Chapter Text
Phil had never truly appreciated the processing power of the human brain until this moment. His thoughts raced as he teetered on the last wave of adrenaline, even as his body struggled for air through the blood seeping into his airway.
It...it didn't hurt.
He had never given much thought to what his legacy would be. He was never prone to those thoughts, but now seemed the time to indulge in them.
His vision greyed around the edges before pulsing back into clarity.
Nick would find someway to leverage his death, of that he had no doubt. He has no illusions as to the sort of man his friend is. At least he can serve SHIELD, serve earth one last time.
He hears a sigh, so distant sounding to his own ears that he doesn't recognize it as his own.
When it's all over, enemies dead and dust settled, Nick will drink the bottle of scotch reserved for when this eventually happened to one of them. They both always knew it would be Phil, though Nick had secretly hoped they were wrong.
The gun sits heavy in his lap and looking down he sees the small flood of red over its deadly angles. His hand is still curled, one finger on the trigger. He tries to move it but it doesn't respond.
There are others who would mourn. Sitwell, Hill, Wu, Quartermaine, Natasha...
He hears shouting over his comm unit but it is distant and indistinct until, "...Barton. Repeat, I have agent Barton."
Clint. He tries to form the sounds but nothing comes out. A tightness that had set up shop in his chest released at Natasha's words.
At least he'll survive.
All other thoughts were suddenly unimportant.
Clint will live. He will recover and he will go on. That knowledge was the closest thing to peace Phil Coulson had ever known.

lola381pce Sun 02 Apr 2017 07:09AM UTC
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