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Phil plays with the key in his hand, flipping it over, and over, and over, silvery metal gleaming in the dim light of the hallway.
He's been standing in front of the door for the past 17 minutes, and he's still fighting the growing unease settling in the pit of his stomach, the vague sense of wrong that's accompanied him for the past few weeks. And even though he knows what's on the other side of that door, even though he knows leaving will only cause pain, he's terrified that by going in, all he'll do is delay the inevitable.
He turns away.
"Come in."
Phil freezes, because the tiny part of his brain screaming danger and hurt and no is overwhelmed by the part roaring comfort and help and yes, because Clint sounds absolutely wrecked.
With hands that should be shaking but aren't, hands that move too smoothly, too fluidly, hands devoid of old aches and pains he's never bothered reporting to medical, he slips the key into the lock and opens the door before dropping the key into his pocket.
Clint's sitting on his bed, his eyes rimmed with red, and he stares at Phil impassively. After a moment, his eyes dart to the chair haphazardly placed at the side of the bed, facing away from him, towards the window.
Phil strides across the room, accepting the invitation, and cautiously sits himself down in the chair, respecting Clint’s unspoken boundaries by looking away, into the dark night sky.
When Phil is settled, Clint takes a breath, inhalation sharp in the silent room. "The way I see it," he begins, voice carefully measured, mechanical, "There are a number of ways in which this plays out."
Phil wants nothing more than to turn to Clint and tug him into his arms, because Clint only uses that voice when he hurts so much that he can't express it. Knowing Clint doesn't want him to stops him, but he still grips the chair until his knuckles turn white, and when the soft crack of splintering wood sounds underneath his fingertips, with a strength he’s never been able to muster before, he's reminded again of why this was a bad idea.
"One, Fury is an absolute dickwad with no respect for spouses of not-quite-dead agents."
Even when he's in pain and struggling to keep some measure of composure, Clint can still make Phil smile.
"Two." Clint stops, then, before pushing on, "You were unconscious until a while back and have only just been cleared from medical."
Phil wishes that was true, because that’s what he was told, but the vague sense of wrong that's been quietly pervading his thoughts is a testament otherwise.
"Three," Clint says, and his voice breaks, and Phil can't stop himself from looking even though he already knows what he's going to see, and his breath leaves him in a soft rush when he sees the gleam of unshed tears in Clint's eyes.
"Three," Clint repeats again, "You didn't want to tell me, and that's why you were about to walk away."
This moment is the moment Phil decides he's had enough.
"Clint," he rasps, and it's painfully vulnerable to his own ears, displaying more emotion than he'll ever be comfortable with, but his own comfort doesn't matter because Clint's hurt, and worse, he hurt Clint.
Clint's response is to close his eyes, dropping his head, trying to hide the tears, and Phil's halfway across the room before the chair hits the ground, heart in his throat, falling to his knees at Clint's side because breaking eye contact is a sign Clint feels safe.
"I was in recovery, in medical," Phil chokes out, and Clint nods, because of course he knows, Stark's hacking is about as subtle as a nuclear strike and just as brutal. "I only got released last week."
Clint shakes his head, and pushes Phil back, away from the bed. "Three fucking weeks, and you were conscious, Coulson," he murmurs, and it would be easier if he was angry or furious but he's just resigned, broken. "Three fucking weeks and you didn't even bother sending a message."
And even though he thought he was prepared for this, thought he was prepared for conflict, for arguments, Phil's heart aches, because Clint's obviously expected this to happen, for them to fall apart. He's surrendered instead of fighting, and something dark and sickly churns in Phil's gut knowing that he has to tell the truth or lose Clint forever.
You may end up losing him anyway, says the tiny voice in his head, and Phil shuts it out, because he's made his choice, and he knows what he's going to say. If there’s even a chance Clint will look at him the way he did before Phil died, he’ll take it no matter the risk.
Phil takes a deep breath, and the words bubble out of him, urgent, desperate. "I was in Tahiti, Clint."
Clint still won't look at him, and Phil feels a manic laugh bubbling up inside him, because he's actually going to admit what he’s been trying to ignore, that something is wrong, that something has been wrong ever since he came back to life, and he pleads, breathless and shaky, "Ask me about Tahiti."
Clint opens his eyes, then, and the self-loathing reflected in there makes Phil want to curl up into a ball and cry because he's the one who caused it, because Clint always places the blame of every single failure on himself and not on others, a habit beaten into him by his own brother.
When Clint finally takes a breath, Phil feels a rush of hope which lasts until Clint asks, his words clipped, "How was Tahiti?"
"It's a magical place," Phil breathes, feeling his face take on the expression he's tried so hard to school it out of, his voice adopting that dreamy, far-off quality, and something shifts in Clint's expression.
After a moment, he reaches out to cup Phil's jaw, fingers ghosting over the stubble, and when his gaze meets Phil's again, he looks so helpless, the lost child Phil can't help him forget being.
"You're better now?" Clint murmurs. It's a question, not a statement, and Phil knows what Clint's trying to ask, and he nods even as bile claws at his throat.
"I've lost muscle memory." he admits, his voice gravelly, and Clint gently strokes his cheek, eyes open but still shuttered. "I wake up without any of the familiar aches and pains. I don't get headaches when I stay up too late, my hands don't shake after triple shot coffee, my arm doesn't get sore when I fill out paperwork."
Clint's hand withdraws, and Phil drops his gaze, because he knows what's coming. Clint is going to let him go, because it's impossible to live like this, with him so changed, so different, and it's unfair to ask Clint to do so.
"You idiot." Clint breathes, and he pulls Phil into a kiss, and Phil doesn't have time to do much more than look into Clint's eyes and see the dawning understanding in them before Clint pulls back again.
The question is out before he can stop it. "Why-"
"I love you, Phil Coulson." Clint states, adamant, and the lost look of only moments before is gone, replaced by hardened steel. "I can't stop loving you."
"But I'm not Phil Coulson!" Phil nearly yells, breath hitching. "Phil Coulson is dead!"
Clint doesn't even flinch. "Budapest, '06," he says, and Phil can't stop the reflexive tremor that wracks through him. "Israel, '09," Clint continues, and Phil's eyes burn because he remembers that day, the day he finally admitted his feelings, and Clint adds, lower still, "P.E.G.A.S.U.S, '12."
Phil teeters back, then, reeling as if struck, because Fury's stern, unyielding, "Barton has been compromised," is still too raw, too painful.
"No machine can recreate emotions," Clint breathes, voice husky, and when a sharp nick slices against his cheek, he looks up to find Clint holding the head of an arrow, crimson blood smeared across the sharpened edge.
"You're not a life model decoy," Clint tells him, and he sounds so certain that Phil wants to trust him, wants to let Clint appease his doubts. "Life model decoys can’t bleed. And even if you were..."
Clint drops his hand to Phil's chest, fingers hovering ever so slightly above the still-healing scar.
"I'm in love with you, not with your body.”
His voice drops, and Phil can’t breathe, because Clint is letting down the walls, and the vulnerablity and honesty in his eyes make Phil's heart lurch in his chest. "I don't care what form you're in as long as I have you back."
Phil stares at him, stares at the man he nearly lost because of his own fear, and chokes out a hushed, "I love you too."
Even though it's still too raw in his throat, almost too painful, it needs to be said, and Clint needs to hear it.
Clint smiles at him, for what seems like the first time in forever, and says, softly, so softly Phil nearly doesn't catch it, "I never doubted it."