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Clint sat, surveying the city from the rooftop, his legs dangling over the edge. One move, one shift–perhaps an inch more... he'd have a minute or so of glorious free-falling.

Before splattering onto the pavement.

He'd be gone.

He wouldn't have to sit and watch the aftermath of what he had done. He wouldn't have to see the accusation in their eyes. He'd be gone.

It's not your fault, some of them had said. Loki made you did it. You didn't choose to.

He let out a short, humourless laugh. Sure, Loki had done it. What he done, though? He hadn't fought. Clint hadn't been strong enough. Loki hadn't taken over Natasha, Fury, Stark, Rogers, Banner… his stomach sank for the millionth time as his thought strayed to his handler.

Coulson.

Dead. Gone. Never coming back.

Loki had stabbed him, Natasha had said. Coulson fought. He fought until the last minute, but Loki's scepter was stronger. It wasn't your fault, Natasha had repeated gently, cupping his face in her hands. It was Loki. He pulled away from her.

He wanted to scream. He wanted to shout. Of course it was his fault. He hadn't directly wielded the weapon, but who let Loki on the helicarrier? Who killed the agents that fruitlessly tried to stop him? Who brought Loki to Coulson? He had.

He wanted to break things, he wanted to punch people, he wanted to put an arrow through the eye of every person who tried to convince him that it wasn't his fault because it he was the one who made it all possible. He didn't break things, though. He didn't punch people, nor did he shoot his bow.

He let Natasha pack whatever little he had and drag him to Stark tower with them. There, He shut down. He refused to talk to anyone. He ate (sporadically), he slept (fitfully) and he breathed (hatefully). Unresponsive.

He ignored Stark's stupid remarks. Steve's soft-eyed concern. Banner's anxious worry. He stayed, huddled in his room, ignoring the boom of the demigod's loud voice. He flat-out ignored Natasha.

He mimicked the motions of living. He didn't even care.

It was his damned fault.

He thought of Coulson again, and tried to blink back tears. Couldn't believe it. Coulson. His handler who had brought him in. Coulson had been the first one Clint had grown to trust, after a life of betrayal and deception. It had been difficult, but after multiple missions and training sessions and the sheer time the two had spent together, Coulson had undeniably become a pivotal part of his life.

Clint closed his eyes.

"Radio silence, agent Barton," Coulson ordered firmly, but he nearly always detected humour in his handler's voice.

"Not a chance, old man," Clint laughed softly. "You know you love my jokes."

"Keep telling yourself that, Barton, I'm sure it'll come true."

"You just have to grow into them." Clint said. He waited; he heard the pointed lack of a reply and grinned. "Phil. Come on. Don't do that. You know I go crazy if I don't talk on missions."

"Everyone goes crazy when you talk on missions,"

"Yeah. Well, it's SHIELD. Who isn't already crazy?"

"Touché."

Even more than Coulson's tolerance for his talkative habits, Clint valued the solid comfort and strength the man seemed to almost radiate. Coulson was everything he had lost at a young age… Clint didn't know how he'd manage without Coulson's brotherly support for him.

His heart lurched as he thought of Coulson's voice, coaching him through cauterizing his wounds, splinting limbs and soothingly reassuring him whenever he nearly died. Which, as an active field-agent was entirely too often.

"Phil," he gasped over the com, doubled over in pain.

"Clint?" Phil's short, anxious tone flooded through his head.

"I need… extraction," he spat out a mouthful of blood. He let his head drop onto the ground and curled onto his side.

"I know, I'm coming, Clint. We're on our way. I need you to sit tight, okay? We're coming."

"Phil…" he rasped, his vision greying ominously.

"I'm here, Clint. I'm almost there. I need you to hold on, okay? Keep your eyes open."

"Can't," he said weakly.

"You have to. Keep talking, Clint, you can do it. I'm coming, okay? It's going to be fine. You have to stay awake. Do you hear me?"

Clint groaned in reply.

"Come on, Clint, you've never given me radio silence, don't start now. C'mon."

There was nothing but the sound of Clint's ragged breathing.

"Clint! Phil said sharply. "Stay awake! Clint, keep talking, okay? Keep talking and I'll… I'll…" he cast about wildly. "I'll get you unlimited range access. Clint? You hear that?"

"Yeah?" he asked his speech slurring.

"Yes," Phil said soothingly. "You can. If you stay awake, if you hold on, I'll get you unlimited range access. Okay?"

"Can we get better food, too? For…. For the mess hall?"

"Absolutely." Phil said. "And you need to stay around to eat it, okay? Keep talking Clint, and I'll get you whatever you want."

"Rooftop pool?"

"Sure," Phil said. "You can have a rooftop pool. A huge one. Circular, if you'd like. With a hot-tub. Stay with me," he added, as he heard Clint cough wetly. "I'm almost there, Clint. Just hold on."

Ten minutes and a series of promises later, a helicopter lowered itself some twenty feet from him. Within a minute, Phil was kneeling over him, turning him over and checking his pulse. Clint felt himself loaded on a gurney and rolled into the helicopter, where various people set to work, cleaning the blood off him and hooking him up to monitors.

"You can sleep now," Phil said, patting his shoulder. His eyes grew heavy. "Sleep, Clint. You're going to be fine."

Clint gasped, as the memory stabbed him. Phil had kept his promises. Even the silly ones he had made in his injured haze, and the most important one. I'm coming, Clint. I'll be there.

It wasn't even singular. He couldn't even count the number of times Phil had been there when he had been injured. Phil, who had changed his life around. Who gave him a chance. Who fought for passionately him when Clint was nearly thrown out because of his escapade with the Black Widow.

Phil was dead.

And it was Clint who killed him.

The thought nearly consumed him, propelling him off the edge. He couldn't do it. He couldn't carry this with him for another minute. He couldn't sleep, he couldn't think about anything else. He was compelled to check mirrors every three to flour minutes, to ensure that his eyes weren't electric blue. This reassurance was futile, however; he was still a threat. He would always be a threat. Look at him. He had led Loki to the helicarrier. He killed innocent people. He had killed Phil Coulson.

He couldn't stay here. He couldn't hurt anyone else.

And even if, by some strange miracle, he didn't hurt anyone else, he couldn't handle the pain.

Clint pushed himself towards the edge, rolling forward on his palms. He was ridiculously sure of his footing, and had spent years with grappling arrows, throwing himself on and off ledges, but this is the closet he'd sat to the edge, without his bow.

The smallest push.

He could use one finger.

That's all it'd take.

Wouldn't take a gun. Wouldn't take an arrow. Wouldn't take the scepter he had used to kill Coulson with.

Just one finger.

He fleetingly thought of Natasha. Should he say something to the woman who'd completed the project Coulson had started with him? She'd be livid. He almost considered drawing back.

No. It was better this way. He wouldn't be able to hurt her. He would never forget the fear in her green eyes as she surveyed him, hands curled around her weapons before he 'came to.' It was tangible. He never wanted to cause her that fear again.

He stared at the night sky. It was invitingly free, unconstrained and unmarked. Like he longed to be.

Like he'd never be.

Closing his eyes, he rocked forward and let his hands slide off the edge.

"I'm so sorry," Clint whispered hoarsely.

He fell.

Yep. So here's my baby. Don't worry, it's not a one-shot. I've got a full story planned. I hope you like what you've seen so far. Reviews make my day!