Archive of Our Own ^beta

The Agent

He was walking on the dusty road. His eyes were far away, staring at the heavy grey clouds without seeing them.

He was alone.

He was always alone.

He was always prisoner in his own head.

----7 years old

"Daddy! Phil's staring at me!"

Phil stuck his tongue at his sister, because he was not. There just happened to be an interesting... tree on her side of the car. Kevin Coulson looked at them in the mirror and frowned at them.

"Phillip, stop bothering your sister."

He looked at his father with pleading eyes.

"I wasn't!"

The man wasn't convinced and frowned at the young boy. Phil decided that life was definitely unfair, and the best way to make that known was to stare out of his own window with a pout. A manly pout, if anyone was to ask.

They had been in the car for over three hours, going to visit their father's mother for Christmas. Everything was white around them, and Phillip had a lot of fun inventorying all the changes that happened in the last year.

The silence stretched for a long moment, before Phillip's mother twisted around, shouting and pointing.

"Yellow Car!"

Everyone groaned and shook their heads, especially Phil's father.

"How do you do that? I didn't even see it!"

She smiled sweetly at him.

"It's a gift, dear. I have the eyes of the hawk. I do believe that gives me a 8, Phil a 4, Stacy a 2 and you a single one. Maybe we should check out your eyes, don't you think."

The man didn't answer, grumbling good naturally in his nonexistent beard. Phil smiled happily and relaxed in is seat. He wished the road could go on and on to keep his parents happy and relaxed forever, with him.

OOOOOOOO

The Archer

The road went on and on. He wasn't really going anywhere. He had heard about someone going south, and figured it was as good a goal as any. He hadn't any reasons why.

He hadn't anywhere to go to.

He lost everything.

He had lost himself.

-----7 years old

Clint and Barney were installed in the backseat of an unknown car. The interior was old and worned out, if clean. The car had been a dull grey, unlike their parent's olive one.

But they couldn't use that one anymore. Their father had crashed in on a tree. Or so the woman had said. Clint wasn't sure he could thrust her. Adults lied. All the time. Like the teacher last year that said she liked all her students equally.

That was a lie. She didn't like Clint. She never paid attention to him, or answered his questions, or believed him when he said he didn't start the car.

His father lied when he said to his mother he'd stop drinking. That he'd never hit her again.

Adults lied, but Barney seemed to believe the woman. Apparently their parents were dead. His father had gotten drunk again, and he wouldn't let his mother drive. So they were dead. Clint found himself believing it too. It sounded like something his father would do.

And now he was alone, with Barney.

He was alone, watching cars pass by, the road escape under the car’s wheels. The man driving hadn't said a word. It wasn't his job. His job was to bring the kids where they were supposed to be.

To the orphanage.

Because Clint's parents died. Because his father had killed himself and his mother. The road had helped. Without the road they wouldn't need cars. Without the road, Clint wouldn't have to go to the orphanage.

The road was taking him away.

The road had killed his parents.

OOOOOOOO

The Agent

The road had killed him. He wasn't alive. He was, at the beginning. He wanted to stay alive, to continue, to see new people, to help them. He had wanted to keep doing his job, even if his job didn't exist anymore.

Slowly, he died. He died on the inside, as the food disappeared. He died when he had to throw away his wallet because the lightest weight seemed to drag him down.

He died when he got caught by cannibals, and they pierced his eardrums before he managed to escape.

He felt a bit alive when he killed them.

Then he died some more when he realized he would never hear again.

----12 years old

Phil laughed loudly at his best friend’s jokes. He nudged Gabriel lightly with his shoulder, not daring to push him too much for fear to throw him out of the bus' seat. Their teacher was pretty strict in keeping calm, and he had no intention of going in detention. Gabriel pushed right back, with no restraint since he simply squeezed Phil against the window.

The field trip had been great, as far as Phil was concerned. The museum had been very interesting, and Gabriel knew better than to complain by now, settling by flirting with Magaly, and wait for his friend's summary at the end of the day.

Phil looked around, and saw Oliver looking at him, eyes sharp. Phil's eyes dropped automatically, cheeks reddening with a vivid flush, hoping Gabriel would be too interest in Mag to pay attention to him. When he poked up again, he found that Oliver was still looking at him, smiling brightly at him.

Phil answered shyly, and Oliver leaned forward.

The moment was broken when the bus encountered a bump, and everyone jumped. Phil and Gabriel toppled on top of each other, laughing madly. Their teacher simply looked over fondly, before returning to her conversation with the Gym Teacher, trying not to be too obvious in her flirting, in front of the kids.

Phil and Gabriel wrestled good naturally, which ended with Gabriel sitting on top of his friend. Phil's eyes met Oliver's again, and the other boy smiled again, and his face promised something. Phil wasn't exactly sure what, but he definitely wanted to find out.

He couldn't wait for the road to end.

OOOOOOOOO

The Archer

He knew the road end, at some point. Not because it was done, but because his feet couldn't bring him any further.

He wouldn't stop of his own will, because even if he had nowhere else to go, he promised he wouldn't die if he could help it, that he would go kicking and screaming.

So he kept on walking. And walking. And walking.

The only thing he would never stoop down to was joining cannibals. He fought some, in the early days, when he was still an Avenger. When he had still enough strength to do more than survive.

When he was still human enough to be a hero.

----12 years old

Clint looked by the truck's window as the town's lights disappeared slowly until they disappeared. It had been a good town, with friendly people and appreciative crowds. They even asked for his autographs, which he gave away easily, along with smiles and winks to the girls.

He even managed to get a few kisses, behind some booth or another, after winning a pretty girl a plushy or a doll. No matter what they said, girls never got too old for them, especially when they came from a rugged carnie.

As much as they were fun, the nice towns were the hardest too. They were the ones that hurt him when he had to leave, because he wanted to stay.

They were the ones he told himself he could have a nice life in, with a pretty girl. Go to school-no matter that he was never good at it, he was too stupid- have a nice job-that he couldn't hold because he'd end up sending his boss to hell-and get kids-that he'd screw up because he would be just like his father.

The nice towns were always worst, because they reminded him of what he'd never had. What he was too fucked up to ever have.

"Lost in thought, princess? Thinking about a pretty girl? Or is it a pretty boy?"

Clint turned to face Sebastian. He was older than him, about sixteen, and one of the Swordsman's favorite, which was why he got to ride with the old man. And since he was the favorite, if he asked to have Clint with him to 'distract' him during the long ride, well he got it.

Clint always asked Barney to help him, to say he needed him for something, anything, but his brother ignored him. He always ignored him, too happy to have an occasion to hold one against his little brother who stole Trickshot's attention from him.

So Clint was left alone in a truck with Sebastian and an adult who wouldn't do anything but tell him to shut up. The older teen smirked at Clint's lack of answer, despite looking a bit infuriated by it. He grabbed Clint's upper arm, and tugged him until he was in front of him.

"What is it, princess? Nothing to say?"

Clint kept his mouth shut, and his face blank. He hated himself for giving in so easily, but fighting was useless, and he didn't want to be beaten. Sebastian always ended by kicking him in the belly and balls, and it would hurt for days afterward.

The older boy sneered, and pushed on Clint's shoulder until the blond was kneeling in front of him. He spread his knees, and unzipped his pants, taking his cock out.

Clint simply stared at it, until Sebastian slapped him.

"Well? It's not going to take care of itself!"

Clint closed his eyes, and went to it, feeling the vibration of the truck under his knees.

He wished the road would take him back to his parents.

At least there he knew where to hide.

OOOOOOOO

The Agent

He wished the road could take him back in time, to the time when he was himself. 

When he had a purpose.

 Before.

Just before.

He had stopped to eat. It was just a can he had found in a house about a week ago. He ate a bit of it. He had to rationalize it. If he wanted to survive, he couldn't afford more than a quarter of can each day.

He saw someone appear from the house nearby. He was in the forest. Hidden. But he saw her, a young girl. Maybe ten. Barely more than a baby when everything happened. She looked famished. He looked down, at the spoon full of beans he was about to eat. He set it down. He could deal with less food.

He was about to go see her, when two man jumped out of nowhere. She screamed. They had a knife. He wasn't even fully up, and she was dead. There was a red line on her neck.

There was a red halo around her hair. It was unfair blood was so vivid when everything else was so grey.

He settled back down. The men discussed loudly, dragging the body in the house. He took back his spoon, and ate the beans.

Soon he would have to walk again.

The road would take him away from the cannibals.

He didn't want the cannibals to take him.

He didn't.

He walked away.

----24 years old

Phillip didn't have a first name anymore. He was Coulson, Private Coulson or Hey You, but not Phil. Never Phil. He was fine with that. He was in the army.

He was serving his country. If the price to pay was to lose his first name, then hell, it was cheap.

He was in a Humvee, bouncing along the irregular dusty path of Afghanistan. He had never been in the Middle East before enlisting, and he found himself wishing he could have visited it before it was at war. It was truly beautiful, unsettling like his travels across the country, and on one occasion to Europe, had never been.

There were three other men in the Humvee, all of them higher graded than him, but he didn't mind. In the end, at the moment, they were four sweating men in a desert that didn't give damn about them. Coulson tried to get as much as he could from their discussion.

He started a scheme of power, who was above who, the unspoken rules that could be guessed between the lines.

Coulson was so excited about beginning, about starting on the road that would perhaps lead him to a grand carreer, to the higher steps. Phil had been riding this road all his life, and he had no intention of ever changing.

The Afghani road was part of it.

That road would lead him where he wanted to go.

OOOOOOOOOO

The Archer

The road wasn't leading him where he wanted to go. Despite not having somewhere he did want to go, he always found someplace he definitely didn't.

In the middle of a body dumping place. They were old, from the first days, but they were full of skeletons and mummies, grimacing at him through their eyeless orbits.

In a house of cannibals. He managed to flee before they came back, but he spent days trying to scrub phantom blood from his hands.

At the bedside of a woman that got pregnant After. He held her hand while she pushed. He felt her pulse disappear just as the baby girl got out. He let the mother there. He took the baby. She died three days after. He buried her.

The road was laughing at him. He just wanted to go forward. He wanted to stop caring. He couldn't die. He promised he wouldn’t.

But sometimes he didn't want to be human. Most of the times he wasn't. Sometimes, though, sometimes he found himself again. And he saved a baby. A baby that died after.

If he died, no one would bury him.

There was no one to bury.

There was no one to care.

----24 years old

Clint was on a train, looking out the window at the forest that glided by him, dark trees and bright spots of lights. His new contractor was waiting for him in New Orleans, and with the money he got from the last job he treated himself with a travel more agreeable than having to drive there by himself.

"Mister Hankinson?"

He turned around and looked at the employee that came with some water he asked for earlier.

"Thank you."

The woman nodded, and went away to see the rest. Clint opened the folder he had gathered on his target. It was a businessman from New York that decided he wanted to play in the courtyard of some shady character in the Big Easy, and now they wanted Hawkeye to take him out.

Clint wasn't sure why it was necessary to kill someone for that, and would have declined if he hadn't found, by his own means, that he also made in the human traffic.

His employer didn't know he did his own research on the side. If so, they'd probably be concerned about what he'd find on them. But for them he was simply a goon with a spotless shooting record.

And Clint liked it that way. He wouldn't act against them, not right away, it'd be bad for business. He gathered information. Storing them. Preparing himself for bringing them down when he inevitably would.

In the meantime he went where he was needed, from one corner of the country to the other. He learned his geography the way he never did when he was at school.

The road was the only thing that was always there.

The road was his only constant.

The road had become his home.

OOOOOOOO

The Agent

The road wasn't his home. It couldn't be. A home feels safe. A home feels warm.

Sometimes he left the road. He went into the forest.

He found a river, running clear and strong. He let himself slip into it. The water beat his arms, his legs, his torso. It felt good.

It felt clean.

He looked down. Down at his skin hanging limp on his frame. Down at his pointy hips. Down at his bloody bruised arms and legs. Down at his battered and swollen feet.

He wanted to feel self-conscious.

He did, in some way. He always did his best to keep in body as fit as possible, making the best of what he was handed.

He was never Brad Pitt, but he kept himself on top.

He lost that. He lost everything. He lost himself.

He was lost in the middle of the forest.

He hadn't lost the road. He hadn't left the road.

The road was everywhere.

The road wasn't his home.

It was the only thing he couldn't lose.

----32 years old

Coulson looked out the small window of the plane as they flew away. He was with Maria Hill, a new agent Fury assigned to him. They were going to London to a meeting with the head of the MI6. The woman beside him was dressed sharply, her hair in a tight bun.

Coulson had briefed her before the takeoff, and she was now business reading, re-reading and re-re-reading her folder, the way junior agents did on their first mission.

Coulson was sure she'd be fine, but telling her would be useless. She needed to prove it to herself now. If S.H.I.E.L.D. didn't think she was good enough, they wouldn't have recruited her.

Coulson let himself relax in his seat, already knowing the briefing package by heart. His thoughts went by to his apartment, wondering if he closed all the lights. His cat had the worrying tendency to attack light bulbs left alight for too long.

Sometimes he found it a bit sad that the only thing he had to think about was his cat and his light bulbs. But he was fine about it. He wasn't sure he wanted a home. A home meant he missed it.

It meant he resented it when he took the road.

And working for S.H.I.E.L.D. meant working on the road. It meant that the road was as much his work space as his office at HQ.

The road was his, because he needed to own it, like he owned his office. Like he owned his PA. His agents.

The road was his because it was the only way not to resent it.

The road was his.

OOOOOOOO

The Archer

He was the road's.

He knew it. The road sent him where it wanted him. The road fed him, sometimes. The road pushed him forward, no matter what, sending cannibals after him when he stalled for too long.

He couldn't resent the road. It didn't care about him. It simply played with him like a kid would play with a soldier, sending him to die.

Like a girl with a doll, undressing it until it was completely in her power.

He couldn't resent it. He couldn't hate it.

He couldn't love it.

He lived with it.

The road made him live. The road let him live.

----32 years old

Clint was in an ambulance, a bullet in his left thigh. The man in uniform was pressing something to his wound. He looked down at Clint.

"We won't be able to remove the bullet before we get to the hospital."

Clint nodded. He thought about the man seated in the shot gun seat. The one that offered him a job. Agent Coulson he said he was called. Clint wondered whether shooting him negated the offer or not.

If he was to end up in the hospital, he'd rather have a way to pay his bills afterward. He didn't trust the government, but then again he didn't trust his old employers either.

Maybe if he got himself a good, honest, stable job, he could stop running. Maybe he could get off the road. Leave it behind him.

Maybe he could get himself a real home.

He closed his eyes briefly, and only opened them when they took him out. The man that shot him appeared beside him. The ambulance man talked about bringing him into surgery. Clint's hand shot out to grasp the agent's sleeve.

"We need to talk."

The man simply smiled at him, a bland smile that meant nothing at all.

"I'll be there when you wake up, Mister Barton."

Clint looked at the road that disappeared behind the hospital doors.

Maybe it'd be nice to be off it for a while.

OOOOOOOO

The Agent

He was back on the road. The forest looked dead. The road too.

The road was never alive. It was man made.

The forest made itself. The men destroyed it.

The road was still there.

People were already on the road. He walked beside them. He didn't talk to them.

They didn't want to talk to him. They didn't want to like him. They didn't want him to join them.

They didn't want another mouth to feed.

So he kept silent. When they met a cross road, they stopped.

For a long moment, they looked at him.

He looked at them.

A woman, no more than twenty, came forward. She hugged him. She let him go, with a small smile.

Her boyfriend came forward. He hugged him.

They all came forward, one after the other. They all hugged him.

When they were done, he smiled, for the first time in months.

They went one way. He went the other.

He felt a bit alive.

----40 years old

Phil drove his car in the busy streets of New York. The streets were packed with cars, and he almost regretted not taking the subway. Then again, he hated taking the subway with a bow tie. It was too hot, and he attracted a weird sort of crowd.

His best friend was in the shot gun seat, far more dressed up than usual in a classy blue dress. She took one long look at him.

"Ok, who am I supposed to make jealous?"

He shot her from the corner of his eyes, one again cursing her mind reading tendencies. He tried for dismissive and confused.

"No one."

She arched an eyebrow at him.

"Pull the other one, Phil."

He sighed.

"Emma..."

She threw her arms in the air.

"What? It's simple, I need to know, so that I know when to kiss you and pretend you're the best thing since the invention of cupcakes."

Phil grinned.

"I rank lower than cupcakes?"

She shrugged.

"Everything ranks lower than cupcakes. And you're changing the subject."

He groaned.

"Why are you assuming I'm inviting you to make someone jealous?"

She stared at him.

"Because you never invited me to anything vaguely job related because, and I quote "It wasn't safe for me", and suddenly you want me to be your plus one at your Christmas party?"

He shrugged, despite his shoulders being so tensed they barely moved.

"Maybe I wanted to introduce you to Maria."

She laughed once, completely humorlessly.

"You won't even tell me what your job is, and you're going to introduce me to someone you work with? Pull the other one, Phil! Who is he?"

Phil's hands tightened on the wheel.

"It doesn't matter."

She sighed.

"Why?"

"He's straight."

He wished he didn't know just how straight Barton was. He wished he hadn't the image to back the evidence. He wished he had names. He wished he didn't have to work with Natasha when she showed up with hickeys.

Emma frowned at him.

"No one's completely straight, babe."

He is. He clenched his teeth.

"He won't switch for me."

She went to speak, but he braked a bit harder than necessary to park his car in front of the building the party was at.

He had never been more grateful for a road to end.

"We here."

She leaned and grabbed his arm. Phil turned to look at her.

"Why am I here, Phil?"

He sighed.

"I wanted to make him jealous. Then I remembered he didn't care, and decided I'd rather spend my evening with my best friend than staring at him in despair. Can I do that?"

Her eyes softened and she nodded. They got out of the car.

Sometimes, Phil would rather stay on the road.

Being home meant having feelings.

The road was business.

The road was action.

OOOOOOOOO

The Archer

The road was stagnation. Always the same landscapes.

Always the same dull gray everywhere.

Always the cannibal.

Always him.

Always walking.

The road was a coffin for those who were still walking.

----40 years old

Clint was seating beside Sitwell, in a car, on the way to New Mexico. He had to say, it was the first time something happened in New Mexico. He hadn't been there since Coulson recruited him.

He had seen far less of the States since he joined S.H.I.E.L.D. He went on longer roads, to Europe, Africa and Asia. The road wasn't his home anymore. It was too stretched, with too many places and people he couldn't understand.

He hadn't a home, at the moment. Not really. But he had a place he felt safe at, safer than he ever remembered feeling. And that was wherever Coulson was.

He didn't want to. He was scared that his oasis was something as fragile as a human. He was scared Coulson would be killed and it would disappear.

He was scared Coulson would figure it out and throw it back in his face, asking Clint to take himself and his issues elsewhere. It hadn't happened yet.

In fact, the agent almost seemed to care. After too much close calls, he even made Clint swear he wouldn’t die.

But Clint was careful. He kept his cards close to his chest. He played like he hung out with Coulson because it was convenient.

He played that he didn't want to bury himself in Coulson's arm, in his bed, in his home, and never move again.

He couldn't lose whatever little contact he had with the older man. No matter how much he wanted.

He knew he could be with Coulson, for a night. Coulson was human, despite all evidences to the contrary, and Clint would be able to steal, to beg a night with him.

But he wanted more. And Coulson wouldn't give him more. Coulson wanted, deserved someone better. Someone that hadn't blown other guys in circus truck before their voice had even broken.

Beggars can't be choosers.

He let his head drop and focused on the road under the car. The cracks, the bumps, the hitches, he felt them all, and they all brought him closer to Coulson. Closer to his safety.

For the first time, the road wasn't his life.

The road was a mean to an end.

OOOOOOOO

The Agent

The road had no end.

The road would end him.

He couldn't run from it.

He couldn't escape it.

He could only walk.

Walk and walk.

And wait.

----47 years old

He made his way into the armory of the Helicarrier. He had to stop Loki. The road he had seen in front of him when in the military was still as clear as day for him. He had to stop Loki.

He had to bring Barton back.

He took the biggest gun, the one that hadn't been tested yet. The one that could maybe stop Loki.

The road was still there in front of him when he walked down to the holding level, leading him. There was no other way. There was no other good way.

Phil never believed in destiny, and the road was the one he made himself.

He never regretted it, even when he felt Loki's scepter. Maybe his road had given Natasha the time to get to Clint.

He hoped their roads were still long and clear.

The road was hard to predict, sometimes.

OOOOOO

The Archer

The road was easy to predict sometimes. He could see remnants of fire, then he knew there was people around.

Fresh traces of gas on the asphalt, there was cannibal in the surrounding.

If there was nothing, he was on a highway, and there would be nothing for a long, long time.

He didn't want surprises.

He had surprises Before.

He liked surprises Before.

Now the only surprises where cannibals.

He didn't want surprises.

----42 years old

Clint was driving the car, Coulson seated beside him, reading some form or another, probably wondering how to write up their barely finished mission in any other term then 'Hawkeye shot an explosive arrow through the creature's asshole. We are still cleaning up pieces of intestine and fecal matter from surrounding buildings and bystanders'.

It was the older man's first mission since Loki's attack. Clint had been so excited even Natasha threatened to take him out. He couldn't help it.

First, going in missions without Coulson in his ear felt wrong. Coulson was his safety, and he felt naked without him.

Second, he needed the proof some of the damages he made were salvageable. That he didn't destroy everything that was his.

Third, he hoped it would give him courage. He was tired of waiting, and hurting. Coulson died, and he never even kissed the man. Coulson died, and he had no one that would fuss over him and come to see him at the hospital.

Clint closed his eyes for the briefest of seconds, gathering his wits, all of it. Every ounce of bravery he ever possessed and pulled the car over. Coulson turned to look at him in question.

"Is there a problem, Barton?"

Clint shook his head.

"No sir."

Coulson looked around.

"Why are we stopping?"

Clint took a deep breath, forcing his fingers to let the wheel go.

"I need to talk to you."

Coulson frowned at him.

"What is it?"

Clint looked at the other man.

"The cellist, is that still a thing?"

Coulson cocked his head to the side.

"The cellist was never a thing."

Clint felt hope bloom in his chest at Coulson's honesty.

"Right. Then-uh, I- I was wondering if you'd like to go out on a date with me?"

Coulson's face shut off completely.

"I'm not a cheap one night stand, Barton."

Clint stuttered.

"No, of course not, I didn't-"

Coulson glared at him.

"I won't be another notch in your bed!"

Clint flinched away, his voice pained as he answered quietly.

"I want a date. A real date."

Coulson's jaw ticked.

"Is this another way to apologize, Barton? Like the goddamn muffins and horrible coffees you dropped at my office in the past six months?"

"No, I-"

"You're going to wine and dine the poor miserable Coulson who can't get laid on his own, and we're going to be even?"

Clint inside were cold, and he tried to melt against-into-the car's door. Coulson's face was a blank mask that even he couldn't decipher.

"People like us don't date, Barton. You know that."

Clint felt like someone stabbed him in the gut and tore away his entrails. He closed his eyes and whispered brokenly.

"I'll go ride with Sitwell."

He slipped out. Coulson didn't call him back. Sitwell had pulled over behind them, and he crept toward the other car.

He whipped his tears away hastily, praying Coulson hadn't seen them.

Just before opening the door, he looked around. He was alone on the road.

He was alone on the road and the road was all he had once more.

OOOOOOO

The Agent

He was alone on the road and the road was all he had now.

After all this time, there was only one thing he kept from his life Before.

Clint.

Barton.

Hawkeye.

He would close his eyes, and suddenly he was back then. That night, in the car, where Clint had asked him out.

The night he had said no. The night he had refused the thing he wanted the most.

Because it couldn't have been real. It couldn't have been enough. Clint couldn't have wanted him like he wanted Clint.

Clint couldn't have missed the way everyone at HQ treated him like he was about to break.

Clint couldn't have missed the way he struggled his way through his mission.

Clint couldn't have missed the way he wasn't good anymore. He had never been good enough for Clint. Before Loki, he was nothing to the archer.

All the gifts, he knew they were from Clint. He knew how bad the archer felt. He should have known after seeing just how bad Coulson was damaged the other man would try something bigger to be forgiven.

He hadn't wanted one night. He told himself it would have been worse after.

People like them didn't date. Men like Clint, at the peak of their life wouldn't burden themselves with trash like him. With a man just waiting for someone to accept he wasn't useful anymore.

He had said no.

Now he wanted having  said yes. To have the memories with him.

To know what it was like to have Clint's skin against his, hot, damp and perfect.

To be worshipped by that sinful mouth.

To be loved, just for one night.

To be Clint's, for a second of eternity.

He hadn't. He said no, and Clint never offered again. Clint stayed away from him, and took Phil's heart with him.

Phil raised his head from the gray road, seeing a crossroad. He saw a man walking from the other direction. Another lost soul.

His heart awakened. He didn't know why. There was no reason why.

He saw the truck.

He saw the cannibals.

He saw the gun.

He saw the man pull the trigger.

He didn't hear the shot. He couldn't hear anything.

He saw the other walker fall.

He heard a whisper on the wind.

"Phil."

He saw another bullet.

He felt it in his chest.

He felt the road on under his knees.

He felt the road under is cheek.

The road was gone.

OOOOOOO

The Archer

He was arriving at a crossroad. There was another man, in the other direction.

He was alone. He felt his heart awaken.

He didn't know why.

He looked. He looked and looked.

And he saw.

Coulson.

Under the filthy clothes. Under the skin too big for him.

It was Phil.

He had still is brilliant blue eyes.

He had still this unnerving determination in his walk.

He was still the most beautiful thing Clint had ever seen.

The archer wanted to run to him.

He wanted to drop to his knees.

He wanted to beg Phil for a kiss.

Just a kiss.

A kiss from the man he loved.

Because he had found him.

The road had led him to Phil.

He wasn't deaf but he didn't hear the cannibals.

He wasn't blind but he only saw Phil.

But he felt the bullet.

And he understood he would die.

He whispered.

"Phil."

He called the other man to him.

He saw the other man fall. He tried to reach for him. He couldn't move.

He wanted to close his eyes. He couldn't move.

No one would bury him.

The road was his tomb.