Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of this work of fiction, and no profit, monetary or otherwise, is being made through this.

A/N: Inspired by watching the season finale and season premiere for, "Marvel's Agents of SHIELD", and the fact that I really do believe this - that Coulson shouldn't die. Way too much of an emotional wringer. I refused to believe it when it happened in the movie, and just...no...he cannot.

I know the grammar is imperfect, I'm okay with that. Let me know if you liked the story? Thanks

Clint traces Coulson's lips with the tip of his finger. They're cold, dry, a light shade of blue that doesn't suit anyone. His skin's a dusty gray, and the man's too damn still, even for him.

He presses his lips, warm, full of life, to Coulson's, lets them linger, willing warmth into the other man. Eyelids flicker, lazy blinking brings Coulson to a dull kind of arrange awareness, makes Clint's heart skip a beat, tugs a half smile from him.

It's like waking Sleeping Beauty, he thinks and frowns at the image that he conjures of Coulson in a blonde,curly wig, long flowing skirt and lacy shirt. He almost snickers at the image, but Coulson's watching him, and the fact that the man's finally awake is a sobering one.

Took him long enough, Clint thinks.

"Did it work?" Coulson's voice, like Clint's heart, is broken, weak.

Clint pulls away, nods, frowns at Coulson's one track mind because it's not on the same track as his own.

"Good."

The smile is too much. Tight, lip-splitting. It's all Clint can do not to give the agent a piece of his mind. Something of this must show on his face, because Coulson frowns, reaches a hand, shaking - a residual side effect from the drugs that had made him appear to be dead, down to the lack of a heartbeat - to Clint's face. Touches his lips, makes them burn as though they've been electrified.

"Hey, none of that," Coulson whispers, voice husky, as ruined as Clint's heart.

"You were dead," Clint says, stating the obvious, leaving out the part that, though he knew it wasn't going to be permanent, he'd died a little himself. Had been dead in all the ways that mattered until Coulson's heart had started beating again and the man had taken his first real breath.

Coulson smiles at that, a crooked, indulging, knowing smile. One that communicates what a sap he thinks Clint is. One that communicates love.

"I know." It's not an answer, not a consolation, not an acknowledgment of how much Clint had suffered, though he knew it hadn't been real (feared it wouldn't work, that he'd lose Coulson, again).

"I'm not dead now," Coulson adds, tries to sit up.

Clint helps him, refuses to look him in the eye, because he's angry, knows it's ridiculous to be angry, because it had worked the way Coulson had promised him it would, and they'd gotten the bad guys, and had put them away for good, some, permanently.

"Hey." Coulson's breath brushes against his ear, tickles a reaction from Clint's skin, makes his own breath hitch.

"I'm okay," he says, voice little more than a whisper.

"I know that," Clint growls, grips Coulson's shoulders hard enough to bruise them.

"Do you?" His voice is matter-of-fact, dry, teasing...and when Clint chances a look at him, he's smiling, one eyebrow lifted in amusement, question, a bid for forgiveness.

"Yeah." Clint's voice is husky, throat dry, palms sweaty, heart beating a mile a minute, and before his mind can register the action, Coulson's moving toward him, merging their mouths together.

Coulson's lips are no longer blue, no longer cold, and latched, as they are, on Clint's, they communicate so much more than words ever could. And when they pull apart, because breathing is a necessity, and Coulson's still recovering, Clint decides that Coulson should never, ever die, again, not even for fake.

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