"Director Fury is a sick bastard," Clint said, barely managing to keep any disgust out of his tone. He was feeling slightly less sorry for hitting Coulson right now, because it hadn't managed to knock any sense into him. He didn't know how to get him to see that he was about as dispensable as the other Avengers. Which was to say that he wasn't. At all. "He could have fucking told us. That you were alive. And on medical leave. He held a memorial service for you, after I got suspicious. And then he assigned Sitwell to be my handler. Sitwell. Sitwell is an asshole."

There was so much more that he wanted to say to Coulson, but his emotions were shot. He wanted to tell him how he'd missed him in his ear on missions, telling him to maintain radio silence, as Clint sang songs down it. How he'd missed the terrible coffee that he'd brought to his nest, when a mission started to run a little long. That he'd missed the look on his face when he read his mission reports - especially the one about the sandwich. That had been a good one. He wanted to tell Coulson that he'd just missed him.

"Maybe four days. But you're not making this about me." Clint picked his tea back up, ignoring the way his hand protested, and the way that - now that Coulson had brought attention to it - he was tired. He took a swig of it, before putting the glass back on the counter. "And of course he tried to find your cellist. The hell, sir? You thought we'd just leave her wondering where the fuck you'd gone? I mean, we wouldn't have. If we'd found her."