Two Years Later:

The crack of the rifle echos off the metal walls of the warehouse where Clint crouches, helpless, behind the dubious cover of a stack of wooden crates. For the first time in his life he curses his amazing vision that allows him to see, far too clearly, the spray of blood that erupts as Phil crumples and falls from the scaffolding forty feet up.

Clint's heart is in his throat. What if it didn't work? What if the burning had healed Phil's injuries but hadn't actually made him into a phoenix? Time seems to slow down as Phil falls, silent, until Clint's sharp eyes make out the slightest hint of red and then there is a burst of fire as Phil disappears mid-air and lands flat on his back next to Clint. Phil's eyes are wide with shock as he sits up and rubs the side of his chest where the bullet had hit.

"Huh. That felt weird," he says, and Clint feels relief bubble up inside him and trying to come out as hysterical laughter.

"This is your safe place?" Clint asks incredulously, the sounds of battle audible just across the room.

"You're here," Phil replies, smiling. "How much safer could I be?"

Clint drops his bow, and grabs Phil instead, totally uncaring of the bullets now slamming into the crates just a few feet from their position. He drags Phil's face to his, capturing those slightly smirking lips with his own and kisses him until he starts to feel light-headed from lack of oxygen. Phil gives back as good as he gets and long before he wants to Clint finds himself pulling back, gasping. He rests his forehead against Phil's revelling in the warmth of his skin and the feel of that steady heartbeat against his fingers.

"God, I love you," Clint says, and Phil's smile lights up his world.