Okay, so. With all the excitement that's been building over the last week or so, there seems to be an unreasonable amount of negativity coming along with it. And that just won't do! So here's what I propose:
♥an Avengers Kissing Meme♥
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There's a pained sound from Clint's direction, and both he and Natasha whip their heads around to look, concerned. Clint's awake, and he's staring down at Phil like he can't believe his eyes; like, for the first time in his life, he doesn't trust what he sees.
"You're awake," he croaks, and for once Phil isn't going to tease him about his well-honed ability to state the obvious. Clint slides down the chair, somehow manages not to tip it over, and then he's on his knees by the bed, taking Phil's other hand so very carefully, like it's made of fine china. It hurts, a little; it's the one with the IV in it, Phil realises when he looks down. He still squeezes it around Clint's hesitant fingers.
"I am," he whispers, knows both he and Natasha will hear it loud and clear. "Not too disappointed, I hope?"
Clint's laugh is more of a bark, pained rather than amused. "You fucking bastard," he says, and it's all there, all the words Clint will never let himself say out loud, the promises he wants to extract that Phil could never make, the recriminations he knows Phil doesn't deserve, the sheer blinding relief that Phil is still there to insult.
Phil lies there, holding hands with the most important people in his life, smiles softly when Clint kisses him, refrains from mentioning that Clint tastes exactly like Natasha, the same salty sweetness. He supposes that's his answer right there, to the question he can't bring himself to ask; this is what he means to them; this is what they mean to each other.
Clint curls forward, carefully, and lays his head on top of his shoulder, on the other side of the stab wound. His lips press to the base of Phil's neck, and he leans his forehead against the spot he just kissed, and breathes, and after a while it doesn't sound so strained, so ragged and helpless. On his other side Natasha remains sitting in the uncomfortable plastic chair, never letting go of his hand, fingers stroking gently along the side.
"Don't either of you have someplace to be?" Phil asks, more to break the strangely fragile silence than with any desire to be left alone.
"We do," Natasha tells him, no-nonsense, daring him to comment when she lifts an eyebrow at him, her own way of pointing out the obvious: they are where they need to be.
Phil tries not to smile at that; thinks he fails. It's dawning on him that he's got another chance. Maybe this time, he can knit them together, let them further in, make them a part of his life as they've made him a part of theirs. They have time, and that's the only gift Phil Coulson has ever prayed for.
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(can't come up with anything more coherent than that)
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Headcanon accepted <3
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I JUST LOVE THE THREE OF THEM SO MUCH. ;___;
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