He goes to Fury as soon as things have settled, about a year after the Battle of New York. The city has mostly repaired itself with great help from Tony Stark and other world charity groups, the people having found their heroes in the Avengers. SHIELD too has gotten back on it's feet – the Hellicarrier is up and running again and it's people have gotten organized, rewritten the structure of command.
There are still the dead.
Still the lost.
In truth Clint is very nearly broken, entirely shattered on the inside and only holding it together because of Natasha, maybe a little bit because of the rest of the Avengers. They're sort of like a messed up little family now, and really, without them, where would he go?
He's lucky he's not shot on sight stepping foot back in headquarters.
Officially it's not his fault.
He was never put on reprimand, only suspended until he'd been cleared by the SHIELD shrinks, but everybody knew Clint could fake his way through a psych eval as easy as walking. He runs with Tony and Steve and the rest more now anyway, which, in the long run? Probably a good thing.
Unofficially people remember.
He takes the vents all the way into Fury's office because he can't stand the looks, because they shake him, remind him of what he did. The man doesn't even twitch when he drops down from the ceiling, like maybe he was expecting him, but Clint thinks it's far more likely that the man's just a little bit dead inside after everything.
Clint isn't the only one who lost Phil Coulson.
He comes to parade rest in front of the Director's desk, his heart heavy and his hands clenched in tight fists, but he manages to wait until the man lifts his head, acknowledges Clint's presence to speak.
"I could have done it."
"Excuse me?"
"I could have done it," he repeats, forcing the words up out of his throat like shards of broken glass because he knows how true they really are, because they've festered inside him for months like an infection, hot and painful and insistent. "I could've brought SHEILD down."
Fury stares, his one eye seeing right through Clint as he sits back in his chair, folds his hands together in his lap.
"You don't know..." Clint chokes, swallowing hard before he tries again. "You have no idea how hard I fought, how hard I..."
"I think I have some idea," the man growls, softer than Clint's ever heard from him as he rubs his chest, the spot where Clint's arrow had dug in to his bullet-proof vest. "I'm well aware of your efforts, Agent Barton."
Clint barks a laugh, dark and bitter.
"No you're not," he mutters. "If I'd given up, if I'd been weaker, if... if I'd just gotten tired..."
Lifting his head, he stares Fury in the eye, lets him see the agonizing truth in the set of his jaw and his shoulders.
"I could have burned SHIELD to the ground, and half the world with it."
To his credit, Fury manages to hide the fact that he's shaken pretty well. He doesn't flinch, doesn't shift uncomfortably, but Clint sees things better than most.
He can't hide it completely.
"What are you driving at Agent?" he snarls, and Clint can see that look in his eye, the one that hints at a plan.
"A training exercise," he answers, his stomach tying itself in knots. "Once a year, all out, all hands on deck. Every Agent, every outpost."
"And how exactly is that supposed to work?"
"Give me a team," he demands, "And I'll plan a full assault. Exploit every weakness I can find, tear you apart at the seams."
"To what end?"
"Seriously?" Clint snaps, defensive because maybe he does have ulterior motives. "The fuck Fury? Consulting security, you asshole. Let me find the fucking holes so you can plug 'em. There are other agents in your organization, other aliens out in space that could exploit us, that could take us down because we were cocky enough to think we were invin..."
Clint clenches his jaw, squeezes his eyes shut, gets his breathing under control.
Not about that, not about that, not about that...
"You underestimate yourself Agent Barton," Fury rumbles gently, "And you overestimate our Agents. You, Romanoff maybe, I don't doubt. The others..."
"Willing to take that chance a second time?"
Sighing, the man scrubs a hand over his head, his only tell of frustration and exhaustion.
"No, I'm not," he replies. "Four months enough time to plan this little charade of yours?"
"More than."
"Alright then Agent Barton. Operation Trojan Horse is go."
AVAVA
He does it to help SHIELD.
That's what he tells everyone else.
What he tells the Avengers, what he tells Natasha, what he tells the agents Fury assigns to his 'team,' assigns to be bad guys.
He can't lie to himself.
This is punishment, clear and simple.
They dress in full assault-gear, green and gold X's spray painted across their chests. Branding himself with Loki's colors is the least painful part of this, the dark looks from his team far better at penetrating the cold, detached state of mind he's fallen into. It's remarkably similar to the mischief-god's hypnosis, just minus the ice blue creeping in on the edges of his vision, and strangely enough it helps him settle, gets him to a place where he can do this the way he needs to, fully committed.
It's not exactly how it would go down in real life. The SHIELD teams, the 'good guys' are aware that it's going to happen, not the exact day but the general timing of it, and given that half their staff, the ones who'd drawn the short straws are all absent that morning, it's a good guess they'll all be on high alert. Clint's guys, well, they're not exactly happy to be here, not exactly pleased to be playing for the away team. Most of them are actually pretty pissed to tell the truth. They won't be as fast, as aggressive as Hydra or AIM or the Chitauri, sneer and scoff and bitch about Clint when his back is turned, like he doesn't know exactly what they're saying, like he hasn't said it all to himself a thousand times.
It doesn't stop him.
Nothing can stop him.
He's briefed them, given them the attack plan, and Fury's commanded them all on pain of desk duty to play along, but Clint's not stupid. Loki hadn't trusted his forces and Clint doesn't trust his – they'll do the bare minimum and little else.
It doesn't matter.
They're distractions, foot soldiers to be sacrificed on the front lines.
Fury's done his job too, done his own briefing with every agent participating in this little charade, collected all their weapons and ammunitions at the door. They've all been armed with paintball guns, colored coded of course, and it gives Clint queasy flashbacks to childhood games of Germ Wars. He's got a quiver of paint-laden arrows strapped to his back, his bow in hand, and he's given his marching orders. His forces will attack from every side, no straight-out British charge but silent infiltration of SHIELD's bases; primarily the Hellicarrier and New York's headquarters.
Him, he's the lynchpin, the real shot, straight and true to the very heart of SHIELD.
It's easier than he expects it to be.
He's lost his own heart; there's nothing to hold him back this time, nothing to fight for.
No one can stop him now.
It's decent of Fury to play by the rules. He hasn't put up any weird traps or roadblocks, hasn't done anything specific to stop Clint himself. He's improved security after the last time of course, but nothing more than that, nothing outside of that.
Makes it painfully easy.
Clint's in through the vents and crouching above command central before the alarms even sound, and then everything devolves into chaos. SHIELD's agents are still spooky, still paranoid, and it's a good fucking thing Fury's got their guns locked up because it's pandemonium as soon as it starts, everybody shaken up and freaking out. Clint's flat calm, practically dead inside, watches the men and women who were once his friends and colleagues wage war on each other with toys and with fear and with pent-up, trauma-fueled anger.
No one can stop him.
It's the work of a moment to slingshot a USB drive through the grating and into command center's computer port. He had Stark write him a program – totally within the rules, that could happen – and it starts automatically, shuts down SHIELD's protective protocols, locks down the range and the weapons cages, closes some doors and opens others.
If they were all panicked before, it's nothing to what they are now. This phantom-works, this ghost in the system has flashbacks racing through their minds; screams and blood and disbelief, and this is Clint's punishment. To relive this moment, to relive his choices, to be forced to experience it over and over and over again, to know that it really is his fault...
No one can stop him.
Maria Hill and Nick Fury are on the deck, barking orders and trying to conduct their counterattack, clearly horrified by the way everything has devolved into an uncontrolled, unmitigated disaster. It makes Clint's stomach twist, his body tingle with self-disgust and determination.
No one can stop him.
He's down out of the vents and on the floor before anyone even notices the grate drop, has shot Hill's back full of green experiences the sickening rush, the surge of power that comes along with this, with knowing that he and only he has taken down SHIELD, before, now, and again.
No one can stop him, he won't stop.
Year after year, again and again, he'll do this.
He'll improve SHIELD and he'll punish himself and he won't let himself forget, won't let himself forget what he's done.
No one can stop him.
Bolting for the computer banks, Clint shoulders his way through the fighting SHIELD agents, slams into the keyboard and taps in the six-letter code that shuts everything down with a mock-atomic boom and sends the screens black, only for Stark's winking Iron Man helmet to pop up like a sick, GAME OVER taunt. Fury turns on him slowly but Clint's already got an arrow levelled at his chest, ready to loose.
He's not holding back this time, won't aim for the vest.
He can see it on the Director's face – he finally understands.
No one can stop him.
The wire tenses.
Back muscles tighten and lock.
Slow your breathing.
Exhale.
Relax your hand…
No one can stop him.
"Clint!"
It's a voice he hasn't heard in over a year, a voice he thought he'd never hear again, a voice he shouldn't be hearing now. Fury's face goes dark, a black storm as he stares past the paint-tipped arrow pointed at him, over Clint's shoulder and behind, and he shouldn't turn away, he shouldn't, but he does anyway.
And there's Phil.
His handler, his friend, the man he's hopelessly in love with, the man he killed.
He's thin and wane, pale with heavy bruises darkening his eyes like black half-moons, and his left arm is in a sling, bandages showing thick and white beneath the v-neck of his mint green scrub top. He's hobbling and he looks sick and he looks horrified, but he's moving across the floor with all the determination of the old Phil Coulson, and the war around them slows and stills like there's a ghost crossing between them.
Maybe there is.
Clint's heart is slamming against his ribs and he can't breathe, and the string goes slack in his hands because here before him is the one man who could've have stopped him then, the one man that can stop him now.
Phil's fingertips touch his cheek and Clint's bow slips from his numb fingers, clattering to the ground.