Phil was dead. Phil was dead.
Clint was curled up under the bed. He had the duvet and pillows down there to lie on, and his blanket was pulled over him. He was curled up as small as he could, and the blanket covered his entire body. He could still hear Loki in his head, and Phil was dead. He was never coming back. He was lying under the bed that he and Phil shared and he was alone. He rubbed the blanket against his cheeks, soaking up the tears that fell without his permission. It smelled of Phil.
Phil was gone and he was never coming back. Clint was alone, truly alone, for the first time in nearly ten years. They'd been together for almost three years and Clint had been planning a vacation for their next anniversary. They were never going to go to the cabin in the mountains. They were never going to go fishing and hunting and cuddle by the log burning fire when it got cold.
They were never going to do any of that because Phil was dead and Clint was left with nothing.
