Chapter Text
The office door was closed.
It took everything Clint had to open it, but it had to be done.
No, that was a lie—he could disappear without a word, without a trace. It would be easier for . . . for a lot of people if he did. Maybe even himself.
But the easy way had never been his style.
Clint opened the door, walked quietly to the desk, and waited as Phil finished jotting a note or two onto a report.
To anyone else, Phil would have seemed his perfectly groomed, unruffled self. But Clint knew the lines around the blue eyes meant the other man hadn't been sleeping well and his rigid posture meant his back was giving him grief.
He opened his mouth, then closed it. Even if Phil—Coulson—wouldn't automatically brush off Clint's concern, it wasn't his place anymore.
No, that wasn't right.
It never had been.
He managed to get his expression under control as Ph—Coulson looked up.
"Barton?" He set down his pen without retracting the point—a rare nervous tell.
Clint understood. It had been three days since Clint had been confronted with proof that he couldn't possibly deny, ignore, or explain away. The aftermath hadn't been pretty.
"Sir." Clint handed him the packet and stood at attention. Just another mission, he reminded himself. Just another sit-rep.
Coulson opened his mouth, clearly thought better of it, and opened the folder. “What’s this?” he asked, frowning as he paged through the carefully completed forms.
"Your copy of my resignation, sir. It includes all the non-disclosure agreements and mission reassignments, vacation reimbursement, and civilian insurance forms. You’ll also find a notice about appointing Natasha as my medical proxy, next-of-kin, and sole beneficiary—I wouldn’t want to make you uncomfortable if I don’t live to cash my IRA. It’s been approved by Personnel and cc'd to Fury and Hill. Woo completed my exit interview, but since you're still on record as my handler, I thought it was only right to deliver your preferred hard copy in person.”
He took a breath to deliver his exit line—It's been an honor working with you.
But Coulson was shaking his head, his expression grim. “You can’t leave."
Hope flared under Clint’s ribcage, only to die when he heard the next sentence.
"The Avengers need you.”
Luckily, Clint had prepped an answer for that. “Agent Bishop will be taking my place. She’s almost as good as I am and she won’t throw Captain America off his game.”
“You don’t have to—“
“The Avengers need him more than they need me.” He forced a smile. “Lot of that going around.”
Coulson actually flinched. “SHIELD needs operatives with your skills," he said. "I won’t—“
“I can’t stay,” Clint interrupted, not wanting to hear Phil's—Coulson's, damn it—plans to avoid him. “There aren't many agents who trust me after Loki turned me inside out, and I don't blame them. I'm not sure I trust me," he added, before he thought. It was a habit, telling Coulson things.
"The nightmares are back?" Coulson asked, with that touch of concern that had always helped center Clint, anchor him.
Now, it was too little, too late.
Because if Coulson had actually cared, he wouldn't have had to ask.
But Clint didn't want to get into that. He wanted to be done and gone. "Even if they're willing to forgive and forget," he said, more sharply than he wanted. "I'm not."
Coulson went still.
Clint sighed. He hadn't meant the phrase to have a double meaning, but he was off-script now, anyway. He waited for whatever came next.
Coulson hesitated, then closed the folder and lined it up precisely in front of him. “If this is what you want," he said, in his Calm Agent Interrogation Voice.
He knew better than to react to that tactic—he'd been trained not to react to it, for God's sake—but he wasn't an agent any more, and Coulson apparently wasn't inclined to accept a bloodless victory and allow Clint a semi-graceful exit, so the hell with it.
“It’s not," he said. "It’s not what I wanted. I wanted . . .” He shrugged and pulled out the velvet-covered box he'd shoved into his jacket pocket at the last minute. Leaving it behind had felt . . . wrong. And he hadn't wanted the others—especially Stark or, God help him, Natasha—to find it.
“I jump into stuff,” he said. “Leap first, think later. And I’ve always seen things better from a distance. Guess I don't have to tell you that.”
Phil stared at the box as Clint fiddled with it.
“So when you wanted to keep us on the QT, I assumed it was to keep the gossip down, so no one would think I was your weakness or that I was sleeping my way to a level five. I got too close, too fast to see that the reason you didn't want to tell anyone is that you just weren't that into me.”
He saw Phil swallow. “That wasn’t the reason,” he said in a hoarse voice.
“Doesn't matter,” Clint said, shrugging. “I just wish I'd known sooner that we were only, what, co-workers with benefits? Especially before I'd wasted two month's pay on these." He opened the box and looked at the rings, remembering how nervous and excited he'd been when he found them, and how absolutely sure he was making the best decision of his life. "You know, it's funny," he said, snapping the box closed.
"Funny?" Coulson echoed, still looking at the box.
"Once it dawned on me that I’d been kidding myself, I was actually grateful that you blew off our anniversary dinner. I mean, at least I wasn’t rejected point blank—or left at the altar, talk about embarrassing.”
Coulson made a soft noise.
“But now that I've had time to think about it, I wish you’d respected me enough to tell me you’d fallen in love with someone else. Because the way you did it, just shutting me out without a word, as if what we shar—as if our time together meant less than nothing at all? Hurt a hell of a lot worse."
Coulson was staring at him now, as if trying to work out a puzzle.
“You know how clueless I am about personal stuff, sir. It would have helped if you’d just told me that you didn’t want me anymore. Do you know how it felt to hear it from our—from other people? Who were so happy for you that they couldn't help telling me every, single, adorable detail about how you two were so right for each other?"
“I couldn't—" Coulson cleared his throat. "I never meant to hurt you, but—“
“I know," said Clint, through his teeth. "You would have had to remember I exist to want to hurt me. And you haven’t. Not for a while now.”
“That’s not true—“
“When was the last time we had dinner together—alone? Lunch in the canteen? A pack of doughnuts over paperwork? Whenever I ask, you already have plans or you accept and forget to show. When I want to talk to you, even about actual SHIELD business, you’re on your way out—Sitwell has a pool going about what I did to get the cold shoulder. And I finally had to ask JARVIS when I wanted to know if you were in the Tower, because you sure as hell never bothered dropping by to say hello.'
"But you know, I still gave you the benefit of the doubt." He gripped the box in one fist until it gave a little under his fingers. “I figured you were crazy busy. It happens. But it never once occurred to me that you were getting crazy busy with Captain fucking America.”
“I haven’t—“
Clint cut him off with a sharp gesture, anger boiling up. “You screamed his name when we were making lo—fucking. Did you know that? You begged him to do you harder while I was inside you.” He forced himself not to dry heave. "And that's the last time you touched me at all. That's the last time you've even been in our—in my quarters, at least while I was there. You'd think that would've been a clue," he added. “But that was when I thought I was more than a convenient screw.”
The shock was plain on his ex-lov—his ex-handler's face. “You aren’t—How could you . . . “ He paused and his eyes closed. “Oh, god, Clint—I'm so sorry.”
The anger had given way to emptiness. “So am I. I trusted you. I trusted you with my heart—well, we both know that’s not worth much, right?”
“Clint—“
“But I also trusted you with my life—in the field and out—since the moment I met you. And now I can’t." He hesitated, then reached over and placed the box on the folder. "Here. I can't return 'em, but maybe Tony can take the engraving off for you—or if that's too tacky, maybe melt 'em into cufflinks." He stepped back and rubbed his face. "Steve's a good guy. I don't like him much right now, but he's all the things I never was, and I have to respect that. So be happy. And. . . just be honest with him, okay?" He turned and headed for the door.
"Where will you go?" Coulson asked. His voice was just a shade too thick to be normal.
"To clear out my locker," he said, without turning around. "After that, who knows?" He took a deep breath. "It's been an honor working with you, sir."
Opening the door was easier this time.
By the time he pulled it shut, Coulson was on the phone, speaking to someone in his politest Do Not Mess With This Agent voice.
Forgotten in five seconds. Must be a record.
Clint shook his head and made his way down to the training level, not caring any more whether anyone glanced or glared at him.
He opened his locker and pulled out his go bag, setting it on the bench to check for SHIELD property. He needed to drop the spare arm guard and arrowheads off at the Armory, but the knife set was his—a birthday gift from Natasha.
The purple ripstop nylon shaving kit had been a gift from Coulson, which was why it was so full of lube and condoms there wasn't room for a razor. He winged it toward the nearest trashcan without looking and started sorting through the stuff on the top shelf.
His. SHIELD's. Coulson's.
There wasn't a lot that was his. Figured.
He was shoving a couple of spare tee shirts into the bag when someone set the shaving kit down on the bench.
"Do you mind telling me what the hell is going on, Agent Barton?" said Fury.
"I quit, sir," Clint said, without looking at him. "Officially."
"I'm aware of that, Agent. Tell me something I don't know."
"Did you know Agent Coulson and I have been in a personal relationship for over three years, sir?"
There was a pause. "No, I did not."
Clint tossed everything that wasn't his back into the locker and shut it carefully. "Neither did he, sir."
"I see. So your love life is more important than the Avengers Initiative and SHIELD?"
"No, sir. It isn't." Clint zipped up the bag and stood at parade rest. "That's why I'm leaving."
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Fury purse his lips together. "And what if I told you that Agent Coulson and Captain Rogers are on a need-to-know undercover mission? One that you did not need to know about. And that this mission, as many do, involves—"
"Going under the covers?" Clint couldn't keep the sarcasm out of his voice—but he'd always been more sniper than spy.
"Something like that."
Clint told himself that ex-SHIELD or not, he couldn't tell Nick Fury to fuck himself sideways. "Then I'd remind you, sir, that agents in committed relationships can refuse or modify missions that include actions that they and their partners would consider infidelity. If Agent Coulson thought he was in a relationship, he would have reported it to you and changed the mission parameters to exclude sex. But he didn't."
Fury went still. "You know this for a fact, Agent?"
(Oh, God, please, slam it harder! Harder! I want, God, you feel so good I've never been so I can't hold on I'm going to—I can't, oh, God, Steve, I can't, I love—STEVE!! )
His head snapped up and he looked Fury right in the eye. "Yes. I do."
Fury blinked. "Are you sure?"
"With all due respect, sir," Clint said, his voice so low it hurt his throat, "you do not want to ask me that question again."
Fury gave a short nod. "And if I told you to work through it like the professional I thought you were?"
"I'd tell you that I’m too much of a distraction to be of any use. I'm persona non grata at SHIELD and Captain America is going to be far too uncomfortable having me on the team. It’s better if I remove myself before anything goes FUBAR in the field."
"What about the other Avengers?"
"The only ones who know we were anything other than agent and handler are Captain Rogers and Agent Romanov. The others are only aware that Captain Rogers and Agent Coulson are . . . together now."
And they were so pleased about it. Stark was already planning Steve's Coming Out party. It would have been hilarious, if it hadn't hurt so damn much.
Fury raised his eyebrows. "Interesting, but I wanted to know if you told them you're leaving."
"They think I'm taking a sabbatical so I can deal with being compromised." It was the truth, except for the sabbatical part. And which compromise he meant. "I’ve left a message for Romanov." She wouldn’t be back from Mombasa for a couple weeks. By the time she found him, he might be able to tell her he was okay without tripping her bullshit sensors.
Fury wasn't done. "How does Agent Coulson feel about your resignation?"
"Maybe a little guilty that he didn’t make himself clear, but mostly relieved, sir.” He snorted. “Out of sight, out of mind. It wasn't his fault I made assumptions about the seriousness of our . . . interactions ," he added. "That’s all on me. And Captain Rogers . . . I'm not sure he knew until I said something."
Loudly. In the middle of Poisson D'or. Where Steve and Coulson had been feeding each other pieces of calamari, so intent on tasting each other’s fingers that it took them a while to notice Clint standing there in his hoodie and jeans.
Fury studied him. "All right, then. It’s your turn to ask questions. Start by asking me how I feel about allowing one of our best assets to throw his career away because our fraternization policies need a little tweaking."
"Sir?"
"I don't know the answer, Agent Barton, because it's never going to happen." Fury smiled. "We have several remote outposts due for inspection. You will go inspect them. Thoroughly. Should give you the time and distance you need to see clearly. And when you're finished, we can revisit your future plans."
Clint struggled with himself, half annoyed, half grateful for the reprieve. "Personnel already has—"
"A stack of misfiled forms, without my signature." Fury finished. "No one knows where our inspectors go but me," he added.
"No one else will care, sir. Except maybe Agent Romanov."
"Strike me off your pity party guest list and move," said Fury. "You're up in fifteen. Your supplies and mission specs will meet you at the next jump."
"Yes, sir." Clint shouldered his bag. "Thank you, sir."
"You might need this." Fury held out the shaving kit.
Clint looked at it. "I genuinely doubt it. Sir."
Fury raised an eyebrow. "Humor me," he said.
Clint took it and glanced at the trash can.
"Thirteen minutes, Agent."
Clint nodded and left.
Before he could touch the door, it swung open and he was suddenly face to face—or face to upper chest— with Steve.
"Clint!" said Steve. He was out of breath, which looked odd on him. "Phil told me you're leaving."
Of course he had. "I'm trying." Clint tried to brush past, but the taller man blocked his way. "Why are you stopping me?"
Steve ran a hand through his hair. He looked impossibly young and handsome and guilty as hell. "Look," he said. "I can imagine how—"
"No," said Clint. "You can't."
"Please, can't we talk this out?"
"No. Move."
"But I need to explain. I didn't know that you two were involved."
"That makes two of you," said Clint. He couldn't see his own expression, but Steve blanched.
Good.
"Step aside, Captain Rogers," said Fury.
Steve shot a look over Clint's head. He didn't look happy, but he got out of the way.
Clint paused. "I wish I could say I'm happy he's happy, and I'm glad it was you. But that's not going to happen for a long time, so find another way to deal with your guilt and leave me the hell alone."
"Clint, please," said Steve, sounding desperate. "We never meant for any of this to happen."
Here," he said shoving the shaving kit into Steve's stomach hard enough to rock him. "The winner gets a trophy."
And he was gone.