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Everyone was affected by Coulson's death, none more than Clint, or so they all believed. It was easy to see after the effects of Loki's mind trip wore off and the truth of what had happened sunk in. It was like a light had been put out in the man's eyes, keeping any and all expressions from lighting up his face the way they used to. The small pranks stopped, the ones that were irritating and had frustrated all on the team.
Starting to spend more time in the rafters than in the living room, not watching the enormous big screen or speaking with the other Avengers as they dealt with the sorrow of loss as a normal human would.
Stark understood on some level that it was his own way of dealing with what he had lost. Or rather, what he had potentially lost. He spent time in his lab, working on arrows that would explode or had shattering arrow heads that loosed gas upon impact.
Not that Clint could test them any time soon, he was “on leave” to get his head back in the game as Fury had put it. That had been weeks ago and he was climbing the walls, literally, in anticipation of letting his arrows sink into targets that weren't made of straw.
In a last ditch effort to keep himself from going insane, again, he began to bar hop. The surprising part was the fact that he would eventually at some point in the night, find someone to take him home.
He lost himself in limbs, thrusting into a tight heat or being thrust into.
The first time, he found a warm hand wrapped around his arm and a soft, pleading voice whispering “Stay.”
Clint didn't even have to think about it, he was dressed and out the door in minutes.
The guilt had eaten him alive, and it had been another week before he was in another bar, being hit on by another man. He had tried to make himself seem uninterested, but inevitably wound up between his sheets, losing his worries to the bliss that could be found in the body.
This time, the man was wrapped around him, nuzzling his neck and commanding him to stay.
The nameless man's nose had made a satisfying crack as he'd thrown his elbow into it.
The guilt only stayed for a few days, and he found himself at a club this time, his body twisting to the sound of the music, feeling hard arms wrapping around him and a desperate mouth latched to his neck. He could pretend, for just a moment that it was someone else who's limbs he was entwined in, that it was someone else so excitedly attempting to remove his his head from his neck just with the power of their tongue.
This time they managed to get to a hotel, bodies hot and ready, and Clint found himself preparing himself for the man. He was large, commanding. When he sunk into Clint, he closed his eyes and arched his back, imagining a different body over his own.
As their bodies cooled, Clint was up and dressed, out of the room before the horrendous word could be spoken.
It was then that Natasha pulled him to the side, “I know what you're doing,” she said, her face impassive, though her tone showed her displeasure at the way the archer was behaving. “We all miss him, and we know how you felt but that doesn't mean you can use yourself this way.”
Gently, he pulled his arm from her grasp, giving her a smile that didn't reach his eyes, “I'm fine,” he murmured, walking away and trying not to limp. Shady man number three hadn't gone easy on him, and Clint was amazingly alright with that.
The next time he came back from a one night stand, his body bruised from a man that liked things just a tad too rough, it was Bruce that approached him. He didn't ask any questions, didn't say anything, just yanked his arm roughly and practically tore the sleeve in his haste to pull it up. A protest died on Clint's lips as he saw the green, angry eyes staring at him as the other man drew blood from his exposed arm.
It wasn't like he wasn't using protection. Most of the time.
After that Tony of all people propositioned him sidling up to him and telling him if he had to be a man-whore, he might as well enjoy one. It was the most honest laugh Clint enjoyed since he'd had his mind taken over by the god of chaos.
He wasn't going to drag the Iron Man down into the level he'd sunk to.
It wasn't even a day later that he found himself slinking through a bar, watching the faces of other men that were either trying to drown away their sorrows or pick up a quick fuck.
It was a sorrowful man he picked up that time, and the sex was probably the closest thing to cathartic as he'd experienced since he'd started this thing. After, the man laid next to him, and began to pour his heart out, his eyes not begging him to stay, but asking him to just listen.
So he did.
After the man was done, and looked as though he felt like he was lighter just from getting it all out, Clint found himself talking, telling him about how he'd went and fallen in love with his handler (though he just said coworker, Clint wasn't that much of an idiot). How before he could even realize it, or even tell him, he'd went and died. Alone. He glossed over how he'd betrayed him, how he had survived when it should have been him that died.
The man smiled at him, a sad thing that didn't reach his eyes, and told him that if the man Clint just spoke so glowingly about was half as smart as he knew he was, he'd already known.
It didn't make it any better.
On his way out of the hotel, Clint threw away his number into the nearby trash. It wasn't that the man was too clingy or had too much baggage, just that it wouldn't be fair to drag him into a world he'd only vaguely heard about.
After that he stopped going to bars, stopped picking up random men.
The Avengers were relieved, thinking that this was the point that Clint would begin to finally get back to the way he used to be. For their sakes, he tried, putting on a show of going through the motions, and sparring with both Natasha and Thor.
Even if Thor left bruises, he didn't try to break bones as Natasha sometimes did.
It wasn't much longer that he was cleared for missions, the psychiatrist claiming that he'd recovered as fully as he could while not being on duty. He had to admit that he shared her opinion, it would be the easiest and best thing to just lose himself in work, to do his job and forget that he'd lost something he had never even known he wanted in the first place.
He had gone through handler after handler, and enjoyed the exasperation of each one as they passed him off. This had been the point where they'd all but flung him at Coulson the first time, and he had to wonder what poor sod would end up with him next.
“Talk to me.”
Clint's breath stopped and he blinked rapidly, this was just too cruel, “I'm going to kill someone for even thinking that this is funny,” slipped out before he could stop it. Playing a recording of Coulson's voice over the comm was not the best idea anyone could have.
“I don't see what's funny, Barton.”
Definitely a recording, Coulson had said that to him so often, hearing it now was like ripping open a barely healed scab. “I don't know who has the comm and who is playing this recording, but when I find out who it is, I will put every arrow I own into their body. Twice.”
He was moments away from tearing out his earpiece and leaving, mission be damned but for the next thing he heard, “Clint.” Coulson never called him Clint, ever. It was bittersweet to hear it now.
“You're dead,” he whispered, thinking he'd gone around the bend.
“Almost,” the voice corrected, and oh, how he wanted to believe it, “And I believe your target is right in front of you. Don't mess this up; again.”
The line was silent as Clint lined up the shot, breathing easy as he loosed his arrow. The body of his target slumped over and as all hell broke loose, Clint was climbing up and away.
“Pick up site is ten minutes to the north, do not make any side trips this time,” the voice was commanding and let Clint know that Coulson, if it was Coulson, knew about how he had hung around on past ops to just mess with the resulting chaos, causing other agents have to be dropped in just to get his ass out.
“Only if they bring me to you.” He demanded, pausing on the roof to hear the answer.
“Affirmative,” Clint was smiling as he ran for the pick up point. For the first time in months, he felt hope where before he had only felt dead.
Coulson was being held in the med bay on the Helicarrier, had been through a few operations and even flat lined once. Clint was standing in front of the door that they had said led to the man that everyone had believed was dead.
With a hand that he would later deny was trembling, he opened the door and paled at what he saw. Coulson was indeed sitting in the bed, a laptop sitting on the bedside table and a earpiece discarded to the side.
The other Avengers were standing around the bed, smiling and Thor was crying openly, a large grin plastered on his face. “He has not yet entered Valhalla!” he boomed out, and Tony rolled his eyes, nudging his shoulder.
“I think he noticed,” he said sarcastically, though there was a large smile on his face and his eyes were mysteriously wet.
Clint ignored them both, his eyes plastered to the man sitting on the bed. Coulson raised an eyebrow at him, inviting him to say something.
For a long moment he was silent, standing still, then before his brain could catch up to him, he strode into the room, swooping down and claiming the man's lips in his own.
The room fell silent, everyone watching as Coulson tensed at first, and then eased his hand into the archer's hair, tilting him for a better angle as the kiss deepened.
“Is that how one celebrates returning from the dead?” Thor asked, confused, sounding as though he should be puckering up next.
“No, that's how one gets their act together,” Natasha said with an obvious smirk in her voice as she began ushering everyone out of the room. Stark protested, wanting to stay to enjoy the show, and though Clint couldn't see it, he could tell that she'd just waved her phone around as Stark began to giggle.
After the door clicked shut, Clint backed away, giving a parting nip to Coulson's bottom lip. The other man opened his eyes and looked at him hazily, offering a small smile.
Blushing, Clint made to pull away, but a hand in his hair was dragging him closer, “Stay,” Coulson whispered, softly, and he did.