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It hurts. It hurts so much his whole body turns off, goes away, and it’s nothing like he’s ever felt before. There is a cramped flutter in his chest, like an oversized butterfly dying in a spiders net. In a detatched way he know it’s his heart, pumping out his blood, his life through the hole in his back instead of through his limbs.
Cold.
“They needed something to...”
He wants to say more, finish the sentence, go out with a carefully prepared speech but the fluttering stops and then everything else does too.
Light.
Nothing.
More nothing.
Shouldn’t there be something by now? Some sort of afterlife?
The thought makes him open eyes he didn’t realize he still had, still needed, and he looks down on himself. Or on his body at least. It’s a husk now, empty and shriveling, with white coats swarming around it. They poke and prod and try to get him back in.
Looking down he sees why they won’t succeed. The cord running from the middle of what makes him him is cut, hangs limply and uselessly, ending just above his knees. That body isn’t his anymore, it’s a shell he can’t get back.
“Agent Coulson is dead.”
Director Fury’s words have a strange clear ring to them, like everything he’s ever heard before has been through a filter and of course, no need to pass through ears and nerves and such any longer. No barriers.
They take away the husk that used to be him and what’s he supposed to do now?
He’s walking before he’s decided to, moving through familiar rooms and hallways towards his own space. The corner of this flying fortress that he’d made his over long years of service. He’s there when Fury comes to get the cards, watches how the man who’s shell he’s never seen crack let’s the tears drop unrestrained to the floor.
“I’m so sorry.” The whispered words have the same eerie ring and he want to let the other man know that it’s ok. It wasn’t his fault. It was no-ones fault but Loki’s. If even his.
It was a moot point.
Time moves strangely. Fluidly. He stays in his room, in his quarters, because he doesn’t know what else to do. Not until they come visit.
They hold hands like children walking through a forest wanting to eat them, but until the door is closed they look as severe as ever. Professional. It crumbles with the click of the lock. He’s seen Natasha use her tears as tools of interrogation many times; this is nothing like that. There’s no dramatic sobbing, no theatricals, just tears streaming down her beautiful face. Clint wipes some of them away before stepping into her arms and letting his own tears soak the shoulder of her jacket.
He wants to tell them it’s ok but he can’t, because it’s not. Nothing of this is ok. He wasn’t supposed to die, he wasn’t supposed to stay.
It’s all wrong.
He steps up to them, reaching out a hand to touch, to hold.
He’s as surprised as them when it actually connects, he can touch and they can feel. And it’s silly because he hadn’t even tried before. Shouldn’t have assumed. Should have figured it out, didn’t sink through the floor after all. Silly. He can touch.
Clint jumps and turns, well aware it wasn’t Natashas hand on his shoulder. The hand going for the knife under his clothes stops as he sees. “Phil”. Clear, ragged, disbelieveing. So different but still the same, still comfortable.
When he looks at himself he doesn’t seem see-through but he doesn’t know what they see. Both are looking at him now, his hand still on Clints arm. “You’re... not here.”
“Caught me on a bad day...” His lips twitch with a smile and he drops his hand. They blink and look around, like he suddenly vansihed.
“Phil!” Natashas voice is sharp and raw, a razorblade more than a bell. His heart falls, was it just a fluke, temporary?
His hand trembles and he reaches out again, takes Natasha’s hand this time. At once their eyes snap to him, the relief flooding him reflecting in their eyes.
“How is this... what, can we...” Clint at a loss of words was rare, yet now he floundered.
“We buried you.” The pain in her eyes resonates through her voice.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t...”
“Not. Your. Fault.” Sharper words. Sharper shards. Her hand is warm in his. He wonders how his feels in hers.
“Why are you here. Why haven’t you... moved on?” Clint speaks softly. Eyes downcast.
“I don’t know. I died but got no further. Ended up here and now... I don’t know.”
“We’ll fix it. There has to be a way to fix it. Somehow...” The determination in Natasha’s voice is comforting. Safe. It almost makes him believe that it’s not too late. Maybe he can get another chance.