When he woke up, it didn't matter that it was pitch black and silent. One whiff of the air and he knew exactly where he was.

The last thing he remembered was levelling an arrow at the mutant armadillo that was flying straight at him. He guessed it didn't end well.

Clint was certainly no stranger to the morgue. He didn't like the place. It was too sterile, too cold and impersonal, and it always had that faint underlying scent of decay. Unfortunately, he'd been forced to come down here more than a handful of times over the years, frequent enough to build a passing familiarity with it.

"Aw, fuck." He muttered to himself. He pulled the sheet off from over his head and started to work the toe tag off with his other foot. Someone had tried to clean him off a little, but there were still clumps of dried blood caked under his fingernails and a metallic taste in his mouth. This was never a good way to start off. He just hoped they didn't lock the drawer when they had stuffed him in there. Suffocating was a bitch.

He froze when he heard the sound of a door opening. As quietly as he could, he pulled the sheet back over his head. There wasn't a chance in hell of him passing for dead now. There was no mistaking the flush in his cheeks, or the fact that he was, you know, breathing, but he hoped they wouldn't look too closely.

Footsteps, then a pause, and Clint held his breath, tensed.

He let it out in a whoosh when he heard a familiar voice call out, "Relax, Barton. It's me."

"Fucking took you long enough." He called back, his voice echoing oddly in the closed chamber.

"Hey, be thankful I made it here before the autopsy." The drawer door rattled but stayed in place, "And it looks like you'll have to wait a little longer still. I think they locked the drawer so no one would steal your body." There was a sound of picks being inserted, "How's the air in there?"

"Like the sweet aroma of rotting flesh." Clint replied, "You couldn't have done this before I woke up?"

"Tried. Too busy with people stopping me in the hallways to offer their condolences."

"Hmm. That bad?"

"You are in the morgue." His rescuer pointed out, "That generally never bodes well."

Clint swore. He's died three times since joining the Avengers. Once from a brain injury when he landed a 2 story drop head first, the next from getting stabbed clean through by a doombot. And now, apparently, death by armadillo. The danger pay is really not worth the kind of shit he gets put through.

With the first two, he managed to avoid detection easily enough. Clint's healing has gotten pretty quick over the years as long as he isn't torn up too badly, and his uniform hid blood surprisingly well. "Does this mean it's time to move on?"

"Unfortunately. This is definitely not something you can come back from. Your death was very public and very final."

"That sucks. Did I bleed out too fast?"

"No. Left your intestines on the concrete."

Clint winced. "Gross. Remind me again why I joined the Initiative?"

"Because you never listen to any of my advice?"

"Oh yeah. In hindsight, joining a highly visibly team of superheroes may not have been one of my better decisions. I'll do better next time?" Clint offered.

A snort. "I'll believe it when I see it. Hang on, I got it." There's a solid click of tumblers falling into place and then a yank.

Light spills into the tiny space and Clint experienced a brief lurch of vertigo as the drawer is pulled out with a loud screech. He sat up and squinted through the sudden brightness at his rescuer.

Phil smiled ruefully back, "It was a good run, while it lasted." He motioned to a bundle left on a lab table. "I brought you some things."

All his earlier irritation was forgotten when he saw the items Phil was pointing at. Clint's face lit up and he practically skipped the distance over to snatch up his katana. He pulled the sword from its sheath, beaming as the light glinted off the metal. "Oh sweetheart," He cooed at it, "Daddy missed you so much. He didn't mean to neglect you."

"Huh. That's still as disturbing as ever. Good to know."

Clint laughed. He started to pull on his clothes, the black and yellow gear sill fitting like a second skin, even after all these years. "Don't I at least get to watch my own funeral?"

Phil levelled a look at him. "No. Absolutely not. You need to leave before someone walks in. I looped the cameras at the southwest entrance. The car's on the third level." He handed Clint a key ring which Clint knew also held the key to a storage locker across town.

"Come on, Phil. I just wanted to see if anyone cries. My bets are on Sitwell. He always had a soft spot for me."

"How about I let you know?" Phil offers dryly.

"Fine. Just don't let anyone get too down. Getting drunk is much easier."

"Noted. I'm sure Stark will provide plenty of alcohol." Phil held out his sword sheath with its familiar yellow lines twisted into elaborate designs over the black case. Grabbing it, Clint replaced his katana into the sheath and attached it at his hip, automatically adjusting his balance to its familiar weight.

"And can you make sure no one tells that story about that street vendor in Prague. I'm never going to live that down."

"Not in a hundred years." Phil agrees with his lips pressed back in amusement.

Clint pointed a finger at Phil. "You better not bring it up next time I see you."

Phil chuckled, "Scout's honour."

"And don't-"

"Barton." Phil broke in gently.

Clint's shoulders slump. "Yeah, you're right. It's just… I'll miss you." Clint said and was surprised about how true that sentiment was. He'd made it a mission long ago not to get attached to anyone and had the lesson hammered into him time and time again over the years, but it seemed that somewhere along the way, he had dropped his guard and hadn't every realized it.

Phil cupped a hand to his cheek, smiling fondly. "Not for too long." He pressed a final kiss to Clint's lips and pulled the cowl of the uniform over Clint's head. "Don't get into too much trouble without me."

"No promises." Clint slid his hand underneath the hood and flattened his hair. It had always seemed slightly surreal to him how quickly one could don on a new persona. He smirked at Phil, the effect slightly ruined by the fabric covering his mouth, "I'll see you on the flip side."

Phil nodded. He closed the drawer and started to gather up any evidence that they'd been here before wiping the surfaces of their fingerprints. "A few years, maybe. I have been here too long. People are starting to talk."

"It just adds to your mystique." Clint said.

He laughed, "The rumours are wild enough. Now shoo."

Clint headed for the corner of the room, his feet feather-light against the floor. He hopped up on the countertops and removed the ceiling tile. He paused before hoisting himself up.

"Hey Phil?"

"Hmm?" Phil asked absently, not doubt already devising plans to cover up Clint's exit.

Clint grinned. "Watch your head."