Say the Words (Clint/Coulson)
Phil had traced the letters a hundred—a thousand—times, kissing Clint's skin where the words had trailed off in an abrupt ending...
(He was choking on his own blood, vision barely holding. His mind, however, was clear, and it was filled with memories of Clint:
Clint on their first date, fumbling a little, blushing a little; Clint on their second, smiling at Phil for no real reason.
Clint dozens of dates later as he walked around Phil's apartment shirtless. The words were scarred into the skin beneath his left pectoral, curving to match the swell of the flesh there, and Phil had commented on them only once, only to ask, “Do you ever think about what it means?”
There hadn't been a pause. Just “No. I don't,” and Clint had shifted their attention to the takeout menus.)
...and now he thought that whomever decided that this was how one found their soulmate needed a sharp kick in a very sensitive place. God, what a messed up way for someone to find their other half.
He sighed, swallowing down the blood that had crawled up his throat: catastrophic organ failure had a way of shoving blood into less convenient places. He honestly wished he could lay down and let it drain, but he knew he had several moments longer before he'll be able to let go.
He still has to say the words.
“Coulson!”
“I'm sorry, boss. The god rabbited.”
“Just stay awake. Eyes on me.”
“No, I'm clockin' out here.”
“Not an option.”
“It's okay, boss. This was never gonna work if they didn't have something to...”