"I flirt." That is maybe not the thing he should focus on, but he's going to push back where he can. "Sorry if it's not to the same rapturous degree you're used to, but I've flirted with you since coming back into your life. Maybe, oh, I don't fucking know, maybe you were supposed to think that I'm scared and angry and tired after being a puppet on strings and then having everything inside my head get turned inside out by people I've worked alongside for a god damn decade."

He could probably turn this back on Phil if he really wanted to. Didn't reach out. Didn't push any of the issues. But that's petty, and it's cruel, and Clint's not interested in blaming anyone but himself for his own shortcomings. Doesn't, apparently, make him not angry at some of the blame he is getting.

"Maybe I just didn't want to tell you some of the shit going on inside my skull because I'm gonna sound like an insane person who needs thrown from duty and put in a loony bin. Maybe after having my body taken from me, I feel like a fucking stranger in my own skin, and maybe I'm starting to finally scrape the surface of the idea of people touching me not having anything to do with him with someone that maybe I won't chase off this time, but who knows! Maybe this therapist will find my situation too difficult, and maybe my boyfriend who I adore and give a shit about and have been with and have been helping with his needs and trying to make sure he's healing and taken care of is also gonna decide I'm too difficult now!"

He slams a hand down on the table, and that does spill some wine over the lips of glasses. "Damn it, Coulson, for this supposedly being true love, you sure don't have any fucking faith in me for anything, huh?"