It had been months. Months since he'd been taken by Loki, and used to assist in the Chitauri's invasion of Earth. Months since New York had been devastated by the battle. Months since Fury's plan of having a team of superhuman fighters had come to fruition. But at the steepest cost that Clint could ever imagine paying.
In the days that had followed the end of the invasion, Clint had been more subdued than usual. Most of the agents didn't notice - not that they maintained eye contact with him for longer than a brief moment at a time - but certainly Natasha had. He brushed it off as best he could, giving her empty reassurances, as he helped with the clean up of New York.
It was difficult to keep up that pretense, after she'd caught him in the S.H.I.E.L.D morgue, opening the cold chambers and whispering 'sorry' to the faces of all the agents he'd had a hand in ending the lives of. She hadn't said anything, just sat and waited. Natasha knew him well enough to know that this was something he just had to do.
There had been one body missing. That had been his first clue. He'd called Fury out on it, asked when they'd be able to put Agent Coulson to rest - it was no surprise to anyone, the closure that Clint wanted. Coulson had been his handler from the day that he'd joined S.H.I.E.L.D. Fury had brushed him off, saying that there was no body to bury. The memorial service with an empty coffin had followed a week later.
They assigned Sitwell to be his handler from that point on. Clint threw himself back into his missions, never stopping long enough to think, and on the surface remained steadfastly the same as he'd always been. Coulson had known how to handle him, had known between the jokes and barbs and gentle ribbing, that Clint was nothing if not dedicated to the mission at hand. Sitwell kept writing him up for insubordination. Sitwell was an asshole.
Something still hadn't sat right with Clint, about Coulson's death, about everything. It had been so convenient, so perfect, so- and Clint knew. He knew that Coulson never kept his cards on him - 'it could bend the corners' he'd said - so how they'd been covered in his blood, he didn't know. Didn't even want to think about what sick and twisted thing Fury might have done. And so, he might have liberated Agent Hill's clearance codes and card, to take a closer look at Coulson's file.
When it'd come back without the 'deceased' stamp all over it, and a triple encrypted address somewhere in Nebraska, he went off the grid. He didn't bring attention to himself, didn't do anything out of the ordinary. Just returned Hill's card, and went home for the night. Except home turned into a hire car and long stretches of open road, listening to that stupid CD that Coulson had insisted on on the car ride to New Mexico.
He pulled up outside a house that looked so... so damn domestic. It was a far cry from the hustle and bustle that surrounded their places back in New York. It was nice, it just wasn't where Coulson should be. It didn't feel right. He didn't care that the car wasn't parked properly, or that he hadn't slept in days. He didn't care that his pace was brisk, as he took the steps up the porch in one, and knocked unforgivingly at the door. He needed to know he was right. He needed to know.
no subject
In the days that had followed the end of the invasion, Clint had been more subdued than usual. Most of the agents didn't notice - not that they maintained eye contact with him for longer than a brief moment at a time - but certainly Natasha had. He brushed it off as best he could, giving her empty reassurances, as he helped with the clean up of New York.
It was difficult to keep up that pretense, after she'd caught him in the S.H.I.E.L.D morgue, opening the cold chambers and whispering 'sorry' to the faces of all the agents he'd had a hand in ending the lives of. She hadn't said anything, just sat and waited. Natasha knew him well enough to know that this was something he just had to do.
There had been one body missing. That had been his first clue. He'd called Fury out on it, asked when they'd be able to put Agent Coulson to rest - it was no surprise to anyone, the closure that Clint wanted. Coulson had been his handler from the day that he'd joined S.H.I.E.L.D. Fury had brushed him off, saying that there was no body to bury. The memorial service with an empty coffin had followed a week later.
They assigned Sitwell to be his handler from that point on. Clint threw himself back into his missions, never stopping long enough to think, and on the surface remained steadfastly the same as he'd always been. Coulson had known how to handle him, had known between the jokes and barbs and gentle ribbing, that Clint was nothing if not dedicated to the mission at hand. Sitwell kept writing him up for insubordination. Sitwell was an asshole.
Something still hadn't sat right with Clint, about Coulson's death, about everything. It had been so convenient, so perfect, so- and Clint knew. He knew that Coulson never kept his cards on him - 'it could bend the corners' he'd said - so how they'd been covered in his blood, he didn't know. Didn't even want to think about what sick and twisted thing Fury might have done. And so, he might have liberated Agent Hill's clearance codes and card, to take a closer look at Coulson's file.
When it'd come back without the 'deceased' stamp all over it, and a triple encrypted address somewhere in Nebraska, he went off the grid. He didn't bring attention to himself, didn't do anything out of the ordinary. Just returned Hill's card, and went home for the night. Except home turned into a hire car and long stretches of open road, listening to that stupid CD that Coulson had insisted on on the car ride to New Mexico.
He pulled up outside a house that looked so... so damn domestic. It was a far cry from the hustle and bustle that surrounded their places back in New York. It was nice, it just wasn't where Coulson should be. It didn't feel right. He didn't care that the car wasn't parked properly, or that he hadn't slept in days. He didn't care that his pace was brisk, as he took the steps up the porch in one, and knocked unforgivingly at the door. He needed to know he was right. He needed to know.