" She asked, the thought suddenly occurring to her. Fury took out the mission file and handed it to her.

"As far as we know from their last meeting, they're doing well enough with the undercover. It's a slow process, and they're not going to take many risks on this mission because of what happened last time, but it seems to be working. Nefaria suspects nothing, and they've said that they're familiar enough with the others in the unit for them to figure if they killed him, they could safely disband the group without further casualties." Fury explained. Maria nodded.

"...So, anything about...Phil?" She asked, hesitant. She didn't know if she wanted an answer. Truth be told, though she openly scoffed at it, part of her was caught up in the myth of Widow and Hawkeye, same as everyone else. She had never thought they could break. And if they ever did...she never thought it would be over a man like Coulson.

Though perhaps that was just it. The two of them represented the darkest parts of S.H.I.E.L.D.; the killers, the liars, the bloodstained children playing grown-up war games.

There were days where Maria suspected Phil had wandered in from another agency and gotten mixed up in this; he might, in fact, be the only truly good man in S.H.I.E.L.D., when she considered it. The good man and the murderers. Appropriate, then, that he should hold their sway.

"Not really," Fury said. "They're good. They won't go to pieces." He chuckled, shaking his head. "Though their names undercover are Nina and Phil Couls. For them, at least, that is breaking."

"So...for Phil, it's...denial? I mean..." Maria shrugged, hapless. Fury shook his head.

"Not necessarily. It'll start as denial, you saw that...but when their loss starts to wear down on him...well, he won't know what to do. He'll be too noble to start drinking or using, he's too kind and empathetic to take it out on the others...so he'll turn all that loss inward. When he does...god only knows how it manifests. But I'll let you in on a secret, Maria; the only good men in this place come with a side of crazy. He'll snap. He'll snap deep down, in a way like you've never seen, and it'll be awesome, in the truest sense of the word. Motherfucker's gonna fall apart at the seams like a firework." Fury told her.

"...I suppose, sir," Maria paused. "Will...will he be a threat?"

"Nah. Only to himself. But that's just the thing. Good men think they're the only ones responsible for the world's sins. He's gonna let all this strangle him and drag him down, rather than let anyone else bear the burden. It's almost sweet." Fury replied. Maria nodded, hesitant. Fury noticed her hestitation and gave her a look.

"Hill, if you've got something to say, you know I'm listening," he admonished her his tone almost paternal. Maria nodded.

"Yes, sir...I mean..." She shook her head. "How do you know all this? You've been Director for a long time, I know that, but...you know an awful lot about how this works."

"Broke a good man, once," Fury said without missing a beat. "Awhile back. We don't get too many, after all. He survived, but...he wasn't quite the same. Never really got his heart back into the job."

"Who, sir? If I may ask?" She murmured.

Fury's grin gleamed in the low fluorescent lighting like a bad omen.

"The guy who used to have your job, Hill," he said. "Why don't you go finish up those mission reports I need done?"

"...Yes, sir," she replied, inclining her head in a slight show of respect before she turned around and left the room a little faster than was proper. Fury just shrugged, amused, and opened up the file she had left behind to make a few notes in it.

Chapter 43: Files

Summary:

Coulson reads.

Notes:

Trigger warnings for gore, discussion of sexual violence, and injuries. Man, do NOT read that part if any of that bothers you.
There's about...twelve or so chapters left of this fic. And because part of it focuses around Xmas, there'll be updates every other day starting around December fifth! Possibly the fourth, since who's reading fic on Xmas day?
Anyways, yep. It's kind of surprising that this is ending soon. Mind you, there's a lot of story left; I just made the chapters longer because I'm not as worried about it being caught up--it's done. Hope you enjoy it~
Again though, for serious, major gore and sexual violence, just don't read if it's a bother.

Phil sat in his office the entire day and read Natasha's romance novels.

It was silly. They made him blush. The covers were stupid, the plots predictable, the dialogue clunky, and the sex scenes, even to his limited knowledge, poorly done. But they were Natasha's, and they were all he had left of her, and so that was that.

So he continued to read them. Occasionally, he made tiny annotations; small hearts in the corner when he found something particularly romantic, crossing out lines he thought put too much of an emphasis on the heroine's ability to give birth, and pointing out contradictions, double standards, or poor writing he thought might make Natasha laugh. He wanted her to know he had read them; that he didn't think it was a foolish hobby, and in fact found it to be a precious and special part of her.

After he read until he reached the point where his eyes got blurry, he put the book down and went into the training room. Everyone in there stopped where they were at the sound of his footsteps; he just smiled, pale and wan.

"Don't mind me, boys. Just came to get some things." He said, climbing up the ladder to Clint's nest with an easy, effortless gait. They all watched him wordlessly as he plucked the quiver full of arrows and Clint's spare bow from the nest, climbing back down without a word.

"Sir?" One of the recruits asked, hesitant. It was clear he was green, a wide-eyed innocent, for no one else would have ever interrupted such a ritual.

"Yes, agent?" Coulson asked. He didn't even turn around. He couldn't.

"...Um...did you, y'know...love them? That's what I've heard, but..." The man trailed off, vaguely aware he had said something wrong. To the surprise of everyone in the room, however, Coulson just laughed.

"I would have, if I'd had the time." He replied.

Without another word, the agent left, the lie suffocating the room and knocking the words right from everyone elses' mouths.

No, time hadn't mattered.

Then again, his love hadn't, either.

Phil went back to his office and took out Clint's arrows, very careful as he accessed the files on Clint's arrows and the tech within them. He took careful notes on how to maintain the quiver, bow, and the arrows, before shutting down his laptop and taking one of the arrows in hand.

The rest of the day was spent tending to both arrows and quiver, ensuring that Clint's things would be in top condition when he got back. Coulson saved the bow for home, to work on there.

He left at sunset, driving with the sun falling about him like a mourning veil, bright as as funeral pyre. He ignored it. Driving was for nightfall, when he could speed through the darkness and hide himself from the nightmares that threatened to plague him, throbbing at his temples and threatening to consume.

He unlocked the door and came in quietly, setting the bow down by the files as he went to make dinner. He cooked carefully but quickly; he was eager to take the bow with him tonight as he went driving. A reminder of all three of them.

As he cooked, he talked to them; just simple things about his day, nothing special. It lightened the loneliness gnawing at his heart, just a bit. Coulson knew it wouldn't end well, but when he stopped and silence fell, he realied he didn't care. Not anymore. Not until they came home.

He sighed and finished up dinner, sitting down to eat. He was alone, but when the silverware clinked and the plates were pushed about, he could almost pretend that wasn't the case. He knew it wasn't a good idea to do that, to keep pushing against the boundaries of sanity, of the reality of their absence...but there wasn't much he could do, at this point.

Their loss had left him alone, floating in the middle of some vast, dark ocean, and he was going to drown. That much was inevitable; he could only tread these cold waters for so long. The question was simply when.

Phil shook his head and went for the garage. He wouldn't drive for too long—an hour, perhaps. That was it. Just enough time to calm down.
Hours later, as he checked the car's clock and saw that it was already three in the morning, Phil sighed and turned around, heading for home. He could at least get a few hours of sleep. If he got ill because of exhaustion, he wouldn't be in good shape to be there for his darlings...

He hoped they weren't getting ill. There was no one to take care of them now. He hoped Clint knew how to tend to Natasha's hurts, that Natasha knew how to bandage wounds. Of course they did, he knew that, but...he worried. He worried when they weren't there.

A murmur reached his ears, and it almost sounded like them. Phil tensed, eyes wide, but didn't say a word.

He couldn't look back. Whatever was in the backseat was not for his eyes. If he looked, he would lose himself. If he was lost, they couldn't find him.

Phil gripped the steering wheel tight, as if it was an anchor, and headed for home. The drive was quicker, and he got home by four, which was a relief. He went inside and undressed, folding up his clothing and putting it on the dresser before climbing into bed to sleep for a few hours—the first sleep he'd had in two days.

Sleep was hard to come by, and it was fraught with pain and nightmares. The growl of a car as it drove away from him, taking his darlings away forever, blood all over the road, flowing into the house, drowning him...the sounds of their deaths, slow and painful; the torture his darlings had been through, the years of suffering and sorrow and slaughter, all pulled out of their lives and thrown into his subconscious, left to fester and rot.

Phil awoke with an agonized gasp and looked around his room. The sun was peeking over the horizon, as if asking hesitant permission to rise. There was enough light that he could see, still sitting in the corner, the stuffed unicorn Clint had won him. That seemed like a lifetime ago; as if the entire time they had spent together, falling in love, was a dream. The way their lives went, Phil wouldn't be surprised.

Still, if it was, then this was reality. He had something to hold onto.

He got out of bed and gathered the toy up into his arms. He did not sleep for much longer, but his sleep was better for it.

...

Another month passed, and Clint and Natasha were still hoping.

It was almost Halloween; Natasha had never celebrated it, but Clint told her stories of the few times he had. She treasured it like they were her own, and he always bought her something sweet on that day. It was a little harder to do that while they were undercover, but he had scrounged some chocolate from the kitchens and given it to her. They didn't worry about getting caught; they were almost universally beloved in the camps now, Nefaria's pride and joy.

They were so close. So very, very close. Clint wanted to cut off his hands, first, for what they had done to his Natasha. A snap of his fingers and she had been brutalized, torn apart, violated in every way imaginable, and cut open for their amusement. Oh yes. He would have his hands, and he would choke him on them.

Natasha wasn't so picky. She wanted something slow, and that was all that mattered. She wanted enough pain to make months of suffering worthwhile, so that he might know the pain he had visited upon her. Something like slicing off his flesh would be pleasant. Throwing it to his hounds.

She told Clint of her idea and he grinned, kissing her forehead.

"After I've taken his hands, you can have your pound of flesh, my love." He promised, stroking her hair. Natasha nodded, curling close.

"We're so close, Clint. So very, very close." She whispered. Clint nodded.

"Soon, Nat. Soon, and we'll be back with Coulson. All will be well. We'll be with him, forever." He told her. "Just imagine the look on his face when we come home..."

"It is all I think about somedays, my darling." Natasha replied. Clint sighed and nodded.

"Yeah, me too," he murmured. "It'll be okay. Rest now, Nat. We'll try to get into his office tomorrow; find his schedule. I'd rather we find him in some nice, secluded place and kill him there. No need for a spectacle. I just want the debt paid in full."

"As do I, darling." Natasha replied. "It is worth going back to our Coulson with blood on our hands to repay this debt."

"Well..." Clint shrugged. "Not just that. I feel like...he's the only man that would wash them clean."

Natasha was quiet as she pulled the blankets up around them and laid her head on his chest.

"Yes," she agreed. "He is. And that is why we must return. There is far too much red for us to wash away alone..."

The two of them fell asleep after that, the aching desire for their Coulson a raw, ragged pain that ripped at their hearts.

...

Coulson looked out the window and tilted his head, observing the dark skies quietly. It was starting to get dark much faster than usual. Daylight Savings Time, he surmised. It didn't help the atmosphere of the house.

It loomed around him nowadays, threatening to crush him with the reminders of what he could not regain. The only freedom he could find was in driving.

Coulson checked the calendar and sighed. October. It had already been almost two months...

He was sober. He was clean. He wasn't in the psych ward. These were accomplishments in S.H.I.E.L.D., at least for those who had lost their partners. He remembered someone from an old unit of his that had gotten his taken from him; a slight young woman. He hadn't asked for details...but whatever they had done to her was enough to send the man into a downward spiral deep enough to plunge him into the detox division. It hadn't been pleasant.

Briefly, the thought occurred to him that the woman had been as young and beautiful as his Natasha, and his blood ran cold.

"You'll be strong, won't you, darling?" Coulson whispered to the darkness. "You have Clint, and I will be with you shortly. There's no need to fret. You are so strong, my Natasha."

He had to stop talking to them...he had to...

Coulson shook his head. It didn't matter. Did it? What was the harm in talking to them? If he was to carry the routine out, wasn't it a decent idea to act like he believed in the routine? After all, it had no power otherwise...

He sighed and adjusted his tie, pacing the house. He couldn't drive too long tonight. It had been too long without sleep; three days, he figured. Maybe an hour's nap or two at work, but that was all. But he had to drive, just a little.

Coulson decided to take the motorcycle; he was never out on it as long, because it left him open and exposed, and that welled up far too many emotions for him to handle properly. That said, there was an exhiliration to taking it that not even the Corvette offered; he could use that tonight.

He went and dressed in something a little more casual—one of Clint's shirts and a pair of his jeans. They were a bit tight, but riding on the motorcycle in his suit felt wrong, somehow. He knew his little darling would laugh; Clint's laugh was warm and bright, though, and so rare. Coulson wouldn't mind if Clint laughed at him. If Clint laughed at him, it meant he was home. And that, he wanted more than anything.

Coulson sighed and headed back downstairs, starting up the motorcycle. Just a short drive tonight...nothing major. Just long enough to soothe himself. Just...long enough...to pretend they were riding with him.

He tore off through the desert to play pretend, tears running down his face as the motor of the bike drowned out his cries with its cacophonic roar, not unlike a tiger.

...

Phil came home after a couple of hours and crawled into bed. There was not much rest to be had; he laid there, uncomprehending, but could not quite fall asleep. His mind was alive with Clint and Natasha; where they were, what they were doing, if they were all right...if the mission was almost over.

He dreamed of their reunion; the thousand and one ways it could occur. Perhaps he would come home one day from work, and they would be on the couch waiting for him. Perhaps he would come to work one day and they would be in his office, sitting in their chairs and waiting for him to join them. Perhaps he would get to greet them just as they got off the jet. There were so many ways they could return to him, but with only one outcome. He would tell them he loved them both.

He didn't even bother entertaining the notion of rejection, because he had suffered enough these past few months, and so he thought of the thousand and one ways their reactions could progress. Their delight, their acceptance; how they might carry him home and cradle him close, and how he would soothe their hurts and kiss their cheeks and promise them eternity. It was all he wanted.

Coulson curled up warm and content in his blankets, sighing softly. The dreams were so beautiful, even though they were more fragile than an insect wing, and just as transparent; enough so that he could see the reality leaking through, try as he might. Given time, perhaps, this could be fixed. But for now...he was lost.

Sleep flickered in and out of the holes in these imaginings, half-remembered and experienced at best. Phil was still dazed and dreamy as he climbed out of bed in the morning to go to work.

As he went for the door, he realized there was one file he hadn't read yet; the last one left before his darlings had come to him.

The Nefaria file was lying on the floor before him, as if temptation himself had arrived on Phil Coulson's doorstep. He knew he shouldn't read it. It would only make him worry. But it was a way to be closer to them. If he was worrying about them, they were on his mind. For a time, they were beside him.

Phil picked it up and put it in his briefcase, leaving for work without another word.

...

He entered his office without a word to anyone, sitting down and grabbing the file from his briefcase, opening it up and beginning to read.

Phil was silent as he skimmed the contents. He could only imagine.

Clint had come back with eighty-seven lacerations across his body, second-degree burns, four cracked ribs, a broken jaw, and a skull fracture. He had spent two months in the hospital before being released; that, Phil was shocked to read. Though after the shock cleared, Phil felt an odd sort of relief. It was a small comfort to know his darlings hadn't just been thrown into a new situation with Clint still injured.

Regardless, even if he hadn't been there, he could see it now; his beautiful Clint, bound and blindfolded and helpless, being torn apart. There were reports of bite marks as well; Nefaria's hounds, possibly. They would have set dogs on him. They had burned him.

The loss of Natasha would have hurt the most, though. That, Coulson knew. His darlings could not be apart for so long. Not there.
Had they burned his hands? Had they ached from the ropes? Had his beautiful darling feared they would cut off his hands, cut out his eyes, make him useless, make him unworthy of being Natasha's partner? They would have threatened.

A hate unlike any Coulson had ever known welled up within him. The urge to track Nefaria down himself and rip him apart was overwhelming, and in an odd way, comforting as he continued to read; it gave him something else to think about other than the horrors before him.

Natasha had come back with an even ninety lacerations, two broken ribs, a fractured pelvis, and severe internal bleeding. Coulson read the report on her operation and wanted to vomit.

They had raped her. Completely and utterly defiled her, beyond comprension. The savagery inherent in the spartan, beige medical text made him push away from his desk and put his head in his arms for a few minutes, just to refrain from falling ill. Her vagina had been ripped apart by both flesh and steel, her body decimated enough that one of the doctors speculated that, had she still possessed one, her uterus might have fallen out.

Coulson threw the file away, hearing the thump of the papers hitting the wall and fluttering to the floor. He grabbed the wastebasket and was quietly but thoroughly sick for a few minutes, purging his body of the little he had eaten this morning.

He shoved it aside and buried his face into his hands, inhaling slowly. He couldn't keep reading. He just couldn't. His Natasha. His Clint. His darling, beautiful lovers.
Coulson steeled himself and got up, washing his mouth out with water from the coffee machine and cleaning up a bit as he went to go get the files. Just as he did, the door opened, and Maria Hill stood in his doorway.

"Good morning, Commander," Coulson said, not skipping a beat as he stood up and brushed his suit off. "Is something the matter?"

"...No, nothing's wrong." She paused. "Phil, what are you reading?"

"The Nefaria file." Coulson replied, like nothing was the matter. He went and got the wastebasket, tossing it into the larger one outside in the hall, completely ignoring the sudden shift of expression on Maria's face.

"...Is something wrong with that one, Phil?" She asked, hesitant. Coulson chuckled.

"No, no. Not at all. I simply fell ill for a time," he paused. "They raped her, you know. They raped her beyond reasoning. And she still loved me. She still kissed me. She still wants to be with us." He shook his head.

"Such a brave girl, my Natasha. Braver than all of you. My Clint is brave as well, but even he understands what she's gone through is beyond either of our comprehension. Clever, loving Clint. He cares so much, once you break the shell." Coulson hummed, as if he had forgotten Maria was there.

"Anyway, that was the last mission of theirs I had to read. I'll re-file them and include the leave of absence in their collective file. I have to update the computer as well." Coulson looked at Maria. "Is there anything else you might require, Commander?"

A psychiatrist.

"No, Phil. That's all. Though I will be up here in a few hours to make sure you get lunch, understood?" Maria said. Phil saluted her.

"Certainly. I will see you then, Commander." He said as he went back into his office and shut the door.

For awhile, Maria just stared at it, thinking about what lurked behind its innocent exterior.

Then she turned and walked away, still deep in thought.

Chapter 44: The Final Break

Summary:

Reminiscing. An end. A false start.

Notes:

Warning for gore and violence in this chapter! Seriously guys. Don't like gore, do not read.
Lotta stuff happens and it's all spoilers, so. Hope you enjoy!

Maria had seen them when they arrived. She had been one of the first and the few to do so, in fact. They hadn't seemed human, covered in blood the way they were; it was dry and flaked away, looking like a carapace they had split from, newly-formed and utterly unrecognizable. The look in their eyes...

Maria shuddered despite herself. It had been not unlike the look in Coulson's when he had lost them, in fact. Like something vital and human had been yanked away from their souls. She had not seen Widow and Hawkeye; she had seen what was left of a human after two months of torture. And she had seen the blood...

Maria shook her head. Blood didn't faze her. The fact that almost none of it was theirs, when they walked in drenched, like they had bathed in it...well, that was another story.

That was whom they had sent to Coulson; not immediately, of course, but after the infirmary patched them up, healed their wounds, attended to physical therapy, and drugged them enough to stop the screaming? They had sent them right to Phil, dumped them right into his lap and let him handle them.

And it had worked.

Against all odds, against logic and reason, the two of them had bonded with him. No, they hadn't expected it, but Fury had pushed them both forward, eager to start his Avengers Initiative—and it had done brilliantly. They loved him. They were his people.

And that was terrifying.

They were his people now; not S.H.I.E.L.D.'s, not Fury's. He had done better for them than S.H.I.E.L.D. could have forseen—and that fact came to bite them in the ass, sure enough.

Coulson needed them. He didn't need S.H.I.E.L.D., not anymore. Such a change of pace from the agent, who had slept, eaten, and breathed for the agency. Clint and Natasha needed him in kind; they needed him to rebirth what had died in Nefaria's camps, and to let it continue growing. They needed him to keep that awful look from their eyes, and so did he.

But they didn't need S.H.I.E.L.D., and that...that was a concern. One Maria feared they may have accidentally made worse.

She sighed and tossed her hands up, unsure of what to do. The images of Hawkeye and Black Widow haunted her...and she knew they must haunt Coulson now as well. There was nothing to be done but wait—and hope today didn't spark the nightmares again.

Maria shook her head and went to find Victoria. She could use a peaceful day filing paperwork with her girlfriend. At least she, unlike Phil, was lucky enough to be able to get one...

...

Unfortunately, a peaceful day was not to be; she had confessed her concerns to Victoria, and from the way her girlfriend went quiet, Maria knew she was thinking about what she had said. She sighed and made annotations to the files before her. Might as well take advantage of the little time she would have before Victoria pulled her into a serious discussion.

"...Call them back?" Victoria finally ventured hesitantly. Maria stared, shocked. Victoria shrugged. "We have other trackers, other people willing to fight; they've lowered his guard. Let them help a new team slip in to kill them and be done with it."

Maria opened and closed her mouth, dumbfounded, before finally shaking her head.

"Victoria, this—this is the separation mission. As much as I hate to say it...everyone goes through with it. They're no different from anyone else in S.H.I.E.L.D.; to give them preferential treatment would be unfair." Maria said slowly. She couldn't believe what her lover was saying; just bring them back?

"But they're going insane! Or at least Phil is!" Victoria replied. "I mean, Maria honey, I know an agent should know how to conduct themselves without a partner, but they were taken from him before their leave was up and he could confess his feelings! That's not fair either!"

"What would you have me do, Victoria?" Maria snapped, exasperated. "I answer to Fury! He makes the missions! I didn't decide this!"

"...No, you didn't. But you know this choice is wrong. Don't you?" Victoria demanded. Maria looked away and didn't say a word. Victoria narrowed her eyes.

"Don't you?" She snapped.

"I don't know." Maria replied. "And it wouldn't matter if I did."

Victoria fell silent. The two sat there for awhile, tension flooding the room.

Finally, Victoria broke it with a sigh and came to sit in Maria's lap, closing her eyes and shaking her head.

"I'm sorry, baby. I know you can't make the decisions. I just...feel so bad for him. And you're my big strong Maria; I know you can always protect me. Sometimes, though...I forget you can't do the same for everyone else." Victoria laid her head on Maria's shoulder. "Will they be safe?"

"I don't know. This...this was the only decision we could've made, though. I know that. But...I don't know what'll happen because of it, Victoria." She sighed.

"I suspect we'll know soon enough." Victoria replied. Maria shuddered.

"Yes. Yes, I suppose we will." She agreed.

...

A week would pass before they found their answer.

It was Halloween; the day happened to fall on a dusky, slow Sunday, and so Coulson was at home.

He sat in the house, trembling. He hadn't slept in three days, or eaten or drank anything other than a cup of coffee or an apple for five. He had kept the routine. He had...kept the routine...but it was their food, his darling's food...he couldn't wait to see their faces when they realized what he had cooked for them.

He couldn't eat it. They were coming home soon. It had been so long. They would come home and have a nice, warm meal, then they would all get into bed together and...and sleep. Yes...sleep. Sleep was such a rare, precious thing. When was the last time he had slept?

Coulson looked outside at the sun high overhead. It was shining somewhere else for his darlings. He hoped it kept them warm.

He had to drive. He had to keep driving, forever. There was no pain when he was racing to beat the wind; he was not lost. But if he looked back, god help him. God help them all. Whatever was behind him was shadows and pain and sorrow and darlings, darlings no...

He had to go driving. That was a good decision; a logical one.

Those words stirred something up in his mind, but it was lurking at the back of it; if he looked back, he was lost.
Just drive. Driving meant forward. There was no going back when he was driving.

Coulson got in the Corvette and heard something in the backseat, in the back of his mind, and he mustn't look back, mustn't...

Keep driving, just keep going forward. There was nothing to see going forward. Not for him. Everything that mattered was waiting in the past, behind him, lurking in the back of his head.

Coulson tore out of the garage and down the street, faster and faster as he forced his way forward. He would drive until the back of his thoughts were the barest, faintest memory, and he would be safe. It was all he could do.

Coulson kept driving, driving until a harvest moon hung low and fat over the car, like it was going to crush him and his memories along with it. Phil drove forward, and for a second, it was as if he had driven through it, casting a sickly pale glow across the car, like a thin veil of human skin over its hood, cold and wan as death.

For a second, Phil felt something deep within him tense, as if in anticipation. The temptation to look back was overwhelming. He grit his teeth against it and drove on, even knowing it might not last. He would not be lost. Not until Clint and Natasha had found him.

...

Across the world, in the throes of early morning, Clint and Natasha were summoned.

Natasha had a deep, aching pain in the pits of her stomach, but she did not voice this to Clint—she did not want her darling to fear. It would do them no good.

She made her way to Nefaria's office with her weapons strapped to her belt, however, and she noticed Clint had done the same. Even if she did not communicate her fears...oh, he knew, her darling always knew...

But knowledge could not save them. Not here, not in this place. As they walked into his chambers, that much was clear.

"Natalia, darling. The hounds have missed you." Nefaria said, his shark-teeth glimmering in the low light.

Natasha snarled; the game was up, and damn Clint's debt, she would have her pound of flesh. Feed him to his hounds and see how he liked it.

She drew her knife as Clint grabbed his own; Nefaria just chuckled, as if their ferocity amused him.

"You are not surprised I knew? I've known this whole time. Natalia, dove, no one in the world fights like you. I assumed you had come back on S.H.I.E.L.D.'s orders, and so I let you slowly let down your guard. Preparing to kill me, I assume...but you waited too long. It matters not." He took a sip of the wine sitting on his desk, the thin crystal stem of the glass trembling.

"Kill him, darling!" Natasha snapped. Clint threw the knife without further hesitation; Nefaria let it sink into his shoulder, seemingly unimpressed, as Natasha dove at him and slammed her fist into his face.

He grabbed her hand and dislocated her wrist, throwing her into the desk and sending her sprawling. She groaned in pain and snapped the bone back into place as Clint went for his other knife.

There was a scuffle; for a few minutes, no one could get the edge, for Nefaria was strong, almost inhumanly so, and he had watched them fight before. Clint's powerful arms bruised and broke what they could; sharpened teeth flashed and sank into veins, hands and feet. Clint was far too gone in his rage to care about pain; he continued to tear into him, listening to the satisfying crack of bone and cartilage beneath his fists.

For all that Clint ignored his pain, lost in revenge, Nefaria was still causing it. Eventually, for a second, Clint faltered, blood dripping from his hands and his chest heaving. Natasha waited, tense; if her darling needed her, she would be ready.

Before she could come to his aid, Clint had been pinned against the wall by a single strong hand, Nefaria's eyes glittering as he held his thumb in front of Clint's eye.

"I could cripple you," he crooned, "right in front of her. She will watch your fall from grace, Barton, and be there to witness as you writhe like the worm you are."

"Fuck you, buddy," Clint snarled, lashing out with the arrow he'd kept hidden in his jacket. "The only thing Nat's going to see is your brains on this fucking rug—"

Before he could get anything else out, he sank the arrow deep into Nefaria's eye, right until he could feel the resistance of brain matter quivering wetly through his grip. Clint exhaled a sigh of relief as Nefaria spasmed once, twice, and was still.

Clint shoved the dead body off of him, watching it warily for a minute. After he made sure Nefaria wouldn't get up, he yanked the arrow out of his eye and looked at it for a long, slow second.

He removed the knife from Nefaria's shoulder without another word and sawed off his hands. The knife was sharp—it took him three deep slices to each wrist. He snapped the bone with ease and removed them, completing his task. He held the hands up, grim satisfaction written all over his face. Without further ceremony, he wrenched Nefaria's mouth open, breaking his jaw, and stuffed his hands down his throat.

"Nat?" He whispered. "Time for your pound of flesh, darling."

Natasha got up and limped over to him, wincing when her wrist brushed her hip. It was still tender, and she took the knife in her left hand as she tore open his shirt and ripped in a sloppy, sprawling cut across his stomach, peeling the flesh away and hacking the exposed part free.

She opened the window and tossed it outside, watching as the hounds loping about the outside of Nefaria's quarters feasted on their treat. For a few minutes, she watched them  tear him apart as they had done to her. Then something in her mind stirred, reminding her of their true goal.

"...Coulson," she finally murmured. "We can go back home to Coulson."

She turned back to Clint, all business, and handed him the phone on Nefaria's desk.

"Contact S.H.I.E.L.D. immediately; we need to get out of here, but they'll need to know coordinates. Just get on the line, Clint—communication isn't necessary." She said. Clint huffed.

"I know, babe. Don't worry; the thought of seeing Phil hasn't turned me into an idiot." He teased. Natasha actually smiled at him.

"No, he wouldn't like that. He'll like seeing us again, though. He will be so happy..." She sighed. "I have dreamed of how we will be reunited. I do know I would like to shower first."

"Back at the hideout, darling." Clint said absentmindedly as he managed to access the S.H.I.E.L.D. line. "Hello, Director? We're—"

He was cut off as the door swung open and Mikal, the jovial, fatherly member of the battalion, ambled in. For a second, he didn't notice the body—then, as he walked forward, he stepped right into the open wound Natasha had created in Nefaria's chest.

There was a beat of silence, and the whole situation was so horrifying and ridiculous in equal measure that Clint wanted to laugh.

Then Mikal snapped.

Clint and Natasha tensed at the earsplitting scream, and before they could explain, he was thundering down the hall denouncing them, calling them murderers, monsters, madmen...

Clint looked over at Natasha for a second.

"Y'know, you should've just fed his whole body to the hounds." He remarked.

Natasha just huffed and stormed out. It mattered not. They were fools, all of them, and they were standing between her and Coulson. That, she could never tolerate.

Before she could get very far, however, there was a gun in her face. A line of guards blocked her way, and before she could blink, they had surrounded her and Clint.

She considered the gun. It shook. The person wielding it had never killed before. She could kill them all, as she did before. Bathe in their blood and present their hearts to her Coulson—a gift, to show him she had not forgotten him while they were away.

And yet.

As she went for her knife, she saw friends around her; people she had once trusted, liked, thought of as allies and comrades, even if she came to them on false pretenses.

She could not do it. They were still green, still innocent. She knew these people, and she could not kill them. There had to be another way. Phil had taught her that was possible—she owed it to him to try...

Before either she or Clint could do so, they both received harsh blows to the head, knocking them unconscious.

...

They awoke in the pit.

They had been here before. They had almost died here, in fact. And they had almost died alone. That was the most terrifying part of the pits—the loneliness.

Clint awoke and immediately knew he was without his Natasha. He could not feel her or see her; in the dark, he heard her breathing and confirmed it. She was far away from him, so far away...

There was the soft sound of footsteps. Then the click of a door being wrenched open.

"You killed him," a harsh, accusatory voice snarled, "you murdered our leader for power! You're a monster!"

Clint thought of the gentle, kind agent he had met in the middle of a dream. The reality he had never been able to possess. He thought of the man whose heart he had broken, only for him to perservere on, to wind his way in between both his and Natasha's hearts to unite them and heal them. He thought of how he had left that man behind. He thought of how trapped that man was in S.H.I.E.L.D.'s clutches, alone and frightened.

"Yeah," Clint said, "yeah, I am."

The knife descended upon him. Clint didn't even feel it.

...

Somewhere halfway across the world, though, someone else did.

It was in fact sheer coincidence, but it was coincidence a long time coming; Coulson had snapped way deep down the minute he knew they were gone.

He didn't look back. Not yet.

He pulled into the driveway, the moon still hanging over him, and as he got out of the car, he bumped into the radio, turning it on. He blinked, surprised, as Natasha's favorite song began to play.

He looked back then. But who in fact could blame him? He looked back, hoping to see her happiness, to see her smile at the song...

And that was exactly what he saw.

Coulson smiled.

"Hello, darlings," he said. "Why don't we come inside and have something warm to eat before bed?"

Natasha smiled back, and Coulson was lost.

"Yes, of course my love; we have missed your cooking so. You would not believe what they fed us..." She tsked and got out of the car, Clint getting out beside her.

Coulson stopped and stared at Clint. He was looking at him with such love, such devotion...

For a second, his mind protested; his darling was broken and raw, and even in his love, he would not look so at ease.

Then Clint approached him like a tiger, and while Natasha held Coulson steady from behind, Clint caught Coulson in a deep, slow, passionate kiss; the first of such kind that Phil had ever received. Clint savaged him, and in doing so, savaged his mind as well. Phil questioned nothing any longer.

Clint pulled away and Phil was panting, eyes shining.

"I love you," Clint said, and his heart soared as they went inside. "I love you, Phil, I'm sorry I hurt you—it's okay. We'll help you now. We're going to take care of you this time. C'mon, Phil, walk with me..."

Coulson wept as he went inside, walking between them. If anyone else had been watching, however, they would have realized he entered the house alone.

Chapter 45: Apparent Reality

Summary:

Maria and Victoria talk. Two new agents are introduced. S.H.I.E.L.D. notices a few things.

Notes:

Victoria/Maria because oh god. Oh god the comics killed my baby. I have to just keep writing fanfic.
And yeah. Coulson's just completely snapped. Only when it comes to those two, though; it's not like he starts killing people or forgetting how to take care of himself or whatever. He just thinks they're alive and safe.

That night, Coulson fell into bed; he started dreaming, then, and never stopped.

Natasha and Clint surrounded him, embraced him, kissed him and whispered promises in his ears. They would never leave him again, they swore. Oh, how they loved him; how they had yearned for him, body and soul, and there was so much to make up for, Phil, so much...

Coulson awoke the next morning and wrinkled his nose at the odd feeling upon his thighs. He sat up and shook his head, going to take a shower.

It was only when he pulled back the curtain and saw his lovers in there that he smiled and understood, undressing and climbing in there with them.

They almost ran out of hot water by the time the shower was done.

Coulson led them downstairs, their hands entwined in his. He kissed them both, slow and tender, before sitting them down at the table.

"Darlings, let me make breakfast," he pleaded. "It's the least you deserve."

Natasha laughed lightly and gave him a slow, warm kiss. Phil moaned into it without shame, holding her close and tight, burying his hands into her hair, tugging lightly.

"Of course, my love. There is no one we would rather have to cook for us." She murmured. Coulson smiled, brewing the coffee as he bustled about the kitchen, cooking their favorites; bacon, cream of wheat, eggs and pancakes, enough to feast upon. His darlings must have gone hungry on their mission, certainly.

Coulson hummed blissfully as he cooked, the overwhelming reality settling in. His darlings were home! His darlings were home, safe and sound...and finally, his life could begin anew. They loved him. He loved them. They would be together forever, and no one would hurt them. He would defend and protect them for as long as they lived.

Coulson began to sing—truly sing, which he hadn't done in months. Not since they left. His voice was for them and them alone now.

"Oh, Phil, how I've missed your voice!" Natasha said, giving him a smile as he brought their breakfast to the table. Coulson chuckled and kissed her cheek, stroking her beautiful hair. It shone like sunlight in his fingers, ethereal and almost untouchably perfect.

"I've missed yours, my darling. And yours as well, Clint. It has been a lonely house without you two." Coulson said. Clint grinned, taking his hands and kissing them.

"I bet, babe. But don't worry; you won't be alone again, not ever. Promise!" Clint said. Coulson smiled.

"I know, my love. Eat breakfast, both of you; I have to get ready for work." Coulson said. Natasha paused, her eyes wide and full of fear; Clint flinched and buried his face into her shoulder.

"Darlings? Darlings, what's the matter?" Coulson asked, immediately concerned. He took their hands and kissed them, looking up at his lovers. They shook their heads.

"Oh, Phil, please don't make us go back. We're not ready yet. We have to rest, Phil...it was so hard in the camps, and we ached so." Natasha begged. Clint nodded.

"Yeah, it...it was awful, Phil. Please, babe; they hurt us. I don't...don't wanna go back to S.H.I.E.L.D., not ever. They hurt us too, you know that!" Clint chimed in. Coulson took their faces in his hands and kissed their foreheads, cooing soft comforts at them.

"Darlings, darlings no...no, never. I most certainly will not expect you to go to work. Not until you're ready, my beautiful little ones. You'll go right back upstairs after breakfast and sleep for as long as you like. I'll come home early to be with you, even. We'll be all right." Coulson promised them. They moaned with soft relief, holding Phil tightly in their arms for a moment. Phil smiled and hugged them back.

"All right, then, my loves; eat up while I prepare for work. Save me a bit, all right?" He asked. They both nodded as they dug in, eating as if they hadn't seen food for weeks. This wouldn't have surprised Coulson one bit.

He went upstairs, humming contentedly as he dressed and prepared for work, coming back down to see his darlings. His heart lit up at the sight of them.

"Come on, darlings; I'll tuck you back in before I go. How does that sound?" Coulson murmured. Clint and Natasha perked up and nodded, following after Coulson eagerly as their lover led them upstairs to the bedroom.

He kissed them both; long, slow, and sweet enough to make him moan, before he turned down the covers and led them right into bed, tucking them in and stroking their hair before settling them down for what he hoped would be a nice, long nap.

Before he went to work, however, Coulson picked up Philipa and put her between the two of them. He smiled at their confusion.

"For when I'm not here, darlings. She's all yours," he murmured. "I'll be back soon, though, don't worry."

He left and shut the door behind him. For a second, he looked back and imagined himself in there with them. He smiled at the idea—after work, perhaps.

Coulson went downstairs and ate what his darlings had left for him—they were so kind and considerate, and he loved them so much...

Outside his mind, he was still partaking in the ritual; the ritual had become reality. With every bite he fell deeper down the rabbit hole, crumbs scattering like loose pomenegrate seeds as he devoured breakfast, sliding further on the downward spiral towards oblivion.

...

The first thing Maria noticed was the humming. Sound seeped in through S.H.I.E.L.D. like a cat winding its way around misty streets; the voice was beautiful. She realized others had stopped to listen, curious as to who was making such a sound.

Phil Coulson breezed in, swinging a briefcase and humming a light, lovely tune.

"Oh, my god." Victoria muttered from beside her, genuine shock on her face. Maria watched him hesitantly. Despite herself, her hand went to her gun.

"Oh, good morning, agent." Phil said, stopping mid-hum in front of her. Maria jumped—she'd been so focused on the song she hadn't seem him approach... "Are you well?"

Maria blinked, slow and careful and more than a little disturbed.

"...Yes, Phil. I'm fine. Has...has anything happened lately?" She asked.

Phil paused, thinking. No. No, S.H.I.E.L.D. couldn't know. His darlings had come back safe and sound, and they would stay that way. He would hold Fury off and make sure they could recuperate safely, like they deserved. He wouldn't tell his Commander. He couldn't.

"Nothing special, Commander. I'm quite all right. Is there anything I can do for you?" Phil asked, keeping his voice calm and polite. Maria shook her head. Phil smiled.

"In that case, if I finish my tasks today, may I leave early? There is a matter at home that requires my urgent attention." Phil said, still placid and polite. Maria stared for a second before she shook her head, snapping out of her stupor and nodding.

"Y-yes, agent. Of course. Whatever you need to handle." She said. Phil nodded.

"Thank you, Commander. If you'll excuse me, I should see to the recruits' schedule. The training room is probably a mess again..." He sighed and left the room, still humming.

Everyone looked at each other.

"Victoria, office." Maria snapped, storming off and heading for her own office. Victoria followed after her, her heels clicking as she tried to keep pace with her lover.

Maria entered her office with a sharp bang, slamming the door shut behind her and sitting in her chair, legs spread wide enough to accomodate Victoria on her lap. Victoria knew when Maria was in dire need of that; she did as asked, sitting down in Maria's lap and allowing her lover to stroke her hair for a few minutes.

"So, d'ya think the matter at home is burying Fury's body beneath his floorboards, or what?" Victoria asked, breaking the silence.

"No, I saw him this morning." Maria said. Victoria groaned and smiled, kissing her cheek.

"Joke, honey." She reminded her. Maria huffed, giving her a look. Victoria just sighed. "Seriously, though...that freaked you out, huh?"

"Yes! Yes, it did, actually! Because he shouldn't...god, he shouldn't be acting like that with them gone. He's lost them and he's just...going about his day. He was singing, for god's  sake!" Maria snapped, throwing up her hands. Victoria got quiet.

"Sometimes, you go on missions I can't. It's too dangerous, you say. So I stay. But I can't go to pieces every time; I'd go to pieces a lot if I did. So I do what he's doing right now. I smile. I sing. I cook your favorite meals and curl up on your side of the bed. You can't stay sad forever, Maria. But it still hurts." Victoria murmured.

Maria was quiet. In the silence lay all her regret and all her love, and it threatened to break them both.

"I...I'm sorry," she whispered. "You know I have to. But I know you deserve better. And I know you're absolutely wonderful for staying."

Victoria hugged her tight and nodded into her neck.

"Yeah, I know. You're worth it, honey," she promised. "Seriously,  though; Phil might honestly just be, well...okay. He couldn't be sad forever, right?"

"No...but that didn't really feel like happiness to me, either." Maria shook her head. "It's nothing. It—"

She was cut off by the phone on her desk going off. She picked it up, nudging Victoria aside enough to hold her and the phone steady.

"Commander Hill, what is it—" She paused. "Oh, Director! Yes, I...I'll be down immediately."

Victoria sighed as Maria hung up. She gave her lover a soft, apologetic kiss.

"Go see what he wants, love," Victoria said. "I'll wait in here for you and get you started on your paperwork. You deserve the break."

"Thanks, Tori. I'll be back soon. And tonight...if I can, I promise, we'll go home early." Maria stroked her hair one more time before leaving her office. Victoria watched her leave with a small, heavy sigh, before taking out her lover's paperwork and going over it.

...

Fury looked genuinely worried for just an instant as Maria entered—then it was gone, as if it had never been. Maria came over to stand in front of his desk, ignoring that fear. It wouldn't do either of them good to acknowledge it.

"Clint and Natasha fulfilled their mission," Fury said, and for a second, relief lanced Maria's heart; perhaps Coulson had been given the news before her, and his delight was geniune and true.

"There were, however...a few complications." Fury said.

Maria's blood ran cold.

"Nefaria is dead, but his assassins, according to the news, have been placed under arrest by the militia Nefaria was forming. Their names were Nina and Phil Couls." Fury raised an eyebrow. "Surely you can see where I'm going with this."

"...Are they dead?" She whispered, panic beginning to swell in her chest. No, oh no. She was not going to be the one to break that news to Phil.

"Not yet. But getting them out of there is going to be...complex. It's a politically charged situation, and we can't—"

"Sir, if we don't, Phil will die with them!" Maria interrupted. She would remember to be stunned at herself later. "He's one of your best agents, sir! You know as well as I do that we can't leave him to die—nor can we lose Widow and Hawkeye!"

"I know, Hill, but what would you have me do? Re-upset the region by sending in S.H.I.E.L.D. troops? That will just guarantee another Nefaria, another fight we'll need them to take on later. No, we'll nip this in the bud now. I can't send in a task force to bust them out quite yet...but I can send undercover agents. If we're lucky, we'll have them spirited out of there in a month. Two at the most." Fury said.

Maria was very quiet for a long few minutes.

"Please don't tell him, sir." She said. Fury raised an eyebrow. Maria stood firm. "Sir, if he thinks they're in danger...he's reached the point where he would go against orders, sir. He would go and find them, and he would kill everyone involved in this, everyone who hurt his lovers. You don't want a political situation? Fine. Understandable, even. But don't push him over this edge then, sir. We'll solve this without his involvement."

Fury looked at her for a long, slow minute. Maria held firm.

"You're right," he said. "Good point, Commander. I won't tell him. He doesn't need to know, and we don't need the drama. We'll focus on getting them out. Would you lead the effort?"

She thought of Phil, coping as best as he could with loss like he had never known. She thought of Victoria, who had done the same.

"I'll need a list of the agents. I'll arrange for a briefing." She said. Fury chuckled.

"Good woman," he said, handing her the files. "I knew you would. I'll see you back here afterwards."

"Sir," Maria agreed, saulting him and leaving. She couldn't help but hope she might still get out early. Phil deserved his lovers back...and so did Victoria.

...

Maria sighed and sat down in the briefing room, looking at the agents Fury had given her. They all looked hesitant—evidently, he had not discussed the specifics of the mission.

"Clint and Natasha were captured while undercover." She said. There was no reason to sugarcoat the truth, after all. Their shock was also, she admittedly privately, almost amusing in its cartoonishness; she had never seen someone's eyeballs bulge out of their heads before in real life.

"Do not tell Coulson," she told them. "He wouldn't be able to handle it, and we don't know how long this mission will take. We don't need him in the psych ward for two months."

They looked uneasy, but nodded in agreement. Maria sighed.

"All right; they're in Europe, in a small landlocked nation between Italy and France called Luchinara—for obvious reasons. That said, getting into the camp shouldn't be too difficult; they're mourning Nefaria's death and seeking to erect his republic anew. A few rebels moved to the cause by his murder won't go amiss. Sneak in, get access to the bowels of the camp—we assume they haven't changed much about the camp's structure, so they should be exactly where they were last time—and get them out. Prevent as much bloodshed as possible." Maria said, her voice quavering just a little. "We all know what happened last time."

Everyone was quiet. She was the only one present who had seen it, sure, but...they had all heard the stories. And probably made some up for themselves.

"Agent Landen, you'll lead the mission. Agent Tylar, as his partner, you're his second. Go, and go quickly." Maria said. "Dismissed."

They all left without a word; Maria knew her words were weighing heavily on their thoughts.

She sighed and went back to Fury's office without thinking further on the subject; quite frankly, she wanted to put this all from her mind. She would go do whatever Fury wanted and then wash her hands of the day; she wanted to be with Victoria and not think about her job, just for once.

...

"Sir?" Agent Tylar asked, following after his partner with a hesitant look on his face. "Question, sir...why do you think Agent Coulson can't handle this? I mean, wasn't he...wasn't he happy this morning?"

Agent Landen looked down at his partner for a minute. Then, with a soft sigh, he shook his head. Bobby was a sweetheart, but a rookie. Just barely a proper agent, but with enough talent that he could do undercover, and do it well. That was a blessing and a curse; he was good enough to be here...but not hardened enough.

"Hell, Bobby, you know you don't have to call me sir, I'm your goddamn partner." Landen sighed and put his hands in his pockets. "Look, I've run a few field missions with Phil, and let me tell you; he doesn't process emotion like the rest of us. He just don't, y'know? He lost his partner before he could even get t'know the guy...and he never quite adjusted. He never settled in the way you gotta, if you're a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent. He don't know what t'do with loss...so he's coping the only way he knows how. This is just another way he's falling apart."

"You know all that?" Tylar said, wide-eyed. Landen sighed.

"Seen all of it. It's true, though. After they left him...he fell, and he hit the ground a lot harder'n the rest of us." He shook his head. "Christ, but could I ever use a smoke."

"But...Aaron, Widow and Hawkeye, I mean...with this capture and all, what do we..." He trailed off as they heard the soft sound of leather shoes on carpet. Both of them froze as Phil Coulson rounded the corner.

"Widow and Hawkeye what, Agent Tylar?" Phil said, keeping his voice polite. Both of them began to internally panic.

"Widow and Hawkeye are...well..." He stammered, fearful. Phil chuckled.

"At home," he said. "My darlings are at home, finishing up their leave. They deserve their rest, and all the care I can give." He smiled. "If you'll excuse me, gentlemen, I need to go do just that."

Coulson took his briefcase and inclined his head in a show of respect before leaving as he had come. He had begun to hum again.

Both agents just looked at each other for a long, slow minute.

Then they bolted off to find Maria.

...

She had just wanted to go home. Spend the night with Victoria. Enjoy herself. But not yet, not yet...

"Commander!" Agent Tylar said, skidding to a stop in front of her. "Ma'am, forgive us, but we have...some bad news."

Tylar looked incredibly nervous to be talking to the Commander, so Landen put a hand on his shoulder and stepped in.

"Coulson overheard us discussing the mission. Ma'am...he doesn't know. But..." Landen sighed. "That's the point. He...he's snapped, Commander. Really and truly snapped."

"...Is he hurt?" Maria asked, her blood beginning to grow sluggish and fearful in her veins, creeping slowly through them. The thought of bringing home Widow and Hawkeye and sending them right off to the medbay—or god forbid, the morgue—was something she never wanted to entertain ever again.

"In the mind, Commander. He's...gone. And he thinks they're right there with him." Landen explained.

Maria was quiet for a minute.

"I see," she said. "Agents, I want you to make as much haste as is possible on this mission. For his sake."

"Y-yes, ma'am. We'll head out right away." Landen promised. He saluted her before leading Tylar out. They both looked shaken.

Maria walked the rest of the way to Victoria's office, numb. When she opened the door, Victoria was waiting for her. She took her into her arms and hugged her for a minute, just stroking her hair quietly.

"He's not coping," Maria said, after a moment's silence. "He's lost it. Completely lost it. And I can't do anything anymore."

Victoria stood with her for a few minutes quietly, just holding her.

"No, you can't. And that's all right. We'll fix this. But not now, and not just you. Come on, Maria. You need rest. You can't fix anything on an empty stomach and four hours of sleep." Victoria chastitised her gently. Maria sighed and nodded agreement.

"Right, yeah...you're right," she agreed, letting Victoria lead her out of the office and down to their car. Victoria drove, which let Maria take a moment to lay her head against the window and look up at the night sky, wondering. What was Coulson seeing now? Was this the same night sky for him? Or had it become even darker when they had left, so dark he couldn't find his way out, and had to make up the stars for himself?

Maria shook her head. No. She wouldn't dwell. Victoria deserved better.

So did Coulson, but there was nothing she could do about that. Perhaps his dreams could do better than she did. At least, for the moment.

Chapter 46: Dissonance

Summary:

Coulson makes Christmas. Torture and angst and shenanigans also get involved.

Notes:

Bit of gore, mentions of rape; don't read the scenes with Clint and Natasha if that bothers you.
Fluff and Maria and...things! Lovely things. I just hope you are all enjoying this fic. :)

Coulson began to hum with delight as he made his way into the house, unlocking his door. Before he could open it, however, it twisted open for him and he was yanked into Clint's arms. The archer drew him into a firm, insistent kiss, his mouth demanding and domineering as Coulson groaned and sunk against him, smiling into the kiss.

"I figured you could let someone else be in charge for a bit," Clint suggested. "Nat's upstairs. Do you want to rest?"

"I'd love to...but aren't you two hungry?" Phil asked. Clint shrugged.

"Well, yeah, but cuddling with you...that takes a lot of precedence, Phil. How about you just bring up some cookies? We never did get to eat them!" Clint said. Phil nodded and smiled.

"Yes, you're right; we didn't. I'll get some for you both. Why don't you go upstairs and tell Natasha I'll be there soon?" Phil asked. Clint smiled, nodding an agreement and nuzzling Phil's cheek.

"Okay! Yeah, we'll be up there. Love you, babe." Clint said, traipsing up the stairs. Coulson watched him go, speechless. He just smiled.

"...Love you, too." He finally whispered.

Then Phil went to go get them some cookies.

When he came up to their room, he stopped short, realizing Clint and Natasha were lounging around the bed, entirely naked and wanton in his presence, smiling as they noticed  he stood there. Phil's mouth was dry, and his heart hammered in his throat. 

"F-food first," he managed to murmur, despite the fact that it was the last thing on his mind. "Darlings, you've been hurt. We can't..."

"We're fine, Phil. Nefaria took good care of us, until we killed him," Natasha said. "Our bodies have ached for you for months, my love. Do not deny us your touch, please. That hurts more than hunger, than torture. Please, Phil."

Coulson set the plate on the nightstand and quietly crawled in between the two of them. Natasha smiled and gave him a warm, slow, lingering kiss. Coulson gave them both a quick, sweet kiss before he sighed and hugged them tight.

"Darlings, if that's what you want, I can't tell you no," he murmured. "You're so beautiful, both of you. I love you."

"Love you too, Phil," Clint murmured, claiming his lips for a kiss.

"I love you as well, my Coulson." Natasha told him, cupping the back of his head and nipping at his neck, leaving a claim in his skin.

Coulson held them both tight, settling them in as they helped him prepare. They felt so good...and they were home. That was what mattered most—that his darlings were home.

Phil couldn't help but embrace them, never wanting to forget the feel of their skin, or the beauty of it. They were safe. And they would never leave him again...

...

She had left him.

Clint wanted to weep. His Natasha. Nothing mattered right now but his Natasha, his partner. She was hurting, she was dying...and he was here, helpless. Where was Coulson?

They needed their Coulson...but they had lost him. Due to their own mistakes, they had lost him...

Clint groaned as another knife sank into his back, slicing open battered, bruised skin. It was just like before, the pain just as blinding, regardless of who was holding the knife. It hurt, but not like losing Nat. Nothing could hurt so much as losing Nat.

He could ignore the pain, but at the cost of focusing on the things he would never see again. A warm, softly lit kitchen; a well-worn phonograph and the records that went with it, a collection of immaculately preserved trading cards...a bed big enough for three, no more, no less. That hurt more, in its own way. But it was a pain he could handle; it was dreamlike, even in its intensity. He had never been destined for that life, that happiness. He would die here, as it should be.

Clint grit his teeth. He would not scream. Even when they threatened his hands. Even when he felt their thumbs pushing against his eyes, reminding him of what they could do. He would not scream. They did not deserve the satisfaction. He would die with Natasha and Phil's names on his lips, and nothing else.

Before he could comfort himself entirely with the idea of death, there was a long, low, loud scream that reverbrated through his bones and ached in its familiarity. Clint's heart leapt in joy.

Some thought them weak when they screamed. Clint didn't care. If he heard her, if he knew she was alive...he was strong. Stronger than any of them could ever know. He was the tiger, and he would not cower for any of them. But for Natasha, he would scream.

Clint tipped his head back and howled, in fury and anguish and agony, screamed until his skin threatened to split and the tiger slink out from beneath, screamed until he knew Natasha would hear him and be soothed and strengthened in return.

It was not weakness, it was not fear. It was survival. And survival was what would bring them both home to Phil. That was what mattered.

Clint grit his teeth against the next swift kick to his ribs. He would not cower...he could not...

He, thankfully, slipped into another blackout from the pain, and for a time, he knew peace, as hazy and half-remembered as it was.

...

Natasha didn't think. To think was to be aware, and to be aware was to remember what they were doing to her body, her softest, most secret, most sacred places. She would not think. There was only instinct. Instinct and a song.

In that song stayed everything worth remembering; Phil, Clint, warm summer drives, the total and complete happiness that came from both her lovers, and the feel of their hands on her skin. It was there in such a way that she didn't need to think about it—she simply felt it, focused on it, and was never forced to remain aware.

She was going to be okay. Somewhere out in the world beyond this pit, there was a house. A beautiful house all their own. There was a man named Phil Coulson who would never stop looking for them, never stop loving them. He was there, somewhere, and she would survive to find him.

She screamed, at one point; an animal reaction, nothing she needed to think on. She screamed to save Clint, and to grieve for Coulson all in one breath. If she screamed, Clint would know she was alive; Clint would hang on. If she screamed...it was better than a song in letting all the grief out.

Natasha sunk back into her song as they came for her. She would not let them get the satisfaction of having owned her, of having stained her soul in some way. They were beneath that; all of them, beneath her. She was a body now, a piece of meat, unaware and unfeeling. It was the only way to survive.

The song wound around her, slow and soft and sad. She did not think about all it told her.

...

Phil smiled as he rolled over in bed to see Natasha looking back at him, love clear in her eyes. She kissed his forehead and whispered, "Good morning, my love."

"Good morning, darling," Phil murmured. "Let Clint rest, please. I'm going to go to work; there's leftovers in the fridge and cookies on the nightstand from last night. I'll be home in time for dinner, I promise."

"Cookies for breakfast?" Natasha replied, amused. Phil huffed, giving her a grin.

"A little treat for my darlings, I think," he murmured. "You've both been through enough. I think a few cookies in the morning won't go amiss."

"Thank you, Phil. I'll make sure Clint eats as well." Natasha's eyes softened. "Darling, I love you. I am so glad we are home."

"I am too, Natasha. I've missed you both." He paused, cupping her cheek in his hand. "They...they didn't..."

"No, my love. I was not raped." She replied. Phil exhaled a relieved sigh and kissed her forehead.

"Good. I'm...I'm so glad." He stroked her hair before getting out of bed, careful not to wake Clint. He needed his rest. The archer slept so beautifully, his breathing soft and his hands clutching the blankets. He whimpered quietly when Coulson left the bed entirely. Coulson's heart ached at the sound.

He got dressed quickly before coming back to Clint's side. Very carefully and quietly, he knelt beside Clint and kissed his cheek, before standing up and leaving the room, so that his beautiful little hawk could rest in peace.

Phil made himself some toast and coffee before leaving, at ease. His lovers were just fine, and he would keep them that way for as long as possible.

He drove to S.H.I.E.L.D., humming contentedly as he pulled into the parking lot and made his way towards the building. Perhaps he would stop in the training room—he hadn't seen his darling with his bow. Perhaps he had broken his other one?

Regardless, he would surprise him with his other bow; just something for him to hold onto. Phil smiled at the thought. Perhaps if he was lucky, he would find Natasha's stingers as well...

Coulson walked through the door, still humming quietly, content. His darlings would be all right. He was taking care of them now. All would be well.

He didn't notice Maria, but it didn't matter. Nothing mattered but his darlings.

Phil made his way towards his office. Maria watched him as he went, quiet and considering. Every move he made unnerved her, but she couldn't explain why...

She made to call out to him before realizing it might be a bad idea. She had to confront him in some way, however, and see how deep this hallucination ran.

Maria considered for a minute, quiet. She might just have an idea.

Gritting her teeth, she headed down to the training room.

...

Maria hunted for what she was looking for quietly, so as not to stir up gossip any further. The recruits watched for a little while, curious, but knowing she was watching, were more concerned with throwing themselves into their training. Maria was allowed to stalk the locker rooms with ease, breaking their combinations and rifling through their stashes to find a few things to take with her.

She didn't know how risky this might be, but forcing Phil to confront reality seemed like the only option. Would Clint and Natasha want to come home to a madman? Would S.H.I.E.L.D. be able to survive if Coulson was going slowly insane over the next month or more?

She had to do this. Even if it was a bit dangerous. Part of her just hoped he was far gone enough to not lash out violently.

Maria collected what she needed and made her way out of the locker room quietly, going through the training room with her head held high. The other recruits watched, curious, but Maria was better than that. She betrayed nothing. It was only fair to Coulson. He had been through, enough, after all, and to trap him further under the millstone of the rumor mill seemed unfair.

Maria sighed and made her way to his office, a knot of fear and doubt tightening in her stomach. She steeled herself with the reminder that abetting Phil's breakdown would simply cut the wound deeper. Healing it—for it would be healed eventually, she knew that—would be much easier if she could keep the knife of never letting go from cleaving him right to the bone.

Maria knocked on his door. There was a pause, in which she had time to contemplate how deadly the man behind the door was.

"Come in," he said, and with a feeling of gruesome apprehension, Maria Hill walked right into the lion's den, her head held high and her eyes bright.

"Oh, Commander! How's Victoria?" Coulson asked.

His tone was warm. Too warm, and too bright. Maria swallowed, calming her frantically pounding heart best as she could.

"Victoria's fine, Phil. She's home safe, in fact; she had the day off today to work from home. Budget balancing or something—I don't understand it, to be honest. She's the mathemetician, not me." Maria said, trying to keep the tone casual. Phil chuckled.

"Yes, that's how I feel about my darlings sometimes. Clint's so clever, you know. Very astute, and so good at physics. Makes sense, doesn't it? And Natasha...god, she's brilliant." Phil smiled. "Anyway, what can I do for you?"

Maria laid the arrows and stinger bracelets on his desk.

For a second, Phil stared at them, as if nothing else in the universe existed. His eyes were black. Maria began to edge hesitantly towards the door.

"Oh, thank you, Commander, but they're not quite ready to return to active duty. I'm tending to them. I will let them know you returned some of their things, however; thank you." Coulson said, his tone light and courteous. "Is there anything else I can do for you?"

Stop losing your goddamn mind.

"Well, tell me; how are they doing?" Maria faked an easy laugh. "Off the record, obviously, I don't think they're fit for duty either. You should take care of them."

Phil beamed, his entire bearing at ease. Maria felt horribly guilty.

"Oh, so much better!" He enthused. "They're eating and sleeping, and they're safe, really safe...and there's no nightmares. They told me I chase them all away." He smiled, the grin of a man helplessly, hopelessly in love. "They're perfect, Commander. Beyond words. And I'm going to make sure they know that."

Maria felt an odd tightness to her chest and a prickling at her eyes. She refused to acknowledge it for what it was.

"Very well, agent. I will see you shortly," she said. "Keep up your work here, though."

"Of course, Commander!" Phil said. "I won't forget. I promise."

Maria just nodded and left before a few more tears could slip free and betray her.

She couldn't break him down, like she had thought. There was nothing there for her to break. His mind was already desert dust—and it was her fault.

Every step was like lead as she went for Fury's office to report the news.

...

Fury seemed to know before she arrived. Even if he didn't, he wasn't exactly shocked as she made her way into his office, her face pale and taut with fear.

"He's..." Maria sighed. "I can't even say he's lost it. He's sound of mind; his paperwork's fine, he recognizes us, still behaves like himself, but..."

"But what, Maria?" Fury asked. "You've found yourself very entwined in this little saga, haven't you?"

"But he's begun to hallucinate they've come home, sir." Maria said quietly, not even bothering to protest his remark. Fury was right. She had become a part of this the second she picked up the phone and made that call. And she was going to see it through to the end.

Fury just looked beyond her for a time with a single inscrutable eye. He did not look at her, despite sitting right across from her, but almost through her, as if he was watching someone else, in some other time.

"Completely?" He asked after a few more minutes of silence. Maria nodded.

"He didn't seem like he was joking, or trying to cope. He's just...convinced they're home, sir. Like they've returned to him." She explained.

Fury didn't say anything for another long expanse of time, during which Maria had time to wonder if he had ever seen this before. If any other agent had snapped like Phil Coulson. She wondered if Fury had been the one to cause it.

Perhaps that was why he had ordered that she be the one to make the call.

"I see," Fury finally said. "And you tried to reason with him?"

"He won't see reason, sir. And I wasn't willing to push any further than I already have. Coulson has been pushed to the brink, and...well, frankly, I'm more than a little concerned over what might lie beneath." Maria said.

"Madness," Fury said simply. "I know Agent Coulson. I know all of you. And I know that he is constantly, constantly on the brink of madness. The man's calm. Collected. But teetering on the tipping point. And I think we pushed the scales."

He seemed almost worried, for just a second; a flicker and it was gone. Maria sighed.

"So...what do we do now, sir?" She asked. Fury shrugged.

"Truth be told, Hill? Let him deal with it. Don't call attention to it, don't let anyone know. Just let him lose his mind a little. He can handle it. They're coming back, anyway. We can stand to have him thinking they've already done so, especially if he's still following orders." Fury said.

Maria said nothing. For a few minutes, she was the one who remained silent. She didn't know what to do or how to react. Nothing she had ever trained for had prepared her for this. She would rely on her instincts.

"Yes, sir," she said, and if a twinge of self-hatred colored those words, she did not take heed of it. "If I can, though, I'd like to monitor him, at least every so often. It will most likely be another month or more."

"Of course. I don't want him becoming a handful, and that means keeping him under control to a certain degree. I know you can handle it, Hill. Coulson's going to be fine." Fury said. "Now, is there anything else you've a mind to discuss?"

"No, sir," Maria said quietly. "I'll be in my office, going over paperwork. If you should have need of me, I will be there for most of the day."

"Very well, Maria. Dismissed." Fury said.

As Maria left, she saw him take out a file with Phil's name on it. She could only imagine what he would be writing in it now.

She shuddered as she fled for her own office. Just for once, she couldn't stand to be in Fury's.

Chapter 47: It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas

Summary:

Time passes.

Notes:

Time passing, basically! I was really just trying to make sure all of this didn't happen in like, a week, let's be real. Hope you enjoy!

Phil hummed contentedly as he made his way through the grocery store, utterly at ease with himself and the world around him. He was fine, just fine; he was a devoted partner, shopping for his darling lovers, who were at home and in need of something delicious after a hard job. It was almost normal, and he had never felt more like just Phil than when he shopped for them. It let him hope that he would be able to make a new life with the two of them in peace, once it was all over.

Not yet, no...but he could dream. Perhaps if he was lucky, he would be able to find a safe place for them. Then they would run and hide, and never again would his darlings go on a terrible mission like the one they had just returned from. No, he would find them a small cottage in a safe little place, far away from the world, and they would be safe and sound.

Coulson smiled at the thought of spending the rest of his days with his darlings, cooking dinner and reading them books and listening to music with them. S.H.I.E.L.D. had lost its hold on him; only Clint and Natasha remained.

But what of the Initiative? What of the others? There would be others, Fury had said. People he wouldn't know...but people who would need him.

Coulson sighed. He had to focus on his darlings for the moment. He couldn't worry about what might happen months, maybe even years from now. He needed to think about what Clint and Natasha needed—and that, above all else, was dinner.

Coulson got the rest of the supplies together and went for the checkout, still humming lightly as he paid and made his way out to the car, driving home as fast as he could.

He was greeted at the door by Clint; Natasha was curled up on the couch, watching television. Coulson smiled, pleased, as he kissed Clint's cheek and came inside.

"I brought groceries, darlings. What would you prefer? I bought plenty of food." Coulson said. Natasha stirred at the sound of his voice, stretching out on the couch.

"Your pasta is wonderful, my Coulson," she murmured, a small smile on her face. "Especially the sauce. Would you like us to help?"

"Oh, darlings no...rest, please. We have a lot to deal with over the next few days, sweethearts. Lie down and watch some television; you deserve the chance to unwind." Coulson stroked Natasha's hair as he settled Clint in gently beside her. "I'll cook for you, my loves. Do you know how long I've waited to cook for the people I love?"

"A long time?" Clint teased, giving him a small grin. Coulson chuckled and kissed his cheek.

"Right you are, Clint. Now take care of Natasha while I cook, won't you?" He asked. Clint nodded, wrapping his arms around Natasha and snuggling close. Coulson smiled and put a soft, thick blanket over them both as he went to start dinner.

"Winter is coming soon, my darlings," he called from the kitchen as he began to prepare the sauce and boil the pasta. "I'll have to start making you both cocoa. Have you had that before?"

"Once," Clint said, his expression going dreamy. "It was great. I'm sure yours is better, though."

"Obviously." Phil chuckled, amused, and started up the oven for the garlic bread. The water began to boil on the stove as the sauce simmered. "How about Christmas?"

Both of them brightened up—Phil smiled at their clear delight.

"We'll get a tree," he said, thinking of all the holidays he had spent with his grandmother, "a tree and some presents, and we'll come down early to open presents and cuddle on the couch. How does that sound?"

"I've never had something like that before," Natasha said, wistful, as Phil poured the pasta into the pot. "It sounds...beautiful."

"It is, I promise," Coulson said. "Gran and I didn't have a lot of money for presents, but we had so much fun. I promise, we'll have a wonderful Christmas together, darlings."

"Thank you, Phil," Clint murmured, and Coulson knew he was thinking of all the other Christmases he had experienced; lonely or angry or simply forgotten. "You're the best."

"For you, my loves," Coulson said as he stirred the sauce. "Don't worry about it right now, though; we've got plenty of time. Almost another two months!"
"It will go by quicker than we think, however," Natasha said. "Especially since you will be so busy with work."

"Not busy enough to ignore Christmas. Especially not this year." Coulson said as he took out the garlic bread and drained the pasta. "Dinner will be ready in a little bit, darlings—just let the sauce heat up!"

"Okay. Come out and wait with us?" Clint asked. Coulson smiled.

"I'd love to," he murmured, leaving the kitchen and undoing his tie, shrugging off his suit jacket and setting it aside to allow himself the fantasy of being a simple husband, home from his job at the office to take care of his lovers. "I'd love to, more than anything."

He curled up with them on the couch for awhile, thinking only of the happiness that was slowly spreading out before him like a grand and glorious sunset.

...

Clint groaned in quiet agony as they left him alone for the night. The rats didn't bother him anymore; he had broken a few of their necks and left the bodies for them to devour, and they'd learned not to come near the human soon enough.

He didn't know how long it had been. Natasha was still alive. That was all that mattered. She was alive and they would be together soon. Somehow. Clint would think of a plan when the blood loss wasn't making him dizzy.

Before he could pass out for a few hours to recharge, he heard a tapping at the door.

"Barton, it's okay. We're going to get you out."

A soft whisper, spoken in an empty corridor to a man dying in a pit. Clint's eyes blazed, but before he could call out, the person had left.

Still, they had left their hope behind, and that, Clint would cling to. He could not die. Natasha needed him. Phil needed them both. He had something to live for—he knew that much.

He closed his eyes and allowed the hope to soothe him to sleep, just for a little while.

Far away from him, Natasha lay in wait, aching quietly as her flesh prickled and tensed with pain. She had already heard the rumors, the whispers. All she knew was that if she was freed now, there would be no humanity, nor mercy left within her. No, they had murdered Nina Couls; she could never have survived this. Natasha Romanov would kill them all. And she would have Clint Barton beside her to ensure it happened.

Tilting her head back, she crooned a grieving call, echoing off the chamber walls and, in her hopes and dreams, reaching her Clint.

We will kill them all, darling, she promised, closing her eyes to try to get some rest. We will kill them all, for they took us from our Coulson. And he will wash us clean again...

...

It took another two weeks for winter to start knocking on their door. Even in New Mexico, it was cold. Perhaps even a little colder this year, considering what had transpired as the year had worn down. No one could tell.

It had become the unspoken secret of S.H.I.E.L.D. that Coulson had snapped. None of them were disappointed. They understood, and in fact, most of them were surprisingly kind about it. They didn't say anything when he brought his darlings up, nor did they discuss anything pertaining to them with Phil in earshot. Part of it was kindness; part of it was fear. His madness was specific, but it was deep, and they feared the darkness, the drowning.

The truth was, Phil barely noticed them anymore. He was all they could talk about, but he didn't seem to be aware of that. Normally, he was observant; he was not one for gossip, but he always knew the dirty facts, regardless. But now, his life was his dream, the hallucinations he cultivated so carefully. It was madness, but then again, he was an agent of S.H.I.E.L.D.; he was already running bedlam as it was.

Phil did all his work on time, kept things running and slipped back into his old role; the group handler, the one man who made sure all the little things were working well while Fury and Maria handled the world-destroying problems with bombast and aplomb. Phil simply polished up the machine and made sure all the gears were in order.
All of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s gears were in order. Phil Coulson's were not.

It was the way he sang under his breath on occasion, when he thought no one else could hear him. It was the soft tones in which he spoke of Clint and Natasha—and they were never Hawkeye and Widow, nor even Barton or Romanov. Clint and Natasha. Darlings.

They all knew what had happened, but they had never seen it unfold in such a manner. Plus, most separation missions were two weeks—a month at most. And they were never something like this.

Then again, Clint and Natasha were nothing like the average agent—and neither was Phil, when they thought about it. He was just as detatched from S.H.I.E.L.D. as the two of them; he was detatched from the routine, good or ill. Phil stood above it all, Clint and Natasha beneath, and when he had reached to pull them up, he had tumbled down and fallen, losing his grip on both them and himself.

It was a painful experience, to say the least. Most of them had relied on Agent Coulson more than they realized; he had kept things running and been a shoulder to cry on, a willing ear to vent to, a pillar of strength, constance, and stability within the halls of S.H.I.E.L.D., and an almost fatherly sort despite the fact that all of them knew of his prowess in judo.

He was still there, sure, in body and mind—for the most part. But his heart was gone, rotting away in some dank pit in the middle of a dark and lonely cell. His heart and his soul didn't belong to S.H.I.E.L.D., not anymore, and part of that break had resulted in his sanity going along with it.

It would all come back to him. This was not the insanity that condemned men to padded cells and white rooms for the rest of their natural lives. This was a specific, focused madness—as focused as Coulson himself, though none of them dwelled on that much. The loss of his sanity was due to the loss of Clint and Natasha. When they came back, so too would his heart, his mind, his soul; he would be sane again.

But never S.H.I.E.L.D.'s. Oh, they all knew it. Perhaps even Fury, though for now he might laugh it off. But the agents all knew, and it was the undercurrent to all their whispers, that whether or not Coulson even comprehended it, he had gone rogue. In his own way, he had forsaken S.H.I.E.L.D., forsaken Fury. He was no longer S.H.I.E.L.D.'s hound. They all simply feared that, like any other stray, he might end up put down.

The gossip, the fear, and the theories all boiled to a head as the month went on. Coulson did not so much as blink when the others flinched away as he entered the training room, using Clint's gloves, Clint's sneakers, pounding the punching bags until the dust from within floated up into his face, the nostalgia of the desert threatening to smother him.

Thanksgiving was the worst for all of them. For the first time since even the senior agents could remember, Coulson took the day off. They felt his absence like a spear in their sides, knowing that he was home cooking a turkey and mounds of food for illusions, an offering to gods long dead and gone.

Winter began to creep in more insidiously after that. It was December faster than any of them realized, and Maria was close to tearing her hair out when Coulson came up to her on a cold, grey day, and asked her in his normal, professional tone where to buy a Christmas tree.

"My darlings haven't had a decent Christmas all their lives, you see," Phil explained. "I'd like to provide that for them. Have you gotten a tree yet, Commander? Surely you and Victoria will celebrate Christmas?"

"It...it's a bit early, isn't it, Coulson?" Maria said, her throat suddenly dry. All she could see was the castle, the pits where they would be torturing Clint and Natasha. Even if they got them out, they would be in no shape for Christmas. They would be lucky to get out of the hospital after a month of the best treatment S.H.I.E.L.D. could give.

"A little," Coulson agreed, "but we have to find one they'll like and shop for lights and decorate the house and buy things for cookies, and—oh, I'm certainly going to be busy." He clucked his tongue and grinned. "It's worth it despite the stress, wouldn't you agree?"

No. Not since it seems to be killing you.

"I think so, Phil. Why don't you wait a week, though? You want it to be fresh for Christmas. No point in dead lov—I mean, trees. No point in having a dead tree." Maria said, cursing herself for her slip.

Coulson's eyes flashed with a dangerous sheen, making Maria step back despite herself. Then he smiled, and the mask was affixed firmly over his eyes once more.

"Yes, that's true. We'll start the lights tonight; there's no point in making cookies yet, my darlings will eat them all." Phil chuckled, amused. "Take care, Commander; I have a few

debriefings to give. Give Agent Hand my regards."

He left, evidently not noticing the way Maria shook.

She took a few moments to compose herself, and then left quietly for Fury's office.

Fury just raised an eyebrow when Maria came in and sat down, saying nothing for a few minutes. He filed some paperwork and made a few notes in someone's dossier.

"The agents have reported back. Two and a half weeks, at the latest. He'll be fine." Fury said. "At least, assuming that's what you're in here for."

"...Sort of," Maria agreed. "It's just...hard to watch, sir."

"I know it is, Maria. It's hard on every agent. But he's tough. He'll be just fine. Long as you don't set him off, we'll have this wrapped up in a few weeks and it'll all be over and done with. We sweep it under the rug, act like he didn't lose his mind for a few months, and we never, ever tell Clint and Natasha about what happened. Ever. God forbid they find out, Hill." Fury said. He sounded genuinely disturbed by the thought. Maria swallowed.

"Indeed, sir. We won't tell them. It won't show up in Phil's file, and I doubt he'll ever speak of it again. It'll be fine. We just...have to get them home first." Maria sighed and massaged her temples. "I just...I'm tired, sir."

"Cheer up, Maria. It's Christmas." Fury said, a small smile curving over his lips. Maria shuddered.

"Yes, I suppose it is." She said quietly. "I should go see to the recruits, sir; he's doing paperwork."

"Of course, Maria. If I have need of you, I'll call." Nick said, absolutely nothing showing on his face. No amusement, no remorse, nor anger. She of all people didn't know how he felt at the moment...and that worried her.

She swallowed, ducked her head, and hurried out to find Victoria. A few minutes of comfort before she had to go deal with the training room was in order.

...

Phil worked for the rest of the day, but surprisingly enough, his heart wasn't in it. He quite frankly did not care about paperwork or filing schedules today; he wanted to go home. He wanted to be with his lovers, soothe their wounds and nurse their hurts, before putting together some Christmas lists and preparing them for their first Christmas together.

Phil smiled, utterly delighted and in love as he bustled about his office, running a few minor errands and working his way around the hectic fuss that was the average day on base. If he noticed how more people shied away from him as he walked, he didn't react to it. Phil was far more focused on his fantasy—a dream within his hallucination, so to speak.

His lovers would wake up to a twinkling tree and presents, brightly wrapped and neatly stacked. He would let them have warm, soft cookies for breakfast, fresh from the oven, as they opened their stockings. The three of them would curl up on the couch together and open their presents from one another, kissing and cuddling and holding each other until all of them were content to pass out in a warm, loving pile of kisses and Christmas happiness.

They would get the Christmas any person deserved. Because they were his people, and god, how he loved them.

That thought kept Coulson smiling for the rest of the day, until he headed home to greet them.

Clint and Natasha were right at the door, smiling broadly at the sight of their Coulson. They ushered him in with warm kisses, nuzzling his neck and taking his hands, pushing him down on the couch and kissing him until he couldn't see straight.

When they finally let him up to breathe, Phil smiled and gave them both a quick kiss.

"Darlings, I'd like you to do me a favor. I need two lists; the first, a list of groceries and decorations you'd like me to go get tonight. Then, while I'm gone, would you two write a Christmas list for me?" Phil stroked Natasha's hair and kissed Clint's cheek. "I'd like to buy you both some gifts."

"Phil, we don't need—" Natasha got cut off as Phil pecked her lightly on her nose, gentle and loving.

"No, but I'd like to," he said. "Humor me, won't you?"

"All right," she said, her voice warm with love and affection. "You are such a wonderful man, my Coulson. I will make sure we make a list."

"Thank you, my loves. Let's put together a shopping list first, all right? I'd like to get out there and get everything before it gets too late to at least put some lights up." Phil said.

They both smiled.

"It'll look beautiful," Clint said. "I'll do my best to help, promise. We both will."

"No you won't, my loves. You're both still injured." Phil kissed them both. "I'm going to cook you both something nice and warm and you're going to sit up in bed for me and rest while you write your lists, okay?"

Clint whined a little, but a few kisses from Phil silenced him; Natasha didn't protest. She knew her Coulson was looking out for her, and she was so grateful.

Phil ushered them upstairs and let them start making the main grocery list as he set a pot on the stove to make cream of wheat for his darlings. He hummed, content, and came upstairs ten minutes later with three steaming bowls of it, setting the tray down.

"We're not getting the tree until next week, darlings," Phil said as they ate. "I talked to the Commander and she said it would die if we bought it so early."

Both of them pouted at him; Phil chuckled and nuzzled them both soothingly, his heart aching with love.

"Hush, darlings, hush; I promise, I'm going to get us one. You don't want to open gifts under a dead tree Christmas morning, now do you?" Phil said. Clint huffed.

"No...I guess you're right, Phil." He said. "Who's gonna put the star on top?"

"I think you two can share," he said. "I'll take pictures so we can save the memory."

"That would be wonderful," Natasha agreed. "Thank you, Phil. We can wait. We have waited many years for a real Christmas; another week for a tree will not be a bother."

"Oh, my loves, I promise; it'll be worth it." Phil kissed them both. "I'm off to get what we need, then; I love you both. Be safe and don't let anyone but me in."

"Promise," Clint said as Phil took the list of supplies from him. "We'll get our lists started, too."

"I know, my love. Ask for whatever you want. I'll do my best." Phil murmured, kissing both their foreheads. "I love you both."

He left, shutting the door behind him. Both the light and the dream went out behind the closed door. Phil didn't notice, heading downstairs and humming, content.

...

The night went on; Phil came home and strung up some of the lights on the roof before calling it a night, coming inside and showering before getting into bed beside his lovers. They both soothed and gentled him to sleep with soft kisses and loving touches, and before Coulson knew it he was at ease, falling asleep and sinking deeper into the darkness.

The darkness swamped him, smothered him, reached into the cracks of his dreams and rent them in two, scattering them to the winds of his subconscious to let reality burst wetly forth from its chrysalis, mottled wings spreading wide to display the truth.

Coulson writhed with nightmares in an empty bed, the lie drowned in pits of blood, his darlings bleeding out and suffering, tortured and bloodied and defiled in every way imaginable. They were dying in reeking pits with no one to help them, starving and losing all hope, begging for him to save him and yet knowing he couldn't come, couldn't find them in the dark.

He dreamed of a lonely man who had lost his mind when he had lost his heart, the man on the brink of madness finally being pushed over the edge and into the abyss, the poison coursing through his veins while the tiger picked him clean, of winter snows and a dying tree.

Coulson sat up in bed, vaguely aware of someone screaming. It took him a few seconds to place the fact that it was his own voice echoing off the walls.

If he had confronted the truth then, in the dusky halls of three AM, things might have been different. He would have been broken, but he might have been able to move on. To heal while he waited, the wound purged.

But his mind was as slow and stunted as it had been upon greeting the call of the last early morning, and so Phil looked over to see his lovers shining like angels, ethereal and evanescent as they soothed him, stroking away the nightmares with their blinding, obfuscating light that dragged him up while keeping him broken, way down deep.

Phil fell asleep again in the arms of both his lovers, breathing soft and smile as thin and fragile as glass, so easily broken.

There were no more dreams.

Chapter 48: The Killing Field

Summary:

Gore. Gore and lots of it. And among it, an escape.

Notes:

Seriously holy shit I cannot trigger enough for gore and violence. Don't read. Just. Don't.
That aside, hope y'all like this; things are falling into place a bit better now.

Another week passed in the pits. Clint kept time by counting the torture sessions. No more than two a day; they were probably planning to use them as ransom, just too stupid to know who controlled them or how to find them.

It would be Christmas soon.

Clint pulled back his lips and tilted his head to howl skyward, screaming in agony in the hopes of finding Natasha, of assuring himself she was still alive.

For a few minutes, nothing.

Then, instead of a scream, he got someone at his door. He couldn't see their face in the dark, but the shadow of their stance spoke of a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent.

"We're going to move you in two days," the man said carefully. "I suggest you prepare yourself."

Clint coughed, spitting up blood and giving the man a wet, scarlet grin. He couldn't stay long, he knew that, but just—just one question.

"Does he know?" Clint rasped.

The man looked horribly sad, and Clint couldn't figure out why. The blood loss affecting his brain didn't help.

"No," he said. "I think it's better that way, though, don't you?"

He disappeared after that, leaving Clint with both a promise and a portent, ominous and painful. Clint closed his eyes and shuddered.

He tilted his head back one more time, his teeth shining like little lights in the darkness.

He screamed Phil's name, this time; not to find Natasha, but to give her hope. He knew she was there; he would not believe anything else. But they both needed to know that soon enough, Phil would be too. Whether he realized it or not.

...

Maria was an inch away from a nervous breakdown after the week was over. Phil just continued to talk about Christmas, going shopping for their presents and decorating the house. He actually pulled her aside at one point to thank her for suggesting the wait; he had just put the tree up and it would definitely last the coming weeks. She just smiled and nodded, wondering how he would handle all those unwrapped gifts after Christmas.

Thankfully, she got a call a day later from the agents in charge of extraction. To her eternal relief, they promised that Clint and Natasha would be out in two days, three at the most. By the end of the week, they would be back, Phil would stop being crazy, and she could spend a day at work without walking on eggshells around Coulson.

Two days passed, and there was no call. Coulson was humming Christmas carols as he did his work. It was beyond unnerving. Maria sent a message back, frantic.

Three days later, she got a response.

She was not very happy with what had transpired.

...

In their defense, the agents had put together a very good plan. It was just getting them out that was the problem. The others still insisted that they were to be used as ransom and wouldn't move them. It was Bobby, bless his rookie heart, Landen noted, that had gotten them out of that argument; he had reminded them no agency would take back two mutilated and tortured agents. Best to scrub them up a bit before presenting the ransom conditions.

It took them almost a week. They had promised two days.

Aaron had never felt more guilty about breaking a promise than when he went to move Clint.

"I'm sorry, agent," he apologized, knowing it wasn't enough as he saw his bruised and bloodied state. "I'm sorry. We're going home now. Coulson's waiting for you. He misses you so much. C'mon, Barton, you've gotta get up!"

Clint opened bruised, blackened eyes, swallowing as he tried to breathe through broken ribs.

"...Phil?" He rasped, his voice gone rusty with lack of use. The way he said his name was like a caress, private and beautiful. Landen felt guilty just for hearing him say it.

"Yeah, he's got the house all set up for Christmas, he's waiting for you...c'mon, we gotta go before they check on you, Clint..." Landen begged, hearing footsteps.

To his surprise, Clint got up on broken legs, evidently dull to the pain, and stumbled to him without any help. He was so wrapped up in his shock he didn't notice Clint grabbing his gun.

"Let them." He whispered.

The first man to come in was like the domino; when Clint shot him between the eyes, Landen saw the look in his own bloodshot, battered gaze change. He stepped back instinctively, nauseous and horrified.

Clint had fallen off the killing edge now, and there was nothing that would stop him.

He took a gun off the dead man before making his way down the hallway, loping due to injuries and looking uncannily like a hunting tiger as he did so. Every man that came his way was shot down, the task effortless despite his injuries.

Aaron bolted from the room, throwing undercover and caution to the wind. A killing field took caution and flung it right out the window, as far as he was concerned.

"BOBBY!" He roared, screaming for his partner as loud as he possibly could. "BOBBY, FOR FUCK'S SAKE, GET DOWN!"

Bobby had just enough time to hear him and understand before Clint came face to face with him; he ducked and bolted, running towards the outskirts of the base. There was only so much of a range that a killing field had—the second that he left the castle, Bobby would be safe. He could only hope he would be so lucky.

There was nothing he or any other agent could do for Clint now. He had one task in mind.

Clint tipped his head back and screamed in that rusty-raw voice again, "NATASHA!"

Two, perhaps.

There was silence, and Clint paused as if waiting for the response. Aaron took the time to bolt, heading for the edge of the grounds to radio a helicopter and warn the Commander immediately. Before he could, however, the last thing he heard was an agonized roar, triumph and savagery in sync with one another as Clint's name reverbrated throughout the halls.

Clint just smiled and made his way to Natasha's side.

...

She stood surrounded by six men. None of them were S.H.I.E.L.D. agents, but it wouldn't have mattered to either of them if they were.

Clint gave her a crooked grin, his heart swelling at the sight of her. She had red hair again...or perhaps it was blood. He wasn't sure and didn't care.

"Phil's waiting," he said. "Christmas at home. Nice tree, presents. You know how he gets. I bet he baked cookies and everything."

"Is that right?" Natasha rasped, her own voice hoarse and rough. "We should go. Trees only last for so long, and I wouldn't want Phil's cooking to go stale."

A man came barreling down the hallway at them, raising his gun and shouting at the two of them. Clint dodged, then kicked him in the back, sending him forward. As he fell, Natasha raised her hand and splayed her fingers outward, sinking them into his eyes as he impaled himself on her hand.

She shoved his body off with a flick of her wrist before groaning in pain.

"Ah, shit," she cursed, "it's broken."

"Language, Nat. That's my fuckin' job, isn't it?" Clint teased.

They both shared a quick laugh, then a kiss.

"He'll forgive us, won't he?" Natasha said softly. "To come back to him, he'll know we had to."

"'Course he will, sweetheart. He wouldn't want us to miss Christmas, now would he?" Clint said.

They both smiled and picked up their guns.

The two of them made their way down the hall. Blood followed in their wake, the bright red gleaming fresher than winter's first snow.

...

As the entire castle turned into a killing field, Aaron dialed the Commander furiously, pressing the phone against his ear and praying he'd connect. Fortunately, whatever tech Stark had given them came through; he heard Maria's voice and gasped with relief.

"Landen? Why are you calling? What—"

"Cover's blown, Commander. This place is a killing field." He said.

Maria was quiet.

"For how long?" She finally asked, her voice hushed. Aaron laughed.

"Until the two of them drop dead, or everyone else here does." He said. "I need a way to get them out, now. And some medical backup."

"Understood. We've got planes within twenty minute's journey. Keep your team safe, agent," she said. Aaron nodded.

"They're fine. Got them out of their range." He promised.

"Good. Stay there; the pilots will call you." Maria hung up and Aaron sighed, hanging up in kind before turning to embrace Bobby.

"I thought you were gonna die, Tylar," he growled. "Don't fuckin' do that to me again, hear?"

"Yeah, Aaron. I'm sorry, I just..." Bobby looked green. "Are they really gonna..."

"Everyone in there's fuckin' dead, kiddo. I'm sorry." He murmured. "It's kinda...how they cope."

Bobby didn't know what to say to that, so he buried his face into Aaron's chest and tried to steady his breathing. Landen just looked at the castle, waiting for the two of them to come out.

Whatever came out with them, though...that, he could live without meeting.

...

Clint was kicking corpses aside by the time they reached the ground floor. Piles of them had started to form, and he could barely walk as it was, let alone run. These people were no match for either of them, regardless of their injuries; not with Phil on the line. Not when these people were innocent, green fools with no idea what a killing field meant. It wasn't like a fight. It wasn't even a murder. It was a massacre, and massacres didn't care about broken limbs or blood. They wanted death, and the instruments they had selected to perform this task would do so, regardless of the pain.

Natasha had shut down after the first ten men or so, kicking in heads and shooting out eyes. The only thing she could think of was the slow, gentle tune of an ancient jazz solo winding over the circles on a record player.

Coulson was not with them in this place. This was a killing field. There was no room for their Coulson here among all the corpses. He was waiting just beyond the fields, his arms open and the door to their house left ajar, the warm light spilling out from inside.

They slogged their way through the men, shooting them down like they were stop signs on a binge night. It had ceased to be people they killed in their mind; the advancing pillars of gristle and flesh had simply become obstacles between the two of them and home.

They heard the whirr of a plane outside and thought nothing of it. They had one more floor to go.

...

The pilot cursed, running a hand through her hair and sighing in frustration.

"Damn it, Landen, do you have any idea where those two are?" She snapped. "It can't be that bad, right? We have to get out of here!"

"No, Agent Morse. I assure you, it's that bad," Aaron said quietly. "Listen to me. We don't need to leave; not until they're done. They'll have killed everyone who might come after us. This is a killing field, and we're gonna have to just wait it out."

"Jesus, really? Never seen one." She remarked, lightning a cigarette. "Is it as bad as they say?"

The castle doors opened and a river of blood flowed out.

She dropped her cigarette. The ashes sputtering out were the only sounds left in the area.

Clint and Natasha were covered in blood, almost naked and utterly bestial. They looked more like demons, ripped right from some nightmarish inferno, than human beings.

The blood followed them in a steady, thin river, dribbling down all the steps to pool on the fields.

The castle grounds were silent. Most that had been outside working in the fields nearby had fled. Clint and Natasha weren't interested in the hunt.

"Bobby," Aaron finally said, "get in the goddamn plane."

"Aaron, no! You're not—"

Bobby got shoved towards the plane with the rest of the team before he could protest. Aaron was the only one who went forward.

Clint and Natasha regarded him with cold, glazed eyes. It was like watching a shark. Neither of them had any humanity left, nor sanity within their grasp. He was going up to tigers and asking them to sheathe their claws. And it scared the shit out of him.

Aaron didn't so much as twitch as he stepped forward, holding his hands up and showing he had no weapons.

"C'mon, agents. Coulson's waiting for you at home. We've got a plane to take you right to him. Got your weapons in there, safe and sound. We picked 'em up from your hideout specially for you. C'mon. You hearin' me? Clint? Natasha?"

The rest of Aaron's words registered as a flicker. The only word they heard was Coulson. And it was that word, to Aaron's relief, that put a light in their eyes again.

"He is safe?" Natasha said. "Fury's hounds have not hunted him?"

"Yeah, guy's fine. Waiting on you two to get back. Quit holding him up, willya?" Aaron said.

Natasha actually laughed. It was a horrifying sound, given the circumstances.

"Oh, yes. It's been long enough. He has waited to take care of us." She said. "Clint, take my hand, please?"

Clint kissed her bloody cheek and took her bruised hand in his. The two of them managed to walk to the plane, their heads held high and their bearing proud despite their loping, wounded gait, their hands entwined until they disappeared into the darkness.

Aaron looked at the darkness for a long, slow minute. Then he looked back at the open doors of the castle.

He signaled for Agent Morse to wait a minute before starting up the plane. He went over to the bushes nearby, where no one else could see him, and was very quietly but thoroughly sick for a few minutes.

Aaron got back onto the plane like nothing had happened, the hatch slamming shut behind him with the finality of a guillotine.

Chapter 49: Almost There

Summary:

Almost home.

Notes:

Still gore in this one, guys, but not nearly as bad. Just a few mentions of torture.
I love Athena, in case you can't tell. For whatever reason, I enjoy making minor SHIELD agents for the MCU fics I write. I hope they're entertaining, or at least don't distract much from the story.

For a minute, they all just stood there as Clint and Natasha sat beside each other quietly, as if unaware of their injuries, or the blood dripping onto the belly of the plane. Their weapons sat in their lap. They didn't seem to acknowledge their existence either.

Then Athena Danvers stepped forward.

Aaron knew her; head of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s medical division. Well liked, well respected. Morse must've called her in, knowing what was going on. He was grateful, really. But wary. Looking at those two made him very, very wary.

"Barton. Romanov." Athena said, tucking her hair up into a ponytail. "I need you two to lie down and let me check you for injuries."

"Injuries?" Natasha parroted, tilting her head. Blood dripped down her chin. Athena didn't so much as twitch.

"Yeah. Injuries. You're hurt, right? C'mon, up. We've got to get you both stabilized...fixed up." She said.

The light flared up in their eyes, brighter and fiercer than fire. Natasha snarled, whirling on them with a gun in her hands and her stingers glowing. Clint had already drawn his bow and notched an arrow in it, faster than any of them could blink.

"No," Natasha repeated, her voice deceptively calm. "The only one who can fix us is our Coulson. The only one allowed to fix us is our Coulson. Do not come closer. We are not yours. Not anymore."

Their hands shook with pain as they held their bows and drew their stingers, their stances were awkward, and they could barely stand. But everyone on that plane knew they could and would kill them if they felt like they had to. At least, until their injuries did the same for them.

"You're not going to survive the plane ride home if you don't at least let me fix those goddamn stitches! The both of you put your weapons away and lie the fuck down!" Athena snarled, standing her ground. Aaron gave her credit for that. Still, at this rate, they might kill her or someone on his team, and he knew he had to intervene.

Very quietly, while they aimed at Athena, Aaron crept around the whole scene and rifled through her bag. He could hear them arguing, though he barely listened to what was being said. He took out two syringes, filling them quietly with enough tranquilizer to knock them out.

He crept up on the two of them knowing full well that in any other situation, they would have noticed and he would have been killed. There was no question to it. But now, while they were hurting and angry and lost, he might have a shot. They would die otherwise, and the last thing he wanted to bring to the Commander—to Coulson—was their bodies.

Aaron grabbed Clint first and sank the syringe into the vein on his neck, pushing the plunger before he could struggle. Clint gaped at him for a second before wincing with pain and sinking to the floor, slumping against the seats.

Natasha whirled on him with a vicious snarl, but in the state she was in, it didn't take much for Landen to hold her wrists steady long enough to plunge the syringe into her arm, pumping her full of the sedative before guiding her to the floor. He made sure neither of them had come to further harm and looked quietly up at Athena.

"Lie out a couple of stretchers and I'll move 'em for ya, doc. But hurry up." He said. Athena nodded.

"Thanks, Aaron. Christ knows I wouldn't have gotten them to listen." She patted him on the shoulder and laid down two stretchers, helping him get them onto them before going back to her medical bag.

"It's fine," Aaron murmured as Athena began to wash the blood from them and start disinfecting the gaping sores and wounds on their bodies. "They need to be taken care of by him, I get it; they're his partners. But they can't die before he can do anything."

"Yeah, got that right." Athena sighed and ran a hand through her hair. "I could use a cigarette."

"Me too," Aaron agreed. "After we get 'em off the plane. Last thing we need is to kill 'em with some kinda lung disease after all they've been through."

They both laughed, but neither of them found it funny once they looked upon the gaping wounds that Clint and Natasha displayed like trophies of war.

There was pain and plague in those wounds, scourges of sorrow and rotting, festering agonies that dripped with pus and putrefied blood and skin. Athena shuddered, retching;  she tossed Aaron a mask and tied one around her own mouth and nose just to keep away the smell.

The others hung back; Bobby stepped forward to help his partner, but Aaron stopped him with a sharp look. There was no way he was letting his partner get involved. Bobby was too green, too pure. This was not a pure place.

They disinfected what was rotting and lanced wounds of pus and bile, reset bones and bound them up, sewed up gashes and did their best to deal with the head trauma that had occurred. Athena didn't have advanced gear with her, but she couldn't see any signs of major brain swelling or cranial damage; that, she was grateful for.

Aaron backed away respectfully as Athena looked at Natasha's vulva and vagina; from the way Athena had to duck away and retch, he could only imagine what she had been put through.

He found himself more and more grimly pleased with the killing field as they went on. That hadn't been a massacre; that had been retribution.

Aaron was gentle as he washed Natasha's hair, the dye fading away and her russet-red locks being revealed to him in streaks, like blood in reverse; from a dark brown to a warm, wet red. He shuddered at the unconscious analogy, but continued to wash both of them up and clean their faces. 

Athena applied bandages and stitches where she needed to, but by and large, they hadn't come to much injury across their faces, not in comparison to their mangled bodies. That was a relief to Aaron, and he was sure it put Athena at ease as well. They could only hope it would put Coulson at ease.

"He gotten any better?" Aaron asked, despite knowing the answer before Athena even opened her mouth. She just gave him a look.

"He thinks they're home, safe and sound," she said. Very slowly, she stepped away from their prone forms, looking out the window of the plane. Clouds drifted past her line of vision like wisps of smoke. Athena bit her lip.

"It's Christmas in a few days," she said. "He's got everything all ready, all nice and spruced up; he even got them a tree. He's baking cookies. And in his mind, they're right there next to him, helping him bake and decorate, and he's so happy I want to shoot myself. I've worked with Phil Coulson for ten years, and I've never seen him so happy."

Athena closed her eyes and shook her head.

"And here they are. Merry Christmas, Phil. We're dumping their half-dead bodies on your doorstep, so you can deal with having your mental state crushed and the realization that over the past six months, you've gone completely insane." She said.

"He's strong," Aaron said, though it didn't matter and they both knew it. "He'll get over this. And he'll have them. S.H.I.E.L.D. can't risk their best two agents like this again. They won't leave him."

Athena shook her head, undoing her hair from its ponytail and sighing.

"It won't matter," she said. "He'll never fix this. Not entirely. It'll always be a raw, broken place within him that no doctor or therapist can fix. He lost them. It doesn't matter if he never does again. He lost them." She sighed and took out a towel from her coat pocket, sterilizing it and wiping her hands clean before tossing it to Aaron.

"A loss like this is like having a limb amputated, Aaron. Sure, they'll come back. But the damage has been done, and he can't regrow a limb. We might as well have cut off his hands the day we threw these two to the wolves." Athena said, her voice rough and pained. She crossed the plane to kneel beside the two of them, putting an oddly tender hand on Clint's cheek before stroking Natasha's hair. She didn't say anything for a few minutes.

"I hate this place." She finally said.

Looking down at the still, pale forms beneath him, cold and quiet as snow, Aaron had to agree.

...

They awoke with two hours left on the flight. The worst thing to see was the few minutes before Athena gave them enough sedatives to knock them out for the rest of the flight.

Natasha whimpered with pain, the normally stoic agent shaking with agony and holding onto Clint.  His strong arms wrapped around her body, but he wept as well, tears pouring down his cheeks, the trails stained red. Their bodies shook; Clint kept stroking Natasha soothingly, rubbing the soreness away and letting his careful, powerful hands take away the feeling of defilement, of suffering and violation.

The entire time, they mewled pitifully for Coulson, wet little whimpers of his name in voices they hadn't used to do anything but scream for a long time. The only thing either of them could say was his name, like lost children crying out in distress.

Athena sedated them shortly afterwards, and they slept for the rest of the flight peacefully, but everyone else on the plane was chilled to the bone, restless and twitchy. Seeing both Hawkye and Widow, the myths, the legends of S.H.I.E.L.D. brutalized and broken was like watching a god's guts spill out on the floor; they got the feeling they had blasphemed simply by witnessing the breakdown, that their intrusion upon such horrors was sacrilege enough.

No one spoke for the rest of the flight. When the plane landed, Morse stumbled from the cockpit, face ashen; Athena embraced her and stroked her hair, talking her down and promising her a nice, stiff drink once they got inside. She would get Carol and Jess, make sure she had some company.

Aaron let Athena take his team; he felt like just this once, he had someone else to take care of. Clint and Natasha were alone now, and it was the least he could do to make them feel a little less so until they could get to Coulson.

He knelt beside them both as they stirred. They both looked up at him with an almost innocent, childlike gaze; their confusion was clear. All they wanted was their Coulson.

"C'mon, agents. He's waiting at home for you," Aaron said. "He got hurt pretty bad by this too, so don't be angry he's not here, okay?"

"Hurt?" Natasha repeated, her eyes wide. "Hurt? Our Coulson is hurt?"

She grabbed Clint and together they forced each other to their feet, stumbling off the plane. Aaron grabbed them before they fell and steadied them long enough to lead them down and out, right onto the landing strip.

The Commander watched them as they walked up to her. Aaron couldn't read Maria's face, and it bothered him in ways he didn't quite know how to express.

"Welcome back, agents," she said. "I expect you need transfer to the medbay?"

In response, Clint snarled at her.

Maria flinched; Aaron's hand went to his gun, shaking despite himself.

"Coulson," he growled, his voice barely human. "We need Coulson."

Before either of them could stop him or Natasha, they were off, bolting for the Commander's car and clambering in, slamming the doors shut and speeding off, back to the S.H.I.E.L.D. house—back to their home.

Maria stood there for a second, just gawking.

Then she sighed and ran a hand through her hair.

"I knew I shouldn't have left the goddamn keys in," she said.

Aaron laughed despite himself.

Maria looked at him, and he couldn't help but wince for his Commander, who looked as worn out by all of this as he suspected he himself did. He put a gentle hand on her shoulder.

"You did good, Maria," he said gently. "Why don't you go out and see your lady tonight? You've done enough. You need some rest. Let Fury handle this now. This was, in the end, all on him."

"That's not entirely true," Maria murmured. "Clint and Natasha were his fault. But Coulson was mine. And that means I have to know how it ends, agent."

"...I understand, Commander," Aaron said, though he knew he didn't and was grateful for that fact. "Once it's over, though..."

"If I'm still alive, I'll celebrate. Might even propose. But there's still a few things to finish. And until it's over...I'm still to blame." Maria murmured.

She headed back inside without another word. Aaron just watched her go.

With a small sigh, he eventually headed inside to start drafting his report. The only thing he knew was that he was not handing it over to Coulson's paperwork division.

Chapter 50: Home

Summary:

They are home.

Notes:

Gonna try to do daily updates; there's an Xmas section to this I'd like to, y'know, sync up with Xmas...so I might have to rush updates a bit, hee. Hope you enjoy the deluge of updates! I know AatA isn't being updated, but truthfully, updating is HARD. I have to reformat and re-italicize, and it tires me out; it's monotonous and annoying and prevents updates. Blame ao3 I suppose.
Also, regarding Coulson's sudden reality snap-back; he basically had laser-guided insanity. His delusions were busted the second his actual lovers came home. It's a bit illogical, but then, so is psychosis by its very nature. It's a novel; go with it.
Anyways, hope you enjoy. They're home. :)

Natasha let Clint drive; for once, his speed and recklessness were an advantage. It got them home faster. Anything that got them home to Coulson was a good thing.

They could feel the blood and the broken bones beneath their skin. There was suffering there, and they knew they had to deal with it soon. Not yet. Not until Coulson took care of them. And he would. They were his people...his lovers...

They savored that word in their mouths as they drove forward. It felt like coming home.

...

It was cold and dark out, and try as he might, Coulson couldn't keep the cold from creeping into his bones and settling beneath his skin. He tried hot chocolate with his darlings, or sharing a blanket with them; still, the chill persisted, and it had begun to ache.

Coulson sat on the couch, looking up at the stars outside and smiling. Christmas was soon. He would take them driving, bake them a warm, lovely dinner, and they would all unwrap their presents with each other. It would be a Christmas like it hadn't been since his grandmother had died.

Coulson chuckled at the thought of his gran meeting Clint and Natasha. She'd be so happy he found someone, (two someones, in fact—maybe she'd be proud), and she'd want to take care of Clint, like him, and she would braid Natasha's hair like she used to do her own. Maybe she would tell them stories of all the things he had forgotten from his childhood, so they might understand a little of what a normal childhood was like.

Still, since gran couldn't be with them...he would. And he would give them a good Christmas, at least.

Coulson smiled as he saw his lovers leave the kitchen to join him. The smile disappeared slowly once they began to touch him; he realized that his darlings had gone deathly cold.

"Darlings? Oh, did you two leave the window open? You know you'll let in a draft..." Coulson kissed their chilly foreheads and fought against a shudder that wanted to come up all the way from his bones. He went into the kitchen and frowned, looking around. No windows open, and it was rather warm, in fact...

"A door, perhaps?" He mused aloud. "Did someone open the door?"

He went outside into the living room to find that someone, in fact, had.

Coulson moved slowly, as if in a dream, towards the two people standing at his threshold.

Before he could get there, two others stood before him. Clint and Natasha; healed, healthy, happy, and whole. Their faces were flushed and their eyes sparkled with excitement for Christmas.

Coulson touched them one last time, to remind himself that it had, in fact, been a dream. His fingers went right through them, and he knew them both as what they were; a dream, a hallucination, madness—but hope, perhaps, for the future.

They faded away like a scattering of snowflakes on a gust of wind, and Clint and Natasha—his people—stood in the doorway, their faces bloody and their eyes dead with torture and exhaustion.

Coulson took them both inside quietly, bringing them in over the threshold with shaking hands.

The door swung shut behind them with a soft click just as Coulson laid them down on the couches.

He did not speak. For a few minutes, he just stroked their hair, felt their warm, real skin beneath his touch, reminded himself that they were alive with every brush of his fingertips against their skin.

When his fingers scraped against the wounds, however, he knew that might not last long.

"Darlings," he whispered, his voice a hoarse, agonized rasp. "Darlings, you're home."

Clint stirred, looking up at him with bleary, bloodshot eyes. He gave Coulson a tiny smile, his lips cracked and chapped, before putting his head down again. Natasha could only open her eyes, shivering. She smiled just a little before wincing in pain; there were sores and tears around her mouth, like someone had yanked her jaw apart.

Coulson knelt beside them both and gave them each a gentle, loving kiss across their foreheads.

"Okay, darlings. I'm going to bring you up to bed and we'll get you all fixed up." Coulson promised. He went to pick up Clint; Clint whined and shook his head.

"Nat first," he pleaded. "They hurt her bad. Nat first, please. Partners, we have to...save her...right?"

Coulson's heart ached and he nodded with tears in his eyes as he stroked Clint's hair.

"Okay, Clint. I'll be right back down for you. Don't worry about saving anyone, either of you. That's what I'm here for right now. I'm going to save you both. Ssh, I promise...I'm right here..."

Coulson was numb as he picked up Natasha's thin, frail form and brought her upstairs. His darling was skeletal, ravaged; the only thing vibrant and alive left was her hair, soft and sleek, shining dully in the hallway lights.

Coulson went upstairs and laid her on the bed, settling her in gently and putting her pillow beneath her head.

"We're going to go to the medbay soon," he promised gently, "but you two were waiting for me, weren't you? That's okay. I'm going to check you both over before we get you settled in."

"A tree..." Natasha murmured. Coulson blinked.

"Excuse me?" He whispered, befuddled. "Natasha, no, you're safe now; you're in our desert, our nice, warm, safe desert. No more of Nefaria's trees, no more castle."

"No, Coulson..." Natasha actually laughed a little before her ribs made her groan in pain. "No, my love. A Christmas tree..." She smiled. "Until today, I had only ever seen them in pictures...but they are real. It is good to see something real."

"Yes," Coulson agreed, his voice thick with emotion, "it is, darling."

He turned on his heel and went to get Clint before she could see him sob.

Clint was downstairs still, quiet and watchful. He regarded Coulson curiously, blinking up at him.

"Phil? Did...did you hurt?" He murmured. "They said..."

Coulson gave him a warm smile as he knelt down to stroke his hair. He shook his head and kissed Clint's forehead, rubbing his shoulders and soothing him as his hands shook.

"Ssh, Clint. No. No, of course not. I waited here for you, brave and strong, because I swore to be there for you when you needed me the most. I was just fine. You were so brave." He replied, taking him upstairs and laying his darling down beside Natasha.

"I'm going to dress you both after I check your bandages, if that's all right. Then we have to go to the medbay, darlings—but I swear, I'll take care of you first." He promised, his voice a soft whisper. They both hummed, content.

Phil took off the last of the rags they had on with careful, loving touches. He made to look away when his fingers inched closer to Natasha's breasts; she huffed, gripped his hand, and held it steady against the warm curve of her breast. Phil just nodded; she let go with a smile. He didn't hesitate to touch her after that.

It was the slow, methodical way he checked their bandages and rewrapped a few wounds while picking out their clothes and dressing them piece by piece that helped them spill everything; the fact that they were worn out beyond measure didn't help.

The story came out in fragments, like drops of water all gathering at the edge of a point before falling off. Coulson listened with a neutral expression, never changing the slow smoothness of his movements, no matter what horrors they told him about. And they had plenty horrors to speak of.

Natasha told him about the torture they went through at Nefaria's hands, the first mission that left them in need of his care in the first place; the torture, the capture, the escape.

There was blood. So much blood. But Coulson had seen worse, and they were his people.

"I forgive you," he murmured. "I understand."

They both grinned; it was full and warm and genuine, their smiles burning away the last of his agonies, his quiet insanity and suffering. It was replaced by their love, their devotion, and Coulson had to close his eyes for a second and allow himself to take it all in.

After a few minutes, they continued on, talking about the current mission; what had happened, who they had killed. How they had suffered.

Coulson listened quietly, though the tale was long and horrific. Natasha spoke for most of it; on occasion, Clint added details, his throat rough and raspy.

Coulson was quiet for a second afterwards, processing it all. He swallowed, running a hand through his hair as he shook his head.

"And Fury took you from me again," Coulson said softly. "He took you from me to put you back into this hell?"

"Lose you," Clint said. "We were your people. He had to make us lose you. It...it's tradition."

Coulson nodded, stroking Clint's hair and shushing him gently. Clint yawned as Coulson redressed the two of them, gentle and careful as he made sure they were warm and comfortable.

"We were scared," Natasha finally said. "Scared of so much. Of dying. Of losing one another. But I think most of all...we were scared of you. Of losing you. Or...being lost to you."
She murmured, closing her eyes. Coulson stroked her hair, befuddled.

"Natasha, I'm right here. I won't ever leave you again. You haven't lost me." He reminded her. Clint winced.

"Not...not like that. We wanted...to be your people. And....and your lovers, I mean." Clint mumbled, clearly uncomfortable.

Coulson's heart lurched into his throat and he found as he opened his mouth that he could not speak.

"We were frightened we might lose your warmth and care if we asked for it to be the three of us, together. If we lost you..." Natasha trailed off with a shudder, tears of genuine fright in her eyes. Coulson leaned down and kissed them away as they trailed down her cheeks.

His hands shook for just a second, until he interwound them with theirs. After that, he felt stronger than he ever had in his entire life. Coulson smiled.

"You two are never going to lose me," he said softly. "You're my people. Both of you. As partners...and lovers." He swallowed. "If...you're willing."

"More than willing," Natasha murmured. "Forgive us. It...it took so long."

"You were worth the wait." Coulson promised, giving them both a soft, sweet kiss across their cheeks.

They visibly relaxed, almost seeming happy despite the pain they were clearly in; Coulson's heart ached with triumph and grief and love in curious measures, each taking precedence at different times until it all blended together into something solid and strong that felt like Clint and Natasha.

He put warm socks on their feet and good shoes to keep out the cold, before standing up to watch over them, still holding their hands.

"Are you two ready to go?" Coulson said. "I have a few things to take care of, and I'll stay with you in the medbay after that for as long as you'd like."

They both nodded with small smiles on their faces. Coulson took Natasha to the car quietly, carefully, and made his way to the car. He opened the back door and laid her down carefully, wrapping a blanket from the trunk around her before going upstairs to get Clint.

He kissed his forehead and put him beside Natasha carefully, arranging them so that they held one another close. Coulson made sure they were safe and got in the car quietly, turning the ignition.

This time, he was not afraid to look back.

Their bodies, warm and real, gave him courage.

Coulson drove towards base, not speaking.

Very quietly, without much fuss, he put their favorite record on.

...

Athena was waiting for him outside, her eyes dark as Coulson's car pulled up. She was tense despite herself; she didn't know what kind of man she would be meeting.

Coulson stepped out of the car. When he looked at her, his eyes were warm, but she knew him; his entire body was tensed for a fight.

"Take them to the medbay, now." He said, his tone sharp enough to cleave her to the bone. She shivered.

"Yes, Phil. I will, promise." She looked at him carefully. "Are you..."

"I'm fine. They're not. Take care of them," Phil said sharply. "I'm going to take care of Fury."

"Don't you die on them," Athena warned him, "Not now. Not after they just found you again."

"No. No, never. I'm not leaving them ever again," Coulson promised. "I need you to take them, Athena. I'll be back with them soon, I swear it."

"I will. You go do what you gotta do, Phil." She said, though she looked wary. Coulson just smiled as he helped her get the two of them onto the waiting stretchers. They whined softly for him, reaching out to grasp his hands; Coulson took one of their hands in each of his and kissed their foreheads.

"I love you," he finally said. "I'll never leave you again."

"We love you too..." Natasha whispered. "We both do, Coulson. We always have."

"Forever," Clint promised. "Love you..."

Coulson watched Athena's medical team wheel them away with a small smile on his face, waving and putting a brave face on for his darlings. 

The second they were gone, he allowed himself a sob of relief, a groan of triumph, and his heart seized up with desire as he memorized the way their hands had felt in his.

Coulson smiled one last time.

Then he went to go find Fury.

Chapter 51: Confrontation

Summary:

Coulson has a talk with Fury.

Notes:

Yep. Phil snaps. Again. But not in a crazy way. Also, Fury's a fucking sadist.
Unrelated but sort of relevant; a pet peeve of mine is caps lock. Italics work better, more often than not, since caps has become a cheap way to provide EMPHASIS. That said, it is occasionally useful. This is one of those times.

Coulson walked down the hallway quietly. No one else was there; Fury had a meeting with the World Security Council face to face tonight, and the entire agency had cleared out for that. Only Maria remained, and she remained for Coulson alone.

Coulson tipped his head back for a second and imagined his darlings down in the medbay, bleeding and shaking as Athena sutured and sewed and sterilized, cutting them open to sew them back together again. He thought of the scars Clint would have, and the hurts and horrors Natasha had suffered. He thought of how they had both been alone; separated from each other and torn away from him.

It was that thought that spurred him on more than anything. His darlings suffering was one thing; they were brave, tough, beautiful people, who could survive and endure any hardship. He could heal them and hold them and kiss them now, and they would be safe.

But he had been taken from them. And they had been alone as they suffered, without anyone to hold them or heal their hurts and kiss their scars. They had been alone, and he had gone to pieces in their absence. If he could give them all that they deserved, he would try to forgive himself.

But Fury. Oh, he would never forgive Fury.

He went to find Fury not for himself, not for what he had suffered, but for his darlings, his people.

It was then that a deep, secret part of him realized he was no longer S.H.I.E.L.D.'s hound; though it didn't matter now, it was a soothing, satisfying thought as he went down the hall and stormed into the meeting room with a snarl.

If he had thought to bring his gun he would have shot Fury dead where he stood.

As it was, he just said his name.

Fury regarded him, impassive, as Coulson shook with rage. There was no madness in his eyes, but the red...

Maria stepped back, her hand on her gun. Coulson didn't seem to see her, however. He looked right at Fury, ignoring everyone else in the room.

"You took my darlings from me," he snarled. "You almost got them killed. To make me suffer."

"We've been over this, Coulson," Fury said, his voice maddeningly patient and quiet, "every agent goes through a separation period so as to ensure that the bond between partners is flexible enough that when we only need a single agent they can be taken without psychological harm."

"So going insane over the course of six months isn't psychological harm?" Coulson snapped. "Don't tell me none of you noticed. I know what I did, what I became. But now they're home, they're with me, and it's gone, Director. And so is my patience."

Maria drew her gun; Coulson leveled his gaze upon hers and stared at her for a few seconds. His rage was fierce and inhuman, an animal sort of sorrow and hate, but it was not directed at her. It was not her that he had come to deal with. It was Fury—and, in fact, himself. His guilt. His insanity.

She slowly lowered her gun, putting it back in the holster. Her eyes did not leave Coulson's. She did not fear the red, nor the rage. Now, she understood.

"Thank you, Commander," Fury said. "Now, Coulson. Your mental break was unfortunate. You're a good man and a good agent. But with agents like you, these things tend to happen. You're an anomaly, Phil. We did our best to deal with it, but there's only so much S.H.I.E.L.D. can do in the way of support. Hawkeye and Widow had to take this mission; no one else could have."

"They were healing," Coulson snarled, teeth glinting in the dull fluorescent lights. "They were my partners, and they were still healing. Because you hurt them. They told me everything about their last mission. How they threatened to cut off Clint's hands or blind him. How they raped Natasha, my darling Natasha, until she bled half to death."

Coulson grinned; everyone in the room flinched despite themselves, save Fury.

"But it didn't matter, since she didn't have to worry about having a child, now did she?" He crooned. "She told me about that, too. She told me how she doesn't carry the scars. And Clint told me about the ones he gave himself in her place. I know all about them; I know who they are, as people. You gave me toy soldiers, Director; I fixed them up and made them real." Coulson closed his eyes and shuddered.

"And then you took them back," he said. "You took them back just to break them. WHY?"

The sudden shout made everyone jump, startled; the council began to look wary, and Maria was tense. Fury just regarded Coulson with a single inscrutable eye.

"You put them on this mission to hurt me, to hurt them, even though they were on leave! They were hurt before, but they were healing, and you know what? I get it now, Director. You don't care. You don't even care for them like they're your toys; people clean up their toys and put them away neatly so they'll last. You let them break down and wear themselves out, and you don't care. You can always replace them. You don't care about throwing out broken things, even when they weren't yours to break in the first place. You enjoy it, you like it,  and you'll break them just for the hell of it, just to see what happens. " Coulson said.

"Toys? Oh, Phil. You sure you're not still a little touched in the head? Comparing your lovers to toys seems a little...crude." Fury said, the emphasis meant to cleave Coulson to the bone, stop him in his tracks. It might have worked before; not now. Not with Clint and Natasha downstairs, dying.

"They weren't toys for me at all. They were people. They were broken people to everyone except you." Coulson snarled, utmost venom in his voice. "You let them get raped and tortured and almost murdered to assassinate some two-bit political leader, and then when it didn't work, you had them do it again! You don't care! I do! And that means that you are not taking them from me again! God damn it, Fury, they are down there dying because you wanted to hurt me! But you can't! Not anymore! I have suffered, I have gone insane, I have watched them stumble home, half dead and crying my name, and after all that, I survived! There is nothing you or anyone else could do to hurt me!" 

Coulson was breathing heavily, lips bared, eyes wild. Fury just watched, impassive.

"But you hurt them, and that, I will not stand for," he finally said, his voice quiet. "You took them from me to hurt me; fine. I'm fine. You've put me through enough, and I can't be hurt again. I've suffered damn near everything S.H.I.E.L.D. could throw at me, and I came out fine. And that scares you, doesn't it? Because you've lost everything to threaten me with. Nothing left in your bag of tricks, Director; not for me. But them? They're nothing like me. They're a special kind of agent, and they've suffered special kinds of hurt. Never again." Coulson said. "I'm not asking; I'm telling you right here and now, those two are never leaving my side again. The three of us are partners, we are lovers, and you can't hurt me with that anymore. And I won't let you hurt them with it, either."

Fury watched him for a few minutes.

Then, slowly, he began to laugh.

Coulson stared; the council watched, curious.

"It's a little late for that, isn't it?" He said. He almost sounded amused as he turned back to the computer screens. "I want to show you something, Phil."

Coulson watched, numb, as the Director pulled up his file.

"Commander of the Avengers Initiative Forces; Agent Philip J. Coulson." Fury read aloud. "We were actually discussing your appointment at this very meeting. As well as the appointment of two other agents with very specific skill sets."

Coulson did not so much as twitch.

"You talk a good game, Phil. A hero's speech, just like your guy Captain Rogers would like. Did you get that out of a comic book?" Fury said, his tone deceptively cheerful. "This isn't a comic book, Phil. Your little speech doesn't really matter in the grand scheme of things. Not after what you did."

"What I did?" Phil roared. "YOU LET THEM SUFFER!"

“Correction,” Fury said, “you did.”

Phil snarled; Fury held up a hand and pointed to the screen.

“As you can see,” he addressed both Phil and the council, “Agent Phil Coulson is the leader of the Avengers Initiative on the field. While I have direct control over who is placed onto the team, it is Phil who coordinates the missions and tasks members of the Initiative with jobs.”

He turned back to Phil, glittering triumph in his eyes.

“What I’m saying here, agent, is that this is your fault,” he told him. “You could’ve stopped them from going. You’re the team leader, aren’t you? You run their missions. You could have brought them back at any time, considering this was classified as an Initiative mission.”

Phil did not move.

For a very long time, he stared up at the screen. Their pictures were up there; he barely registered the words, so focused on how healed and whole Clint and Natasha looked compared to now.

“You never told me,” he rasped. “You’re a liar and you know it, god damn you, you lied to them and you lied to me—”

“Well, it’s not like they ever brought me back the paperwork to instate them officially, so the red tape would’ve been a bit messy anyway. Perhaps it was all for the best.” Fury mused. “And here I thought you were pretty good at being a paper-pusher, agent.”

Coulson felt cold.

“In any case, it doesn’t matter. The mission was a success, ladies and gentlemen of the council; I would recommend pushing forward on the Avengers Initiative.” Fury chuckled. “Of course, we may have to wait awhile. Our current members are a bit...indisposed.”

Coulson opened his mouth, but no sound came out. Fury met his gaze, and for a second, he smiled.

“Why don’t you go down and check on them?” He suggested. “It’s the least you can do as the team leader.”

Coulson nodded, numb. He didn’t do anything else for a second, just standing there and looking up at the screen. It lit up his face and aged him by a good ten years. He looked lost and alone.

Then suddenly, he turned and walked away. He didn’t wait for a dismissal, or to say goodbye; he simply left.

Maria watched the space where he had stood before her eyes flickered up to the screen. She felt sick to her stomach.

“It’s over, Maria,” Fury said gently, making her jump. “Phil knows where his loyalties ought to lie now. He’ll be fine. Go home. You deserve the break.”

Maria pursed her lips and nodded, slow and hesitant.

“Good,” Fury said. “So, council, regarding the Initiative...”

She let him continue as she got her jacket and shivered in the sudden cold.

It wasn’t over for Coulson. It might never be over if he couldn’t leave.

But for her, it was over. She had watched his last stand against Fury, the last great burst of rage and hate, and she had watched how futile it was. It was a lesson for her as much as it was for Coulson.

It was over. But nothing had been won.

Maria saluted quietly and left, her boots making no sound on the floor as she went to go home; to take Victoria into her arms and maybe even weep a little for the loss. A Christmas gift to herself.

For a second, before she could stop herself, she wondered about the tree Coulson had bought, and what might become of it.

She shuddered as she went for her car, shaking her head.

It was over for her. But the guilt would never leave.

She drove home in silence, the desert cold and dry beneath the wheels of her car.

Chapter 52: Making Christmas

Summary:

Coulson is reunited with his lovers. Christmas is coming.

Notes:

Honestly I'm running out of stuff to say. Hope you like it, it finally gets sappy and a bit happier. Ngl, you deserve it.

Back at base, Coulson stood outside the medbay doors, shaking. Tears ran down his face and he occasionally gasped in quiet pain.

He couldn’t go in there. Not because they were suffering, but because he was. He would go in there strong for them, as brave and tough as possible, so they might take from it. He had given them his heart; everything else was just window dressing after that.

He waited until he was perfectly composed to walk in. The scent of blood threatened to push him back.

They were both injured, horrendously so, and Coulson watched, numb, as Athena operated. Not one of the doctors had noticed he had come in; Clint and Natasha, under anaesthesia, still and soft as angels, didn’t notice either.

Coulson washed his hands, put on gloves and a surgical mask, and sat down to watch and wait. He would not let them be alone. Even when the doctors noticed him, a silent, faithful hound waiting beside their sickbeds, they did not protest. They understood. 

The first of what Coulson figured would be numerous operations passed after a few more hours. The other doctors disappeared to take a break; Athena stayed, regarding Coulson as he stood up, taking off the gloves and mask and straightening his tie.

"We've fixed a lot," she said, "but they're going to need physical therapy and a few weeks in the hospital just to recover, at the very least." She sighed and ran a hand through her hair. "I'm sorry, Phil. I just...don't think you'll get them back in time for Christmas."

To her surprise, Phil just smiled.

"That's fine," he said. "They don't need to be home to have Christmas." He looked at their sleeping forms, considering. "Athena, how long will they be out?"

"Another hour or so. Why?" She asked.

Phil went over to their still bodies and leaned down, brushing his lips against their own before turning back to Athena, defiant. He practically dared her to say something with the very stance of his body. She just watched him for a few minutes, silent.

He relaxed inch by inch before finally smiling.

"I need to get something from home," he said. "I'll be right back. Please make sure they're all right."

"I will," she promised. "Hurry up, Phil."

He was gone before she could even take out her cigarettes.

She sighed and went out into the hallway, heading upstairs and for the outskirts of the base. She needed a smoke before she could even begin to process what had just happened.

...

Phil came back twenty minutes later, storming into the medbay with armfuls of presents and a Christmas tree, lights still clinging to it, being brought in behind him by a few very befuddled agents.

Athena actually stopped refilling the IV long enough to stare.

"They're going to have Christmas." Phil said, his voice firm. He set down the presents as the others set the tree back up, plugging it in; Athena saw him put a box of ornaments on the couch beside the twin beds. 

"I have to make two trips; this is just the presents. There's a few more things I have to get...then there's the question of Christmas dinner, though that can wait for a few more days, can't it?" Phil mused.

Athena continued to stare.

"For fuck's sake, you mad bastard." She said, her voice a mix of awed, amused, and impressed. Phil snorted.

"Not anymore." He murmured, turning to leave. Athena winced.

"Sorry," she said. "I didn't think."

Phil shrugged, arranging the presents around the tree and plugging the lights in, letting their glow light up the room softly.

"Don't worry about it," he said. "I...I sort of lost it. But just when it came to them. Now that they're back...it's not even like I was fixed, it's like the wound was never there." Phil smiled, helplessly in love. "They saved me. They came home. That's all I needed."

"You'll always have scars." Athena murmured, so quietly he didn't hear it. "Don't lie to yourself, Phil."

He turned back to her, and she knew in that moment that he knew, he knew he would always hurt, just a little, but never where they could see. He would die before he let his lovers worry about him.

"They'll know," she said, a little louder this time. "They know scars, Phil."

Coulson smiled. There was no humor or amusement in it.

"Well, then I'll do my best to make sure I keep things under wraps." He said pleasantly. "If you'll excuse me, Athena, I have to go get their things; I've got another trip to make. I'll be back before they wake up."

She just nodded, letting him leave the medbay. She could hear him heading upstairs, otensibly to head back out to the car and collect everything else.

Athena sighed and ran a hand through her hair, sitting down as the IVs ran medication into the agents' veins, the lights on the Christmas tree lighting up their skin with an almost alien glow. Their scars shone dully in the bright colored lights, and it took all Athena's willpower not to shudder at the sight.

...

Coulson came back with the bundles of supplies just as his lovers were beginning to stir. He smiled, elated, and put everything down, bustling over.

"Hello, darlings," he murmured. "How are you feeling?"

"Better. You're here." Clint mumbled. "Other than that, though? Fuckin' hurts."

Coulson chuckled and kissed his forehead.

"I know, Clint. But both of you—look at what I brought you." He murmured. They both opened their eyes all the way, going to look, curious, before gasping with delight.

"Oh! Oh, Phil!" Natasha cried out, her eyes shining. Clint just beamed silently as the two of them took in the Christmas tree and their gifts.

"You're going to have to stay here for awhile, darlings, but you both deserve Christmas." Phil murmured. "We'll have it here, okay?"

It wasn't the most ideal situation, but none of them cared. They were home, with each other, and all was at it should have been.

They were both beaming as he gave them light pecks to the lips, gentle and considerate of their injuries.

Athena watched him fuss for a few minutes before smiling and leaving without a word. They could wait an hour or so for another round of checkups and the like.

Besides, in the end, no one took better care of them than Phil.

...

For a little while, Coulson set up the room with all their decorations. He strung lights up around the beds, offered them little bites of chocolates, (though nothing much more substantial, as he saw the way their stomachs caved in), and made sure their stockings were hung up around the rungs of their beds.

The tree was a bit harder; he frowned, considering the tree and then his lovers. He wanted them to help, but...

"Phil, darling, just push the beds closer." Clint said, amused. "This isn't our first time in here, believe me. We're not helpless."

Phil sighed and massaged his temples, licking his lips nervously before turning back to them.

"Shouldn't you both be resting?" He protested. They both gave him a sharp look.

"We have not seen you for six months. Rest can wait. You cannot." Natasha said, her voice sharp. "You missed us, as we have missed you. Is this not true?"

"I was fine." Coulson replied in protest, shaking his head. They both gave him a firm glare.

"Don't lie," Natasha said. "You know better than to lie to either of us. We know you far too well." She frowned, curious. "Coulson, please...what happened?"

"Nothing," he said. "Let's decorate the tree. It's not nearly as important as that, I promise."

Both of them looked dubious, but they did not protest. Coulson looked so haggard, so absolutely pained by what had transpired, that they knew that as much as they were healing from their physical injuries, Coulson was healing from serious mental ones.

They let him nudge them both over to the tree, their beds carefully arranged so they could each put ornaments on one side without having to do much more than move their arms. Clint's arm was broken; Coulson helped him lift the delicate ornaments as best as he could, kissing the fingers poking free of the cast.

"Are you going to stay here?" Natasha asked, internally wincing at how needy she sounded. Coulson smiled and stroked her hair.

"I already talked to Athena beforehand. They'll be bringing a cot in here soon; standard procedure after missions like this. Even S.H.I.E.L.D. knows when to let the separation end." Coulson murmured.

"Good," Natasha murmured, closing her eyes and lying back on the bed, her share of the ornaments hung. "That's so good, Phil..."

"I'm glad you're happy," Phil said. "Did you like putting up the ornaments?"

"More than anything," they chorused, small smiles on their faces. "Thank you, Phil..."

"It was my pleasure. I've been waiting a long time to give you this Christmas." He murmured.

"It hurt to wait though...didn't it?" Clint said. "It's okay if it did. We won't think you're weak. It's...sort of comforting, almost, to know that you missed us, too."

Coulson closed his eyes and shuddered.

"That's not it," he said. "But...another time, Clint. After you two have rested some."

"Don't leave?" Clint begged.

Coulson leaned down and kissed his forehead, tucking them both in before turning the lights off, letting the warm glow of the tree's lights illuminate the room.

"No, never." He promised.

They both smiled, relieved by that, as Coulson pulled up the blankets around them and moved the beds back to where they were. He looked around and sighed, considering.

"They haven't brought the cot yet," he murmured. "I'm not leaving here, though."

"We would rather you slept comfortably, though..." Natasha protested. Coulson smiled and stroked her hair with a tender hand.

"I've slept on worse things than couches, Natasha. I'll be fine." He said, taking off his suit jacket and tie, careful not to wrinkle the jacket as he hung it up. They both hummed, pleased.

"It is good to see you again. You are a comfort, my Coulson." Natasha murmured.

They put a lot of trust in that suit. It's more of a comfort than you know.

Coulson beamed at both of them before kissing them one more time, kicking off his shoes and taking a spare blanket to sleep with before all three of them drifted off.

Coulson did not dream that night, and neither did Clint or Natasha. The night was quiet and peaceful, even in spite of the steady beep of the heart monitors.

Chapter 53: Confessionals

Summary:

Christmas is tomorrow.

Notes:

Coulson finally fesses up. Just one more chapter of the Christmas saga! Hope y'all enjoy it. :)

The next morning, Coulson felt Athena shaking him awake, her eyes stern and her jaw set. Coulson grumbled a little as he sat up, blinking sleep out of his eyes. She pointed to the cot in the corner and gave him a look.

"We brought that in, so if I find you sleeping on the couch again, I'll jab you in the ass with the biggest needle I have. Clear?" Athena said. "I get it, I do; you wanna be with them. But at least lie down."

"Fine by me," Coulson agreed with a yawn. "So, doctor; what else needs to be done today?"

"They're...already back in surgery. There's some reconstructive things that need to be done and I'd like to restitch a few wounds." Athena pinned him to the couch with a sharp look. "Go home and shower, get some clean clothes on, and be ready to go after that. There's no point in going to see them in the state you're in."

"I suppose not," Coulson agreed quietly. "They know something went wrong, Athena."

"I'm not surprised. Those two know you better than anyone, agent, and they're good at spotting lies to boot." Her gaze softened. "Be honest. You were no weaker than the two of  them. You coped, just like they did. There's no shame in anything you did, Phil."

"I have to be better for them," he snarled through gritted teeth. "I can't go to pieces. They need me."

"And that's exactly why you did it." She murmured, her voice sad and quiet.

Phil didn't reply.

Athena sighed and handed him his suitjacket and tie, neatly folded and wrinkle-free.

"Remember, they know you better than anyone. You can't lie to them...and they'll understand perfectly. That'll be a comfort, once all is said and done." She told him. "Now, scoot; they'll want you as soon as they're out of surgery."

Coulson was gone before she could even blink.

Athena watched where he had been before sighing and shaking her head, heading back towards the surgery wing to confer with her team.

...

Coulson went back home and cleaned up. He threw out all the old food, straightened up the bedroom, cleaned the bathroom, and rid the entire house of any traces of the past six months. He did not think; he acted on routine and instinct, letting himself go blank as he worked.

Eventually, he showered and dressed in another impeccable suit before going back to base, heading right down to the medbay. He heard a few cheers and excited shouts of his name; he was touched, truly, but Clint and Natasha were his priority, his people, and he had to see to them.

He made his way into their room just as they were being wheeled in. Natasha was still asleep, but Clint was awake, albeit groggy. He beamed at the sight of Coulson, and Phil smiled helplessly, going over to his bedside and taking his hand. Clint was utterly delighted at the sight of his presence, and it soothed Phil's heart more than he could comprehend.

"Good morning, darling," he murmured. "The house is nice and clean for when you two come home. We'll make a nice big dinner to celebrate when that happens."

"Sounds great," Clint agreed. "Can we talk, too?"

Coulson went quiet. The other doctors had picked up on Clint's tone and were edging out hesitantly.

"Sure, Clint," Coulson agreed after a long silence. "But why don't we wait for Natasha to wake up?"

"Okay," Clint agreed. "Can you sit with us?"

"Of course, darling." Coulson promised, bringing a chair to sit in between their beds. He took Clint's hand in his, gentle and careful. Clint smiled, at ease, though they both knew the discussion they were going to need to have soon.

Coulson whiled away the time by tracing the scars on Clint's skin; as he did, he kissed the ones he could reach. Clint smiled at the sight of Coulson being so gentle with him. He stroked Phil's hair, tender and careful with his one uninjured arm.

Eventually, Natasha stirred, her eyes opening and her lips parting slightly as she looked about the room for them. Both men immediately jumped to fuss over her; Clint couldn't do much, but he took her hand as Coulson kissed her in greeting, tender and loving, before proferring a styrofoam cup full of orange juice to her. She gave him a look; Coulson huffed, amused.

"Clint drank his before, and you need vitamins." He reminded her. Natasha mumbled a weak protest in Russian, but sipped it dutifully after they both gave her a look.

"So, we were to talk." Natasha murmured. Coulson tensed; Natasha huffed and patted his cheek.

"Love, we have known something hurt you since we arrived home. Your hurt is our hurt, Coulson. We understood why you kept your silence, though, and so we did not protest...but we cannot do that any longer. You have been through enough, Phil. Please. We love you; we want to share the burden." Natasha whispered. "We are strong, strong as you are. It is our burden to have as well, as is your heart."

Coulson looked up at her with tears in his eyes. Natasha just gave him a small smile.

"You are our lover now," she murmured. "We have waited all this time to be with you; nothing would make us love you less. Isn't that right, Clint?"

"Nat's telling the truth," Clint promised. "You're our Coulson now. Nothing's going to change that. Please. We just want to know. Even if we can't help...it...it feels right. To know how this hurt you. Coulson, please. Phil."

Phil shuddered, shoulders slumped, and finally gave in.

"I...for awhile, I thought you were still there. I didn't see you—I just made up excuses. You were in the training room. You were busy. I just couldn't handle you being gone. So I denied it for awhile." Coulson began. "For awhile, it worked. Then I just...snapped. The Director needed me to remember so he could watch me break." He closed his eyes, ashamed. "And I did."

Clint and Natasha were quiet. Their hands found his, warm, solid comfort that reminded him that they were real, that they were with him.

"It...it took awhile. I did my best to keep our rituals going. I cooked dinner for the two of you, set places for you at the table. I played our records. I went driving. But I wasn't sleeping, I wasn't...wasn't thinking. I wasn't eating or taking care of myself much either. It was...horrible, really." Coulson murmured.

Clint and Natasha took a second to let it sink in. Once it did, the love and gratitude in their eyes made Coulson's heart ache.

"I know it was hard," Natasha murmured. "Phil, thank you. Knowing you remembered us...means everything to the both of us. Please, do not be ashamed of such a thing."

"That wasn't it!" Phil confessed. "It wasn't that I remembered you! It was—it was that I..." Coulson hung his head and looked away in shame.

"I forgot you. The real you. I just...started dreaming, and never stopped." He swallowed. "I thought the both of you had come home two months ago. I thought you were there with me, healing and staying safe. I thought...I thought you had told me you loved me." 

Coulson massaged his temples and pursed his lips for a second before finishing, not meeting either of their gazes.

"I just...lost myself. I went crazy for a bit. I just missed you both so much, and I didn't know what to do...so my mind filled in the blanks. I'm sorry. I know you two dealt with more. I know I should've been stronger for you. But I will be now; I won't let you two handle this alone. I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry." Coulson confessed.

There was silence in the room for a time.

"You're an idiot." Clint said. Coulson blinked.

"Excuse me?" He asked. Clint rolled his eyes.

"You heard me," he said, pointing at Phil. "You're a moron! You honestly think we're going to get angry? Christ's sake, Phil! You share our suffering, too, like we share yours. No wonder that happened." Clint's eyes softened as he squeezed Phil's hand.

"Hey, really though. It's okay. Believe me...if we had come back two months ago, we would've told you we loved you anyway. So you just jumped the gun a bit, yeah?" Clint teased.

Coulson tried to laugh, but it came out as a strangled sob. Clint hugged him, kissing his forehead and murmuring soothingly into his ear.

"It's okay," Clint promised. "Don't hide your hurt from us. We want all of you. You make us human. Right, Nat?"

"Yes," Natasha agreed softly, as Coulson felt her hand stroking the back of his neck. "You make us whole, Coulson. You make us people, because we are your people. Please...do not hide from us."

Coulson turned around and knelt, slow and careful, by her bedside. Clint's hand was still warm on his shoulder. Natasha stroked Coulson's hair for a minute, careful and gentle.

"You were all we thought of," she murmured. "We killed an entire castle's worth of men to get home to you. Do you think us flawed? Surely our crimes are worse than yours."

"No," Coulson rasped. "I understand. You were pushed to the brink—darlings, you'd been tortured—"

"In your own way, you were as well. He took from you all you had. All three of us suffered; we can forgive one another what we did to cope, can we not?" Natasha murmured. "We left there believing you would wash our sins clean. The least we could do in kind is forgive you, if you really think you must be forgiven."

Coulson was quiet for a few minutes, just taking in the feel of the two of them.

"I understand," he finally said. "You did what you had to do to come home to me. Truth be told, I'm proud. You endured. And if you can forgive me what I did to cope, it would be unfair if I didn't do the same."

The two of them sighed with relief, their absolution seeping from every pore; Coulson's words had healed them more than any surgery could. He forgave them, and so they gave themselves permission to do the same.

"We forgive you, if you think you need forgiveness," Natasha told him. "You are our Coulson. We understand. And all will be well."

"I don't know about that..." Coulson frowned, doubtful. "But I think that's a topic that can wait until after Christmas, huh?"

"Certainly," Natasha agreed, a tiny smile on her face. "How many days do we have left?"

"Tomorrow's Christmas Eve. If you two are up to it, I'll make a nice dinner and some cookies for tomorrow. And Christmas, well..." Coulson smiled. "I'll make a feast to celebrate. You two deserve one."

"Do we have to wait that long for presents?" Clint asked. Coulson kissed his forehead.

"I'm afraid so, Clint. But I promise they're worth it." He told him. Clint huffed.

"Yeah, but...we didn't get you anything!" He protested.

"You came home." Coulson said, and that was that. They could brook no further argument; to Phil, the simple act of homecoming was enough. Their combined presence in his life meant more than anything to them.

They didn't know how to put that relief and gratitude into words, but the way they held his hand whenever they could for the rest of the day and smiled as he bustled about the room, decorating and generally sprucing up, was more than enough for Coulson to understand.

...

Coulson waited until he had tucked them in for the night, promising to be back as soon as he was done baking to sleep beside them, to go home and begin cooking. He didn't have much time; he knew they wouldn't be pleased if he shirked sleep, but he did want to have a good Christmas Eve dinner and some cookies.

He put together a stew, baking Clint's favorite cookies in recompense for not incorporating cheeseburgers into Christmas Eve dinner. The house, despite technically being empty, felt a lot less lonely than it had before.

He put the dinner fixings in the fridge; he could come back for them tomorrow. But the cookies, well...those they could have as a breakfast treat.

Coulson smiled the entire way back to base, the warm cookies' scents making the whole car smell like the holidays as he came back, putting the plate of cookies on the nightstand and crawling into bed, sleeping as close to the two of them as he possibly could.

The next morning, he was awoken by warm, gentle hands cupping his face. Coulson looked up to see the two of them standing over him, smiles on their faces. He started, staring up in shock; Clint beamed.

"We have to use crutches," Natasha explained, "but Athena thought you might like to know the pain has lessened. S.H.I.E.L.D. has done the best it can."

"I'm...glad," Coulson murmured. "But I'd rather if you two rested safe and sound in bed. I mean...you really shouldn't be up and about, darlings."

"We know," Clint replied. "But...just this time, we wanted to wake you up."

Coulson smiled, getting out of bed and embracing them both gently as he led them back to their beds.

For the rest of the day, things were quiet; Coulson had a few quick talks with Athena about a physical therapy schedule, and two agents came to see Clint and Natasha—Tylar and Landen. Coulson didn't know either of them, but they had got his darlings out, and so he embraced them both and thanked them profusely.

That all said and done with, Coulson then settled in and read to his darlings. Nothing heavy; simple Christmas stories. They were a little childish, but it had been worth the quick trip to the used bookstore to get them for his darlings; their eyes lit up and they drank in the stories eagerly, clearly new to the Christmas traditions.

The day wound by in slow, easy strokes, until Coulson looked up from the book he had been reading to them and saw the sunset.

"Rest, my loves," Coulson murmured. "It'll be easier to get your stockings filled if you're asleep."

"Aw, c'mon Phil..." Clint protested, but a few quick kisses silenced him easily enough. He smiled up at Coulson, already sleepy. Coulson made sure his IV was in properly before stroking Clint's hair until he fell asleep, his breathing soft and sweet, his lips parted lightly.

Coulson turned back to Natasha and gave her a small grin.

"It's a lot harder to tuck you both in when we're not all sharing the same bed," he apologized. "Don't worry, though. You'll be out soon and we'll have our bed back."

"It might take time...but you will not leave us. I am comforted," Natasha murmured. "We loved you so much, Phil. We always did, honest."

"No, not always. It took some time. But that's all right. I didn't need for you two to have always loved me; I'm content with forever after." Coulson promised. "Get some rest, okay? I promise, we'll be up bright and early to open gifts."

Natasha smiled, content, and let Phil soothe and gentle her to sleep. He watched the two of them rest, entirely at ease, for a few minutes, simply to revel in their presence.

Then he prepared their presents before climbing into bed himself. He was eager for Christmas to arrive for the first time in years.

Chapter 54: Christmas

Summary:

Pure unadulterated Christmas fluff.

Notes:

No I'm not kidding. This is just fluff. Sap and sweetness. Merry Christmas to all, and to all, have a great night. Even if you don't celebrate Christmas or your family sucks or you didn't get any gifts, you deserve a happy day to yourself. :) I love y'all, and the love and acceptance by the fandom that my fics have gotten makes me so, so happy. Thank you all for reading. <3

The last Christmas Clint had as a child, his dad had passed out on the couch by noon, and Barney had stolen the only gift he had gotten and broken it, furious about not getting anything. The last Christmas Natasha had as a child, she had shot a drug cartel leader in the face and gotten a new gun from her mother as a reward for not flinching when she did it.

The two of them stirred awake that Christmas morning to the warm, slightly-spicy smell of fresh cookies and the low, reedy tones of a holiday song being played.
Clint saw the phonograph, trundling along contentedly to the record it now played, and smiled. Natasha picked a cookie off the plate beside her bed and bit into it, the warmth melting across her mouth like snow.

The two of them could ignore the sterile room and humming fluorescent lights as well as the IV drips in their arm and the beep of machines. The scars and stitches on their bodies, nor the ache of newly-formed skin, raw and pink and healing, did not bother them as they stretched out in their beds.

The tree, with its twinkling lights, outshone the dull fluorescent bulbs; the presents glittering in shiny wrapping beneath the tree soothed the ache in their bodies by warming their hearts. There was only one thing missing.

Coulson awoke slowly, his eyes fluttering open as he stretched out on the cot, looking around. It was only once he saw his lovers lying there, already awake with their eyes shining in awe at the Christmas he had given them, that he fully awoke and got up out of bed. He came to their bedsides with a small, sleepy smile, and kissed their cheeks.

"Good morning, darlings," he murmured. "And merry Christmas."

"Thank you, Phil." Natasha said. The depth of emotion behind the simple gratitude was enough for the both of them; Coulson could tell by the shine in Clint's eyes. He let his prideful lover deal with it in silence as he pecked his cheek once more, taking their hands.

"Are you ready to open your presents?" He asked. They both frowned, concerned, and tried to move.

"It hurts," Natasha confessed, the shame in her voice making Coulson wince. "I am sorry, Phil. We can try..."

"No, no. Ssh, wait a second," Coulson said. "Hold on."

He took pillows from behind them and laid his blanket on the cold tile floor. Once he had made them a little makeshift nest, he stood up.

"Clint, hold still." Coulson murmured. Before Clint could protest, Coulson had picked him up, carrying him in his arms, the IV drip stuck under the crook of his arm as he laid Clint down next to the tree.

Clint stared up at him, his mouth working uselessly with the words his dignity wouldn't let him say.

Coulson got his blanket for him, tucking it around him and settling him in. The warmth melted whatever held him back; Clint embraced him and whispered in his ear, "Thanks so much, Phil...love you..."

"Love you too." Coulson replied, kissing his forehead.

He picked up Natasha with the same care and grace, settling her in and wrapping her blanket around her thin form. Once he made sure they were settled, he put their first presents on their laps.

"Is this easier?" He asked.

In response, they both leaned in to kiss him.

They opened all their presents that morning with Coulson's help; they both had injured hands, but he helped them tear the paper off and take the presents out.

He had not bought them weapons, nor anything else that might remind them of S.H.I.E.L.D. or the lives they led. That alone was something to celebrate—but what he did get them...

Natasha got stacks of romance novels wrapped up with red ribbons, along with a warm, comfortable nightgown, fuzzy socks, and, in the last box, a sparkling ruby necklace, the rubies falling over the chain to form a web across her neck.

She outright gasped, holding it in her hands like it was sacred; it was then that Coulson realized that no one had ever bought her such a thing. After all the missions she had been on, glamorous and seductive—those gems, those silks, none of them were hers. They were weapons, not tokens of love.

He took it from her trembling hands and kissed it before getting up to put the clasp around her neck. The rubies tumbled down her milky collarbone, covering the bruises and stitches around her neck.

Her mouth moved, her lips quivering, but no sound came from it. Coulson pressed a gentle kiss to her lips. She mouthed, "I love you," and Coulson smiled into the kiss.

Clint opened his next, beaming at Natasha's happiness as he opened his own gifts; sturdy boots, leather gloves, sunglasses. He smiled, pleased, at the enormous gift bag stuffed with bags of cheetos. Coulson had bought him a few recipe books as well, tied up with the same red ribbon. There was one more tiny box left; Clint looked up at Phil, curious.

Phil smiled at him, taking his hand and helping him undo it.

A gold ring glimmered in the pillowed box; Clint gasped, beaming with delight as Coulson slipped the ring onto his finger. It was simple, but in that simplicity lay strength; Clint loved it, loved both the people sitting across from him, smiling at his own happiness. He realized then that he was blinking back tears, but before he could stave them off,

Coulson and Natasha were kissing him, banishing them in favor of their love and warmth.

"Merry Christmas," Clint mumbled with a tiny smile. "Love you both."

"Love you too." Coulson murmured.

"Love you, my Clint." Natasha said with a smile, kissing his forehead. He ruffled her hair and kissed the necklace before moving up to kiss her lips, careful and soft.

The three of them stayed beneath the tree for as long as they were able; Coulson opened their stockings for them, feeding them bits of the candies and sweets he had bought.

They couldn't eat much, but they accepted what he fed them and smiled with pleasure at the treats. That alone made Coulson happy; when Clint unwrapped a truffle with his sole free hand and pressed it to his lips, a silent but clear command to eat, his heart soared and he ended up kissing Clint with the chocolate melting in his mouth.

Natasha fed Clint bits and pieces of his favorite cookies as Coulson shared sweet mints with her, the three of them taking what they needed from their trio, all their desires blending together. They were at ease until, finally, they were interrupted; Athena stood at their door with a small frown.

"Sorry, Phil. I need your lovers for a bit, if that's all right." She said. "They'll be returned to you shortly, though, I promise. I just want to run a few more diagnostics and put together a physical therapy plan."

"Of course, Athena," Phil agreed, his face placid. "Darlings, go with her; I'll go home and start our Christmas dinner. You'll both be fine, I promise." He gave them both a quick kiss. "It's not like before; you won't be alone. You're going to come back here, and I'll be there for you. I swear."

The two of them watched him, everything they wanted to say and couldn't clear as day in their eyes. Coulson took their hands.

"...Carry us, please?" Natasha asked, hesitant. "It...it felt good when you did. I felt...I felt safe."

Coulson nodded, kissing her forehead. He looked up at Athena, a silent question on his face; she nodded in reply and he removed the needles from their veins, letting him carry them unimpeded.

He supported Natasha first, this time, carrying her back to the main wing of the ICU. She held him tight, not speaking. Coulson didn't mind the silence; it left a space around them, and that space was entirely full of her love. He understood that now.

He laid her down on the operating table in there once the surgeons directed him to do so; Coulson watched her flinch, fearful, and tensed. He gave them all a sharp look; a clear warning. They all still feared him, knew what he could do, the depths he would go to for the two agents on their table, and so they were silent as Coulson left to bring Clint in.

Clint gripped him tight, ignoring his pride in favor of nuzzling Coulson's neck and holding him so close it hurt. Coulson didn't mind the pain; he welcomed it, in fact, as a reminder of safety and homecoming. Clint was alive to cling to him, and for that, he could not be more grateful.

Coulson set him down and watched as he clung to Natasha, a protector and guardian. Clint gave him a look; it was not, as it had been before, a warning to stay away, to not come between them, but a reminder that when Coulson couldn't be there, he could. He would keep her safe for the both of them...and keep himself safe as well.

Coulson gave them both one last lingering kiss before leaving the ICU, his heart aching with the weight of his love.

As he left, however, he stopped with shock as he realized that, coming down the hallway, was his Commander.

"Maria!" He called, wincing as she flinched at her name. "Maria, please wait!"

She stopped and let him come closer, though he could tell she was still nervous.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to involve you. Or Victoria." He sighed. "Please, Commander...don't think too badly of me for all this."

"I don't," she said quietly. "I can't. I understand, Phil. I do."

"If you did, you wouldn't be away from your lover on Christmas." Phil said, his voice surprisingly gentle. "Commander, do me a favor; go to her. You've seen what happens when you lose the people you love in this place. Be with her. It's the only comfort you get."

Maria was quiet.

"...Thank you," she finally said. "I suppose I don't have any pressing matters to attend to." She looked away for a second.

"Good luck with them," she finally said. "And good luck with the Initiative; you'll need it."

"I assumed as much," Phil said, his voice surprisingly dry. "Thank you, Commander. I'll see you back on base tomorrow and no earlier."

"Should I ask for your dismissal?" She teased, and for a second, it felt like the past six months hadn't happened; that this was still the Phil Coulson she had known that asked after Victoria and offered her comfort when they needed to be apart, while remaining her steady, solid comrade out in the field.

"You may," Phil replied. "But I'm afraid I've got to dismiss myself as well, so it doesn't matter much. Goodbye, Maria. Take care."

He left as quietly as he had come, his footsteps making no sound on the carpet as Maria watched him leave.

No. No, things were never going to be the same; she would never know the Phil Coulson that she had known on the field ever again. But she suspected that this might be an agent that was a lot more worth knowing. 

She stopped and blinked, surprised at the odd lightness in her chest.

The guilt had fled. All would be well. For awhile, at least.

With that in mind, eager to take in the ease of today, Maria hurried home to Victoria, presents stacked neatly on the seat of the car beside her.

...

Coulson cooked and baked throughout the next few hours, letting the turkey roast quietly as he made mashed potatoes and stewed vegetables. He didn't know how much of this his darlings would be ready to eat, but the thought counted more than the actual food consumed. As long as they knew that this was what Christmas would be for them from now on, he didn't care.

He hummed, content, as he cleaned out bowls and dishes to store the food in, neatly arranging them on the counter as he waited for everything to finish.

His mind wandered as he worked, and he couldn't help but wonder about the physical therapy. He didn't want his darlings to suffer...

Coulson sighed. The only thing he could do was stay and act as the best support possible. He would take care of them and help them with their exercises. They would all get through this, and his darlings would be fine.

But what would happen after that? What happened when they went back to work—more specifically, went back to working on the Avengers Initiative?

Coulson shuddered. If his darlings left him again...

No. No, it wouldn't happen. But they needed to have a talk about what would.

Not yet, though. Not until after Christmas. Not until after they had healed. Phil was a patient man. He didn't mind a little wait.

He continued on with his cooking, content.

After a few hours, the turkey was cooked and the bowls of food steamed on the counter, piping-hot and ready to be packed away into the car. Stacks of cookies and a warm cake sat on their plates, awaiting the same fate. Coulson packed it all into the back carefully, before getting in himself and heading off to base.

When he got there, unpacking everything from the car and bringing it in as he went, Athena was standing at the door to their, terror clear in her eyes.

"They left," she said, and Coulson's blood ran cold.

He went past her to set down the food, numb, still adhering to the routine and eager to set the table. Without warning, as he set the last dish down, it all hit him at once.

"Where are they?" He snarled, and Athena immediately backed away, the vicious look clear in his eyes. "Where are my darlings?"

"We don't know, Phil. Clint got done with his physical first, and I was going to draw up the chart and he just..." She ran a hand through her hair. "He must've gone through the vents. He took Natasha with him, and they were gone."

Coulson sat on the bed, shaking. Their loss was already baying at his mind's door again, eager to devour his sanity with the gnashing jaws of loneliness. He had to stay calm.

"How long have they been gone?" He asked, his throat dry. Athena frowned.

"About an hour. We just...didn't think to call you. We didn't think you would want to know, and we had hoped we'd find them before you were done." She murmured. "Phil, you know you don't need this stress..."

Phil looked livid, monstrous. Athena didn't take it personally, but that didn't stop it from scaring the shit out of her; he had the look of a man who had lost everything and would destroy everything else to keep that from ever happening again about him, and she knew just how good he was without a weapon.

She began to back away, but before Phil could do anything, there was a soft knock on the doorframe.

"Uh, hey. We're back. Sorry, Athe—" Clint paused as he saw who was standing in their room.

"Ah, shit," he muttered. "Phil? Phil, baby, come back to us. Breathe. We're right here. Phil, c'mon."

Phil didn't seem to hear him, his teeth still bared and his eyes wild. Clint stepped forward, Natasha following behind him.

"Babe, please. Calm down. We're safe. We went out to get you a Christmas present; nothing dangerous. Phil? Phil, we're here. We're not leaving. Sorry, Phil. We wanted to surprise you." Clint soothed him. "Nat, get me the ring?"

Natasha stepped forward; Athena fled as quickly as she could, grateful they had intervened. They were the only ones who could handle Coulson like this.

"We got you a ring, my darling," Natasha murmured. "A beautiful ring you may wear so that you know you are ours, and we are yours in kind. Phil, please. We're safe. We are home, and we are not leaving ever again."

Phil looked up at her, his eyes full of pain and fear. A little whimper left his lips despite himself, and both their hearts broke. Their Coulson had suffered so dearly...and at least they had been with each other. He had been alone.

Natasha knelt in front of him and winced with pain; Coulson immediately cupped her cheek, tender and loving.

"I'm sorry we ever left," she murmured. "Please...take this to know how much we care. How intent we are upon staying. We are bound; your two rings and my chain. We are always together, Coulson."

Coulson let her and Clint entwine their fingers so that they could put the ring on his finger together, their soft, calloused fingers stroking the smooth silver of the ring.

Coulson stroked Natasha's hair before pulling her up as gently as he could and laying her down on her bed before guiding Clint into his.

"We are," Coulson promised through the tears in his eyes. "Okay, Nat. Okay. Together forever, the both of you—all of us." He swallowed, rubbing tears away hastily to smile at them. "I forgive you both. I'm so glad you're home safe. Now, how about Christmas dinner?"

They both beamed. Coulson's ring sparkled as he reached for dinner, as if gleaming in assent.

...

The rest of the night was spent nibbling lightly on treats; Coulson didn't want either of his lovers to get sick from the rich food, so he fed them bits and pieces and promised to save the rest for later when they were well. Even with S.H.I.E.L.D.'s highly advanced medical care, there was only so much a body could take, and his darlings had suffered enough.

Coulson kissed them and soothed them to sleep that night with stories of Christmas; his own warm, happy ones. They drank them in, and Coulson could see them filing the ideas away for later, mentally cataloguing them to think about and take apart. He told them all about his apartment, his grandmother's big trees, how they sparkled every Christmas morning, and the wonderful meals she prepared.

He tried to gloss over how few presents he ever received or how they would scrimp and scrounge for a week after Christmas, having spent all their money on food for dinner, but as he mentioned those things as casually as he could, they took his hands and squeezed them in a way that he knew meant they understood.

He brushed their hair back from their foreheads as Clint and Natasha slowly drifted off, snoring lightly as the two of them curled up in their beds.

Coulson fiddled with the ring on his finger and watched them both sleeping. The innocence of their poses, so relaxed and at ease, both agents knowing he was there and feeling free to be vulnerable, exposing their bellies and necks as they slept, were juxtaposed with the yellowing bruises on their bare skin, the stitches across their entire bodies, and the agonies Coulson knew lurked under the soft, thin fabric of their clothing, seeping down into their minds and hearts.

He kissed them both and let his lips linger, just for a second. They slept on beneath him, peaceful.

Coulson knew the conversation had to happen. His darlings needed a way out—a ray of hope. They had lived most of their lives in this place, and uprooting them would be a hard task. He was willing to do it, though—for their sakes, if nothing else. He knew what it was like to have a normal life. He could help them survive. And...and things would be all right. He had to believe that. It might take time, but he would be with them while he waited and forever after; he didn't mind.

Coulson brushed his fingers over Natasha's necklace before kissing Clint's ring. They would be just fine; he had given them something tangible, something real—a place to put all his love. They would remember every time they looked at their gifts, even if they didn't take them everywhere. And should they ever forget—he would always be there for them.

It would have to be enough. At least, for now. Let them heal—let things get just a little bit better. Then they could rehash old hurts.

His heart settled and at ease, Coulson kissed them both one last time before undressing, putting on his pajamas, and climbing into bed. The Christmas tree lights twinkled cheerily across his skin, the warm glow soothing him to sleep just as easily as Clint and Natasha's serene, peaceful faces.

Chapter 55: Anniversary

Summary:

An anniversary and fluff.

Notes:

Shameless, shameless fluff. Happy New Year, guys! Love y'all, thank you for sticking with me for this whole year of fanfic!

Coulson drove for awhile and let the two of them talk, curious about their thoughts. He would weigh in once he'd gauged how they felt about the Initiative...and then, about perhaps leaving.

"I wanna leave right now," Clint said, and Coulson winced. "Seriously, Phil, this hurts! They've hurt all three of us way too much for me to want to stay! Fuck this place, okay? It hurt Nat and it hurt you!"

Coulson sighed and nodded in agreement, drumming his fingers on the wheel.

"I know. But if we don't stay, there'll be good men and women that come into this Initiative. And they'll be hurt, abused, and used with no regard to who they are as people. I have an obligation to them, Clint." Coulson murmured.

"But I don't! I care about you and Nat!" Clint snapped. "They're not my people! You and Nat are! I want you both safe!"

Phil sighed and massaged his temples, shaking his head.

"If you cared, then you'd realize having powerful allies on our side is our best option," Phil said, his voice calm and quiet. "We can't run from S.H.I.E.L.D, Clint. We're just agents. But the Avengers might. If we join the Initiative..." He sighed.

"We'll find good people. People who won't survive here. They'll want to run. And we'll go with them. We'll be protected by them and protect them in kind. But only you two will ever be my partners. I wouldn't want anyone else." Coulson murmured.

"But...I'm scared for you," Clint murmured. "Why do you think I want to run? You two are my life. If you get hurt..."

"We have a much better chance of surviving running if we bring those not so deeply entrenched in S.H.I.E.L.D.'s existence with us. They will be able to adapt—and hopefully be strong. It is safer to have support." Natasha murmured. "Even if it is more dangerous to flee as a group, we are stronger together."

"...So...we keep working for S.H.I.E.L.D.? Even after all they did?" Clint sighed. "I know it's different for me. I wasn't raised into it like you, Nat, or found my place in it like you, Phil. I just...had no other option. Natasha was my life, not S.H.I.E.L.D., and now..."

"We don't work for S.H.I.E.L.D.," Coulson murmured. "I stopped being S.H.I.E.L.D.'s hound the day you two came back home to me. We work with the Avengers now. Whenever they come to find us."

"...Are you both sure?" Clint murmured. "If we go through with this..."

"We wage war on S.H.I.E.L.D.," Natasha finished for him. "And I am not a soldier. I know this. I am a spy. But I am an assassin as well. And I will find my use in war—as will you, my beloved. As will our Coulson."

"I'm all right with that," Clint agreed. "As long as you two are my partners, I can do anything. I would do anything, if it meant saving you."

"Likewise," Natasha and Coulson chorused. Clint smiled, at ease, as he laid his head against the window.

"Until we leave, I'll protect you," Coulson promised. "You two are going to be safe throughout all of this, no matter what happens. Because..." He swallowed, inhaling sharply. "Because I couldn't do that before. But I'm never letting that happen again." He told them both.

The two of them leaned up to grasp his hands.

"We love you," Natasha murmured. "And that means we will always protect you. Even though you are meant to watch over us—this does not mean you will come to harm. Not as long as we watch over you in kind. Because we could not do that before. But we will never let it happen again."

Coulson pulled over long enough to kiss them both as tears trailed down his cheeks.

"All right," he agreed. "All right. I'll go into work tomorrow and I'll accept my title. As will the both of you. But I promise you both—it's only temporary. I won't let you stay here any longer than we must. Just long enough to run, I swear."

"I know," Natasha murmured. "Just remember; we are becoming Avengers not just for ourselves, not just to leave...but as a warning."

"Oh? How so, my darlings?" Coulson asked.

"If we can't protect you," Clint said, his voice heavy with that fear, "we'll avenge you. And Fury knows we could do it. That we would do it. And he knows you'd do the same in kind. If we can't leave...we'll keep him on his toes."

"...All right, my loves," Coulson replied. "I think that...that works. But I'm not worried about avenging. I'm just here to protect."

"And that is what makes you the greatest of us all." Natasha pecked his cheek. "Our Coulson. Our lives have been made anew by you, darling."

"She's got a point," Clint agreed. "We really...weren't people until we met you. So...y'know. This is almost like a birthday, too. Rebirth and stuff...and an anniversary."

Coulson was quiet for a minute.

"Darlings, if you make me drive off the road because I'm crying, I'm not going to be very happy," he finally said. "I like this car."

They both smiled, reaching up to wipe his tears away as they drove through the warm, comforting desert, the sun shining above them and burning away the rest of the dusky cobwebs left from the separation.

...

Coulson spent the rest of the day with them, thinking only of his lovers and not what lay ahead. They kissed, they watched television, they lounged about in their pajamas, and made love together, warm and languid, as the summer breeze skirted across their skin from the open window. The three of them took care of one another; kissing scars and soothing old hurts, making themselves as strong as possible for what would occur in the morning, even if they refused to truly think of it.

Coulson made them their favorites that night and they ate on the couch, cuddled together and trading bites of each others' food. When he made them ice cream, he decided on one giant sundae; this was well appreciated by everyone, the bites of cold, creamy sweetness melding together as they shared everything they could, so eager to feel the other two people before them that they loved enough to wage war for, to endure hell for, and to withstand loss for.

They tucked each other in that night, showering one another clean, dressing each other for bed and finally kissing each other to sleep, all of their kisses melding together to become one great expression of love.

Phil was the last to fall asleep; he lay awake for a time, simply looking at his lovers. Looking at them now, a year later...

The change was not complete. But it was already startling in its intensity. The way Clint slept uncurled, his body loose and untroubled, as he snuggled eagerly against Coulson's back, his hand entwined in Natasha's, spoke of relaxation and trust—things Clint lacked when he had crossed the threshold of this room a year ago.

And Natasha, sweet Natasha, who rested at ease, curled up like a child against his chest. She looked peaceful, calm and serene as her heart beat against Coulson's own, her face smooth and untroubled by nightmares. She was at peace, surrounded by men, surrounded by strength—things she knew that could hurt or break her, and yet...

She slept against him, her heartbeat bared and beating against his own. She was safe. And she knew it.

Coulson's heart ached with love for her as he kissed her pale, smooth forehead, comforted by the synchronization of their heartbeats. Natasha didn't stir, but Coulson didn't mind; he would rather she had her rest.

He turned his head just long enough to give Clint a quick kiss across his forehead before settling in between his lovers.

He drifted off to sleep that night, but for whatever reason, awoke midway through; he shook his head and went to the bathroom before coming back to bed. Before he got in, however, he noticed something. In the few minutes he had spent in the bathroom, his lovers had tensed up, curling in on themselves and looking just as pained and nervous as they had before.

"Darlings," Coulson whispered, "it's all right. I'm here."

Even in their sleep, they began to relax just a little. However, they did not settle into the content, comfortable positions they had been in before until Coulson climbed into bed beside the two of them, settling in where he had been before.

This time, they clung a little tighter in their sleep, as if pleading with him not to leave.

Coulson smiled as he drifted off, complying with his lovers' wishes.

Chapter 56: Freedom

Summary:

The last chapter.

Notes:

I don't really know what to say. I didn't realize this was the last chapter; I didn't realize it was already over. What do I say? This was a story that started on a wonderful whim and spiraled out of control into what I, personally, think is one of my bests. The affection I have for this half-baked idea is immense; it became something raw and powerful and enjoyably human. I love it. I love everyone in it. I am so glad I wrote this; I grew as a writer doing it. I can think of nothing better.
I can't say it ends on the happiest of notes. No, they don't get that yet. But soon. And I hope this part of their journey, at least, was something you all enjoyed. I loved it. I loved writing it and learning it and learning to love these characters and let them matter. I love this story. And I really hope all of you did too. I am so glad. Thank you for reading.

The next morning, Clint and Natasha took care of him.

They washed his hair and scrubbed him clean, buttoned his suit and adjusted his tie, made him his coffee, and left the house beside him like silent, watchful guards.

"Darlings, we'll be fine." Coulson promised as he helped them into the car, kissing their cheeks. "Don't be scared, all right? I'm going to protect the both of you. I love you."

"And we must protect you, my Coulson. You are ours now, and we will let no harm befall you." Natasha promised.

Coulson squeezed her hand before stroking Clint's hair and starting the car, driving towards base. They took their time; there was no rush and Coulson admitted to more than a bit of hesitation. Not about the task ahead, but about what would happen after this last job was complete.

He shook his head. No. No, he couldn't dwell on it. They would be safe. This would keep all three of them safe—he would make it so, regardless of what stood in his way.

Coulson strode into base that day with a certain air about him. The other agents that passed the three of them did not fear...but they were not exactly slow to clear the way for the procession. All of the agents watched, curious and almost eager to see how this would play out.

Phil didn't care. What mattered were his people and he would take care of them as best he could.

He held their hands until they reached the door to Fury's office.

"Wait out here, darlings. I'll summon you if I have need of you." Coulson promised, giving them each a soft, sweet kiss. They nodded, though they didn't look too thrilled about their Coulson going in alone. Still, he knew it was the only choice.

Phil stepped forward into Fury's office, alone once again—but never alone. He knew that now. All would be well.

Fury looked up from his paperwork, raising an eyebrow in interest.

"Have you made a decision, agent?" He asked, his voice carefully neutral. Phil nodded.

"Indeed, sir. The paperwork is already being processed; Widow and Hawkeye have accepted Avengers status, and I have signed on as the commander of the Initiative forces." He said.

"It took awhile," Fury remarked. "Mulling it over carefully, Phil?"

Phil met his gaze, quiet.

He knew. But Phil didn't mind that as much as he had thought. It didn't seem fair to play a game where only one player knew the stakes, after all.

"Of course, sir," he said. "Now if you'll excuse me, I should go see to Clint and Natasha. They have a meeting with the medical staff on the conclusion of their therapy."

"Of course. Dismissed, agent." Fury replied.

Phil saluted him and left.

Before he was completely gone, however, he heard Fury say, "So, not so eager for a desk job anymore, agent?"

"Not anymore, sir," Phil agreed. "It's harder to keep an eye on things from behind a desk."

His warning delivered, Phil slipped out as quietly as he had come.

Fury watched the closed door for a long, slow minute.

He chuckled, darkly amused, and shook his head as he closed his single good eye.

It had been so long since he'd had to put down a good hound. He even hoped this time he might not have to, somewhere in the back of his mind. But hope was such a fleeting, easily crushed thing—as Phil well knew.

Fury shrugged. He would deal with it later. He had no problem dragging such things out. In the end, he won the game, after all, because he had been the one writing the rules.

Taking out the Avengers files, he made a few adjustments, and then contacted the council for discussion. This was about to become much more interesting than anticipated.

...

Coulson embraced Clint and Natasha as soon as he left, kissing their foreheads as he murmured, "How about we go driving, darlings?"

"To where?" Clint asked, curious. Coulson smiled.

"As far as we can go," he promised. "We can't run too far yet...but we can leave, just for a little while."

The two of them nodded in eager agreement, letting Coulson lead them out of the base and help them into the car. The three of them tore out of the parking lot, heading for the familiar dusty roads.

Coulson let them roll the windows down, the wind whipping through the car, mussing up their hair in greeting, carressing their cheeks and whispering to them in a language their ears could not understand. Their skin felt the welcome and peace, regardless, and so they did not mind.

The drive was winding and twisted, though not without beauty; they passed an oasis, a few scattered, defiant cacti, and strong, stalwart rocks that rose up and stood firm despite the wind whipping at their foundations. Phil gripped the steering wheel tight, guiding them carefully around the rougher parts; Clint and Natasha watched him, worried for his safety. This was not quite like a mission—they couldn't exactly assassinate the road.

Still, they made it to the outskirts of the desert eventually, driving up to a low cliff that overlooked the nearby town, which was cheerily illuminated by the bright sunset. Coulson got out of the car and raised an eyebrow, taking it in. It was strange to think that such a large town could exist so close by and yet exist so peacefully, without knowledge of what had transpired in the sprawling government base so nearby.

"It's weird, huh?" Clint said, coming to stand beside him. "Y'know, these people are all going to live normal, happy lives, and they'll never know about us. And...we'll never know about them. What it's like to get to live like that."

"Hush, my love," Natasha soothed him. "Have faith in us—have faith in our Coulson. We will be free someday. We will get to live like this as well, I swear."

"Well, not here," Coulson remarked. "Too close to base."

The two of them laughed; he smiled a little as he took their hands.

"Darlings, in all seriousness...I promise, I'll give you a life like that," Phil said. "If you want it. I'll buy us a house and we'll make dinner every night and shop for books and old records. We can have that."

"It will take time," Natasha said. "We are assassins. We are meant to be warriors, spies, Avengers. But in the end, above all of that, we are meant to be your lovers." She looked over at the town and sighed, her heart heavy.

"That house is not meant for Black Widow, nor Hawkeye. It is meant for Phil Coulson and his lovers—Natasha Romanov and Clint Barton." She paused. "It will...take time, though. To be those people. We are still figuring out who they are."

"I've gotten very good at waiting," Phil replied. "And you two will always be worth the wait."

"So...when we leave, then...then it's over? Then what? We get to live our lives?" Clint asked, hesitant. "I don't know if I can. I don't know what life I can live after this."

"A life with us, Clint," Coulson promised. "Even if the agent in you never really leaves, you can make peace with it, and find peace with yourself. I promise, we'll be fine. We're going to live—and do whatever we want with that gift."

"Like stay together." Clint said, loneliness aching in every word. Coulson nodded.

"Yes. Like stay together," he said, kissing Clint's forehead. "Even when we leave. We'll stay together no matter what happens. And that means it won't be so bad to stay here. Not for awhile, anyway."

"...Thanks, Phil." Clint murmured, hugging him tight. The embrace said everything Clint couldn't. Coulson hugged him back as tight as he could.

"You're not soldiers," he murmured. "Not Fury's, not anyone's. You're people. And that means you can be mine. Without being broken."

"Of course," Natasha said. "It was you who fixed us. You made us people. Of course we want to live with you. And of course we are willing to stay. You're the only one who can keep us from getting broken again. Even in a place like this."

Coulson swallowed, touched. He shook his head, unsure of what to say.

"You two were worth it," he said. "Even before you knew that."

They both took his hand. Coulson felt Clint's ring nudging against his palm and hear the soft clink of Natasha's necklace. His heart throbbed with love as he smiled, helpless to resist.

The trio walked back to the car in silence. The desert skirted around their feet, as if it yearned to follow. For now, it would, they knew that—but someday, they would go beyond the desert, beyond this place entirely and make a new one, all for themselves. Just for today, though, they would draw comfort from the desert and hope to find oasises where they could.

The three of them got into the car, Coulson putting on their favorite record. For a second, the low strains of the song made them feel at home. Then they realized they had not quite found such a place yet—not a place where they could be home, without S.H.I.E.L.D. looming over them. The despair was soothed by the fact that once they did...they figured it would feel quite a lot like the song.

They left together, the desert night looming before them like the dizzying unknown of freedom.