"Come with me," is all Fury says when he meets them at the helicarrier, docked for repairs at SHIELD headquarters, after the Battle. After Loki has been handed over in Tesseract-powered cuffs, after schwarma, after Clint hadn't needed to ask, and Natasha hadn't needed to tell.

'How many?' hadn't been the real question, and Natasha's 'Don't' was answer enough.

"They've got him on life support," Fury says, as he leads the exhausted Avengers down a corridor in the damaged ship, "but there's no-" Fury stops and runs a calloused hand across his face, not quite quick enough to hide the tiny tremor.

"I didn't lie," Nick says, and Clint doesn't know the story but he can guess. Stark is uncharacteristically quiet, and Rogers is appropriately solemn. Clint spares a moment to hope that Phil actually got to meet his hero before . . . well, before whatever happened to put him here in this tiny room Nick has led them to, back in the forgotten corners of Medical where agents go when all that's left to do is say goodbye and wait.

Clint stands by the door with Nick and Natasha as the others take their turns. One by one they step up to Phil's bed, and step back a few moments later. Clint doesn't hear what they say - even Thor is quiet - and it's none of his business anyway. He pretends he doesn't see Stark wipe his eyes as he turns away.

Natasha goes last. She places one small hand on Phil's forehead and her lips go thin and white.

"I brought him back for you," she says quietly, the Black Widow checking in, reporting the success of the last mission he ever gave her. It makes Clint's gut churn with guilt for what he's about to do, knowing he won't have time to explain it to her. Tasha puts a supportive hand on his shoulder as she returns to his side, and Clint flicks a grateful glance her direction.

"Can I have some time?" he asks Nick, eyes never leaving the still figure on the bed. Nick nods.

"As long as you need," he says, kind and sympathetic like he rarely is. It's a long-standing joke among the upper echelons of SHIELD that Phil is the only agent higher than level 5 who doesn't know how Clint feels about him. Nick and Natasha herd the others out the door, leaving Clint alone with the artificially-living body of the man he loves.

Clint walks over and sits on the edge of Phil's hospital bed. It's insane, what he's thinking of doing, and he knows it. Nothing but half-remembered fairy tales to even say it's possible and yet . . . The steady whoosh of the ventilator is too loud in Clint's ears and the only thing that makes any sense in this fucked up world is right there in front of him and so far out of reach.

Making sure his body hides the action from the camera in the corner Clint unsheathes one of the knives he keeps strapped to his thigh. He spares only a quick thought for the people on the other side of the door, who will see this and not understand.

"I'm sorry," he whispers to Phil, to Natasha and Nick and the others. And then in one quick, brutal movement he brings the knife up and slits his own throat.

A sharp wounded cry torn from Natasha's throat has the others whirling around just in time to see Clint fall, choking, on the bed atop Phil. The grainy security feed does nothing to mute the violent splash of blood on the wall, soaking the bed and its unresponsive occupant, pooling on the floor.

There's a mad dash for the door and Natasha knows it's pointless, Clint's action too fast, too efficient to do anything but watch as he dies but it doesn't keep her from being first into the room. Clint's body convulses once and stills.

Dimly she hears Fury's broken curse, Thor's choked off bellow of rage and denial, Tony's agonising moan. And then, as they stare in horror, small flames flicker to life around Clint's body, growing larger, brighter, until the entire bed is engulfed in a conflagration almost too bright to look at. Smaller tongues of fire erupt along the wall, the floor, the machines surrounding the bed, anything that was touched by Clint's blood.

As quickly as they erupted the flames die down, leaving behind only a thin patina of fine grey ash across the uncharred sheets.