Note: This story is part of the series: Coulson Lives but the Avengers might be the Death of him. For more stories in the series check the timeline on my profile. (This story will make references to previous events from the series. Summaries/Spoilers will be at the end of appropriate chapters.

1. Then the substanceless blue

"You have heart," the silvery, sinuous voice declared, it's honeyed tones like siren call seeping deep to the very marrow.

"JARVIS pause," Clint stared at the TV, his fingertips massaging his jaw absently as his eyes traced the image frozen on the screen; Loki's scepter raised to Clint's own chest, the sickly blue glow of magic washing over him to settle in blank eyes.

"Son of a Bitch," he murmured to himself with an exhausted expression, running his fingers though his hair. He leaned back on the couch, staring at the ceiling. The room was deathly quite, but then this room rarely saw any noise at all. As the Avengers had moved into Stark Tower and made it their own, the tastefully decorated living room had slowly been abandoned for the less fashionable and more homey rec room on the floor directly below. Tony insisted it was because it was closer to the kitchen. Clint thought it might be because the Loki shaped hole that had once marred the floor was still unsettling even though you could no longer see it.

It was incredibly late and he should be asleep, he was the only one in the entire tower who wasn't. That was more testament to the pathetic nature of the situation than anything else he could think of. Any time you were still awake after Tony Stark had called it a night, there was a serious problem with your life.

"Jay, mute audio, step back four seconds and then playback at three frames per second," Clint requested with a half hearted sigh. The picture rewound and he stared at the security video as Loki raised his scepter in slow motion.

"Pause," A half sick feeling washed over him and he rubbed the heels of his hands into his eyes, willing his stomach to stop turning over.

There were too many nights like this now, nights where he barely slept. He'd passed every single psych eval, though that wasn't a surprise. He knew how to manipulate that. The first six months had been rocky but the team had fudged his return to duty eval and he'd managed to pull it together enough to pass the following quarterly.

The team knew he hadn't adjusted as well as his file would suggest but then most of them were nearly as unstable as he was. He'd come to the conclusion that it was part of the gig. You couldn't be a super hero without being a little messed up. He was used to being messed up, he'd spent most of his life that way. It wasn't the lack of sleep or the tension headaches or the bouts of paranoia or even the occasional mood swings that really bothered him, he could keep on top of that.

He'd changed, he could feel it in every inch of his skin and it was the one thing that really, properly frightened him. He wasn't sure if it had been Loki or the battle or Natasha's swift kick to his head. But he'd changed, and not at all for the better.

"JARVIS, load the video of the helicarrier attack," he requested. "Show me the footage from the bridge assault. Audio half volume."

"It is at this juncture, sir, that I feel obliged to remind you that reviewing this data will not, in any way, relax you," JARVIS declared, his tone as nonjudgmental as was possible for an AI who's programing shouldn't involve emotion anyway. "Nor is continued avoidance of sleep in your best interest."

"Still with the sir?" Clint asked, his voice tinted with amusement. JARVIS didn't answer and he allowed himself a small smile. "I know Jay, and I appreciate you looking out for me. But I just can't sleep."

"I appreciate your aversion to medical remedies," JARVIS declared hesitantly. "Perhaps I could interest you in a proven meditation technique?"

"You're going to play ocean sounds while I count sheep?" Clint chuckled.

"I had something somewhat less trite in mind," JARVIS replied a bit stiffly. "I have conducted extensive research into the topic, sir, should you like to delve into alternative methods." The corner of Clint's mouth twitched.

"Thanks JARVIS," he said finally. "Really, thank you, it's nice to know you have my back. And you can call me Clint, you know."

"I consider you a friend, sir," JARVIS stated simply. It was a declaration that made Clint's heart squeeze slightly in his chest. Clint himself tended to be the friendly sort, he'd learned early on that an easy going attitude and a sense of humor were a perfect cover for nearly everything. Friends, now that was an entirely different thing all together. Until recently he could have counted all the friends he'd had in his life on one hand, with fingers to spare, no less.

"If I sleep, I dream," Clint admitted. "And if I dream… well, I expect you've noticed what happens then." Clint found himself surprisingly all right with that fact. The idea that a computer was watching him while he slept didn't bother him in the slightest. Of course there were no cameras directly in his room apart from the ones on the computer interfaces he could activate himself. But JARVIS had sensors that collected his bio data and while JARVIS, technically, didn't listen in when he hadn't been called Clint suspected that was a guideline more than an actual rule.

"If you do not sleep the chances of you becoming ill increase," JARVIS observed. "Not the most desirable of outcomes."

"At least we can agree on that," Clint sighed. "Queue up the fight on the bridge for me."

On the screen he watched Fury take out a pair of the infiltrators as Hill shot a third and moments later they were both pinned down behind one of the consoles. The tactical advantage had been entirely against them from the beginning. Clint had seen to that himself. He focused in on Hill, her face bleeding as she barked into her com. An arrow streaked across the room and the bulkhead along the starboard side erupted, sending crewmen flying. A second arrow followed the first almost instantly.

"JARVIS, back five seconds and play at slow again," Clint requested, watching as the first arrow slowly exploded and the second embedded in the computer interface, shutting down the entire system. Fury raised his gun, taking the shot, mostly on reflex, Clint could tell.

"Back again," he requested softly, staring at the replay.

"Again," his voice was barely a whisper and his brow knitted. There was a pinched expression on Fury's face, almost as if he hoped he'd miss. Clint had lost track of the number of times he'd wished Fury hadn't.

"JARVIS, pause," His eyes flicked over the screen, taking in every detail and cataloguing it.

Human beings were complicated. SHIELD was about as complicated as humans could conceivably get. Clint had never considered Nick Fury a friend, though he knew Phil did. It wasn't that he didn't respect the man, apart from his faults Fury was damn loyal to his people and he might lie to you or jerk your chain or send you into a complete shitstorm of a mission with no chance for success and even less for extraction. But there were two things Nick Fury did not do. He did not break his word and he did not leave people behind. That had always been enough for Clint. It was still enough. Whatever half truths or deceits he might make or information he might withhold, he was good to his word once he made you a promise.

It was one of Fury's promises that landed him in Fury's office less than two weeks after the Battle for New York.

"How you doing, Barton?"

Clint flinched, his eyes never straying from the corner of Fury's desk. He could sense more than see the steepled fingers and penetrative gaze but he didn't look up, his neck slightly bent. It wasn't submission, but Fury would know that, knew him all too well.

"I'll be picking glass out of my ass for a month," Clint declared with a shrug, the words sounded like him but there was none of the usual vibrato in his tone. "I came back from Budapest more beat up than this." He didn't move at all as Fury pushed himself out of his chair, his hands braced on the desk as he leaned forward.

"How you doing, Barton?" he repeated. Clint allowed his eyes to flicker up for just the barest moment, knowing they could say what he couldn't, what he wouldn't, what he'd never give voice even if he could find the words. Fury paused a long moment and Clint stared at the corner of the desk, willing himself not to tremble.

"Yeah, that's what I thought," Fury's voice was thick with resignation as he settled in his chair again, watching Clint with a scrutinizing expression.

"Psych says you haven't been late to a single appointment," Fury remarked after a moment. "Care to tell me why you're suddenly their model patient?"

"I'm sure they listed some theories in their report, sir," Clint stated emotionlessly.

"I'm sure they did," Fury agreed. "But I really couldn't give a shit about their half-assed theories which is why I'm asking you." Clint didn't reply. It wasn't that he didn't know what to say, he knew exactly what Fury wanted to hear, knew what would get him off of medical lockdown, out of the borderline prison he was now in where his every move was watched. He'd spent his entire SHIELD career blowing smoke at the psych department. They hadn't caught on yet.

"Let's clear the air a little here, Agent," Fury stated, rubbing his forehead. "I'm not going to sit here and pretend to know what's going on in your head. I'm also not going to let psych clear you until I'm satisfied that you're no longer a risk to yourself." Clint's eyes snapped up wide with surprise to find Fury staring back at him with his usual taciturn expression.

"How stupid do you think I am, Barton?" he asked drily. "You're not unstable so there's no reason you shouldn't have been able to talk your way out of psych by now. Instead you show up to every one of your evals and sit there like a vegetable. So either you want to be locked up, or there's something else going on here. Now why don't you tell me whatever the hell it is you won't tell your shrink?"

Clint stared at him mutely. Most people thought the man was an uncaring bastard. Most people were probably not that far wrong. Fury didn't have a soft side, more like a slightly less gravely side that was more like sandpaper than jagged rock. He stared at Clint with a shrewd, irritated expression. Clint had seen that expression too many times to count, it was the expression Fury wore when he was afraid he was losing something he was desperate to hang onto.

"I can't sir," Clint admitted hoarsely, struggling to shutter his emotions. "I just can't."

"What do you want me to do, Barton?" Fury questioned tiredly. "You don't sleep, you don't eat, you've lost ten goddamned pounds. You look like a corpse shuffling around headquarters. You don't talk to anyone. Psych says you're a risk and Romanov says if I keep you locked up under observation it's going to kill you."

Clint opened his mouth but he couldn't force the words out.

"You realize that if I release you and you swan off the top of STARK Tower it's on me, right?" Fury demanded angrily.

"I don't think Stark likes me enough to let me back in his place after I busted it up, sir," Clint declared softly. Fury let out a string of expletives as he leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling. Clint drew in a shaky breath and another, his heart beating wildly like a caged bird in the silence that filled the room. He would swear Fury could hear the thudding, he had to, it was ringing in Clint's ears so loudly he could barely hear.

"Sir?" he asked in confusion. Fury had spoken but Clint couldn't make out the words and he glanced up again to find the Director staring back at him.

"What do you need, Barton?" Fury repeated with a faint edge of impatience.

"Sir, I don't..."

"Agent, what's done is done," Fury snapped. "Now if I could go back and fix it I would, but somebody I owe is dead and the only thing he ever asked of me in all the years we've known each other is that I get you back and You. Are. Not. Back. So you tell me what you need to get your act together and I don't care what it is. I'll have you admitted to a civilian facility under a fake ID, I'll buy you a toy bow and some crayons, I will fly you to fucking Tahiti. You tell me what you need and it's done Barton. Goddamn it, do not make me let him down!"

Clint stared back at him, his voice lodged in his throat. Long moments passed and finally Fury let out a slow breath.

"Dismissed, Barton," he declared resignedly.

Clint's eyes bored into the screen, mapping each frozen instant. He'd done this a hundred times with dozens upon dozens of frames until he could close his eyes and replay each moment in horrible clarity. Of all the things he'd done, of all the things he'd had to do, truly awful things that he'd justified because it saved the lives of innocents. This was the one thing he couldn't forgive himself.

"I should have stopped this," he murmured, so softly the words barely passed his lips as he stared into his own blue tinged eyes.

"I'm sorry, sir?" JARVIS inquired, his tone contrite.

"Nothing Jay," Clint declared, running his fingers through his hair. "It's nothing."