Natasha shivers, the cold biting at her exposed shoulders, wind tossing her hair into her face. Clint's suit jacket rests beside her on the hood of the car, and although she runs her fingers over the fabric, she doesn't move to put it on. It's an insignificant way to atone for her failure, but warmth seem profane.
Phil's cold - he has to be cold, there's no way the sleek metal coffin would be anything but.
"The 0-8-4 in Oregon," Clint mumbles, and takes a deep drag from his cigarette. The faint glow from the embers throws the planes of his face into shadow. His eyes look overbright.
She has a quick flash of Clint and Coulson, sweeping the building, poking through dusty vaults while she and May stand at either end of the corridor. She remembers the easy camaraderie, the jokes and teasing because the 0-8-4 turned out to be a weird fertility statue and they're all approximately as mature as a group of kindergartners.
She turns away and drains the rest of her too-warm beer, even though the taste makes her stomach churn. It's the fancy craft beer Coulson likes - liked - and Clint claims the two six-packs in the trunk of the car were a coincidence.
"Odessa," she says, because she can't seem to pull up any of the bittersweet memories Clint keeps throwing out, only blood and fear and white-hot hurt.
"Not thinkin' about Odessa tonight," Clint rumbles. "Go again."
She can't find anything else, just the ghost of Phil's hand closing around her forearm, and the calm reassurances he'd spoken.
She slams the empty bottle back into its slot in the cardboard sleeve. Clint startles at the noise, and she should feel bad, but she only has the urge to smash the empties on the asphalt. She falls back, sprawls on the hood of the car and stares up at the scatter of stars. Clint flicks the last half of his cigarette away.
"Project P.E.G.A.S.U.S." he says.
She's suddenly tired of the conversation. She wants to go home but neither of them can drive and they can't call Coulson. They're aimless, loitering drunk in a graveyard, because the one who held them together is gone.
"What about it?" she asks, playing along. She has nothing better to do.
Clint takes her hand and pulls her back up to sit; the sudden shift leaves her lightheaded. He squeezes her fingers and cups her cheek with his free hand, then he's kissing her, eyes closed, tongue, smoke on his breath. Her stomach flips again and some instinct spurs her into motion, and she returns the effort just enough to appease him.
He pulls away, lights another cigarette.
"Coulson told me to stop wasting time," he mumbles, the words oddly strangled.
She looks past him, through him, to the rows of flower arrangements on stands and the gap where the headstone will be.
The traitorous thought claws its way into the back of her mind: Phil's death wasn't worth that kiss.