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There was one thing he didn't tell anyone. Not the therapist, not Fury, not Natasha.
He remembered everything.
From the moment the curved metal touched his chest and the wall of ice appeared in his mind, putting him in a cage that he could see out but never leave, Clint Barton knew exactly what he was doing. He singlehandedly took out the Helicarrier with a few choice arrows, had a man’s eye ripped out of its socket, killed more SHIELD agents than he dared ask Natasha about again.
He looked into the mirror every morning, checking his eyes for that unnatural glow, forcing himself through new training sets just to make sure he really did have full control of his body, telling himself that the laughter echoing through his brain was just a remnant of nightmares and memories.
---
Walking through Headquarters or the Helicarrier, he felt the judgement and calculation in the agents' stares. It was common knowledge that Loki was the one that made him attack the 'carrier, but it was still his own skill that allowed him to cripple SHIELD. Those agents gave him looks when they thought he wasn’t paying attention, keeping a close eye on him because while Hawkeye wasn't a willing traitor last time, he had certainly shown that he was fully capable of a repeat episode should he so feel like it. Who ever thought a guy with a bow could be capable of such destruction?
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Natasha understood.
They seemed to be switching roles, he the broken one and she the one piecing him back together. It was like so many years ago, when he stayed his bow and saved her from the Red Room instead of letting her out of her misery with a precisely aimed arrow. Now it was Clint who would burst into wakefulness sweating, gasping for air and Natasha was the one there, softly telling him that he was okay, that no one was in his head. Then she would point his gaze to a mirror and he would take deep, shaking breaths looking into his own, not-glowing eyes.
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What Natasha didn’t understand was that while he was slowly able to tell himself that deaths of so many in SHIELD was Loki's fault, not his, there was one thing for which he couldn't shake the gnawing guilt that grew in this stomach, the heavy grief that pulled down his shoulders. Phil Coulson was dead.
He knew that there was nothing he could have done. Clint knew that Loki had been the one to kill Phil, that Loki had planned the attack, that no one could account for Phil going after the God of Mischief alone.
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It was hard for Clint to look at Cap while he was in uniform, knowing that standing in front of him was a man Phil had loved for his entire life. Someone that Phil had looked up to and respected. Someone that he had died protecting.
He couldn’t look at the bloody cards. Tony wanted him to see them, like it was something that would spur him on or something. Natasha was the one who took Clint away before they could be produced, falsely claiming a meeting with Fury--anything to get him out of that situation.
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Agent Phil Coulson had been Hawkeye’s handler for five years. In their line of work that was a lifetime. Post-mission celebrations included Captain America collectible card searches and thinking of new arrowheads over coffee, and when Natasha joined them they would visit the ballet (only Russian ballet was acceptable, of course) or a gun show. Phil Coulson had become the closest thing to family that Natasha and Clint could think of, and he was dead.
And Hawkeye could only blame himself and a crazy Norse god.
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It came as a shock to everyone but Natasha that when Phil Coulson walked into the briefing room Hawkeye jumped up, punched Nick Fury in the face, and held the formerly “dead” agent so tightly he almost reopened the chest wound.
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That night was the first time he woke up without manic laughter in his head and the fear of seeing glowing eyes in the mirror. He awoke with two people in his bed and a smile on his lips. “So, a blonde, a brunette and a redhead…”
Natasha hit him. Phil’s chuckle was worth it.