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They're always a little disoriented when they get here. It's only natural, really; I mean, one minute you're leading a life – whatever that means – and the next you're standing on an empty road you know you weren't anywhere near before.
Except you were.
You're always just a step away from the road.
Sometimes they panic – where am I? who are you? what the hell is this? – and that can get old pretty fast, but I get it. Most people only end up here once, so it's not like they can really get used to it. And it's better than the ones who cry. I can't even tell you how many crying people I've had to wait for while they sobbed about completely meaningless things. You'd think that by the time they ended up here, they'd have gotten over all the superficial parts of life, but no.
The bargainers are fun. They want their money and their objects and their power, and sometimes I wish I could just let them have it all, because really, it would be kind of funny to watch them try to use it. Where do they think they're going? What good do they think it will do them to have a suitcase full of gold or whatever it is they ask for? The bargainers are often the screamers, too. I don't mind the screamers, when they're quick; I hate having to stand around and wait while they make themselves hoarse and do themselves no good at all.
Eventually, they all end up the same. They calm down, I answer their questions, we walk.
But these guys – these guys I liked. They were different.
The way it begins, I'm just standing there, like usual, and the first one picks himself up off the ground and dusts himself off. Not that there's ever any dust on the road, but hey, I guess it's pretty hard to break a lifetime's worth of habits. He dusts himself off, and then he shakes his friend by the shoulder, Clint, Clint.
I don't really know what he was expecting. Dead's dead, and everyone who dies wakes up when they get here.
So Clint rolls over and gives him a shove and goes, Leave me alone, I'm sleeping. But he gets up in the end, because the road is hardly comfortable and anyway, I'm pretty easy-going, but I do try to keep to a schedule when I can.
Where are we, Phil? he wants to know. And, I mean, I'm standing right there, it's not like they couldn't just ask me, but no, I guess I'm invisible or something. (I'm kidding. Obviously. I'm only invisible if you're alive.)
Phil's smarter than his friend, though, because he just kind of looks past Clint at me and waits for an answer.
I'd raise an eyebrow, but of course, they can't see my face. It's the damn hood, you know? Upper management is so hung up on keeping up appearances, they can't see how impractical it is. I'd kill to go to work in jeans and a hoodie some days, but no, it's all robes this and scythes that and deep, doom-portending voice. I'm telling you, some days I feel like I should just buy stock in Halls.
Clint spins around, does a double-take. That's the Grim Reaper, he says. I mean, the actual one. Not the guy with the stupid hat.
Phil gives him a kind of a dirty look.
I've been called a lot of things, but never the guy with the stupid hat.
So are we dead? Clint wants to know, and I figure by then it's about time I spoke up, so I tell him yeah, they're dead, all right. Standing on an interdimensional road with the Grim Reaper in a place where there's no weather and no sunlight and no sound except the three of us, it should be pretty obvious, but yeah, I say, you're dead.
Clint says, Am I gonna have to file a report about this?
They're different.
I ask them, Would you guys mind if we got started walking here? It's kind of a long road, and I can put off other obligations for a while, but unless you have a good reason, I'd like to get going.
Clint makes an exaggerated go-ahead gesture, and we go. I stay behind him and Phil, because it's what I always do when I take colleagues or friends together. Unfinished business sucks, and even though they've missed their chances with the living, I figure it's the least I can do to let them have their last words with each other.
I know something they don't.
They're not going to the same place.
It's a natural assumption everyone makes when they come together. Same death, same time, same road, same destination, right? But that's not how it works. When you get to the gates, all bets are off. I don't know how many different places those gates lead; I'm not allowed past them, and if I were, I wouldn't want to go. In the end, really, I'm just the baggage handler at the airport. I know where they're going, but I've never been there myself and I don't know what it's like.
It's part of the deal, immortality. Most people have to work for it, but if you land a gig like mine, they just give it to you. I guess it's easier than training someone new every few decades.
So, says Clint. What went wrong, sir?
I don't know, says Phil. I didn't exactly have time for a debrief.
That's what we're doing now. Isn't it?
Agent Barton, I respect your eagerness to toe the line – though I really, really wish you'd started sooner. But are you honestly suggesting that now is the best time to examine the mission?
Clint shrugs. What else are we gonna do?
And I'm back there, hood pulled down over my face, trying not to laugh, because really, what the hell? I've had soldiers before – God knows, I get them all the time – but usually, they're the strong, silent type. They have regrets, sure, but they know how to put them aside and get on with business. They never question where I'm taking them or why it has to be their turn this time. But these guys – they're not soldiers despite dying in the heat of battle; they're not bureaucrats despite neatly-pressed suit and subdued tie. I have no idea what they are, and the short one is sarcastic, and the tall one's vaguely irritated, and it's funny as hell from my point of view.
Phil turns to me and asks where they're going.
They always ask eventually, and I always have to tell them I don't know. It's true, I don't; I only know it won't be the same place for each of them. It never is.
I can't tell you, I say, and he doesn't believe me, but he doesn't ask again.
Clint asks if they'll have breakfast for them there, and Phil tells him he should have had something before they left for the mission. Clint asks him if he's going to be this snippy all the way, and okay, yeah, I'm definitely laughing at them now.
Barton, says Phil, I'm not sure you appreciate the gravity of the situation.
I appreciate it, says Clint, but what do you expect me to do about it? Little levity on the way down can't hurt.
On the way down? Phil asks him.
Well, not you, obviously, says Clint. Just me. You're a suit. What's the worst thing you've done in your life? Got a blue form mixed in with the green ones?
Phil gives him an even look and says, Barton, don't talk about things you don't understand.
Clint says, How many people have I killed, Phil? You have it all on file. And that's not even close to how many I've wanted to kill.
In our line of work, killing a man is not a condemnation.
I don't think he's – and Clint tilts his head in my direction – in our line of work.
It's a damned shame I can't give them the raised eyebrow, and so I try to put it all into my voice when I say, You think killing someone is a problem in my line of work?
I maybe shake the scythe at them a little, too, because really. And because I like the way it makes a sound like rattling bones. Good manufacture, the scythe. Most of the time I don't mind it at all.
Good point, says Clint, and then they don't talk for a while.
It's Clint who breaks the silence again, and by now I'm getting that he's the mouth in this team-up. He nudges Coulson and asks, So what did you do?
I don't want to talk about it, Barton.
We're dead. You think maybe we could be on a first-name basis?
I don't want to talk about it, Clint.
I remember his slip-up back when he arrived, before he knew what was going on or where they were. He was panicking a little – didn't show it, but a guy like him wouldn't – panicking and shaking his friend awake, and he was saying Clint then.
They might think they're just colleagues, but they're not.
What do you want to talk about?
Some silence would be good right now.
Are you kidding? Clint says, and I'm kind of thinking the same thing, because I know how long the road is and there's no way someone like Clint is going to make it all the way without talking. Hell, I don't think Clint can go five minutes without talking.
Okay, says Phil, but he's not talking to Clint. Why don't you tell us what happened?
The truth is, I don't really know what happened to them. They died; that's all I'm responsible for knowing. They were fighting – I know that – and they were pretty well outmatched. (Well, that's obvious; after all, they're here, aren't they?)
I have to tell him I don't know again, which doesn't please him, but I like the guy – I like them both – and so I say, I can tell you I didn't pick up anybody else at that battle.
Phil looks relieved, but Clint frowns.
What about the bad guys?
Oh, I say, I'm not responsible for them.
Clint looks surprised, like he hasn't quite realized he's one of the good guys yet. Like he's completely unaware of what he is, and I can kind of get that, because he can't see what I see. He can't see the way he shines in this place, can't see the way his whole life story's laid out here, mistakes and good intentions, flaws and failings and perfect humanity. Of course he can't see those things; that's what being human means.
He's one of the good guys, hell, he's one of the best. But it's not my job to tell him that.
Looking at Phil, though, I'm starting to think maybe he can see it.
You know, Clint says as we walk, things could be worse.
Could they? asks Phil, voice dry and brittle, and he's got the raised eyebrow that I've been wishing I had for the past half hour at least.
Yeah, says Clint. At least I'm not doing this with Fury or someone.
Phil says, Fury would be more professional.
Clint says, Where's the fun in that?
We're dead, Clint. It's not an amusement park ride.
Not for you, says Clint. Being dead is depressing enough. I'm not gonna let it harsh my vibe any more than it has to.
Harsh your vibe, Agent Barton?
Shut up. Not all of us are stuck in the nineteen-fifties.
Actually, I say conversationally, I liked the nineteen-fifties. They were a hell of a lot more relaxed than this guy in his suit and his tie. There was television, Sputnik, Buddy Holly, leak-proof ballpoint pens (Clint grins and elbows Phil).
Phil says, My pens never leak.
Clint says, Thank the nineteen-fifties.
I drop back a few steps while they're talking, because last words should be something the two of them share. I'm going to listen (don't judge me; I'm just a very morbid kind of bellhop in the end, and gossip is all the pleasure I get), but I don't have to be obvious about it.
Really, Clint says to Phil, low-voiced and without looking at him. If I had to go, I'm glad it was with you.
Phil won't look at Clint either, but he nods and says, It's been an honour serving with you, Clint.
Clint stops right there in the middle of the road and faces Phil. I stop, too, because I want to see what's going to happen next.
Really, Phil? Clint asks. Really, we've worked together for five years, fought together for even longer, we've been on missions all over the world and taken bullets for each other and done each other's paperwork (Phil snorts; even I know it's Phil who's done all the paperwork), and really? That's what you're going to give me? It's been an honour serving with you, Clint?
It has been.
Clint pauses, looks at me, and asks, We're dead, right? That's it? That's the end? We get to wherever we're going and it's over. Right?
I nod, which is a lie, but holy hell, these guys. If I tell them the truth, which is that change is not the same as an ending, they'll just go back and forth forever and they won't get anything done. That's what the road is for, to deal with stuff like this. I'm starting to understand why they got dumped so far away from the gates; they're on a longer walk than almost anyone I've ever brought before.
I nod, and Clint looks at Phil and he goes, You were my favourite agent to work with, you know?
I was the only agent you worked with.
Yeah, why d'you think that was?
Phil sighs, Because I was the only agent who could put up with your sass?
Clint's being serious, though, dead serious, when he says, Phil, you made me feel like I belonged on those missions. Like you actually trusted me to be there. Everyone else just looked at me like – like when you got me off the streets, and they all thought I was a criminal.
I'm impressed, because it's obvious Phil doesn't know what to say to that, and really, anyone who can stand on this road and know they're dead and know they've only got a little time and still be all stuffed shirt and hesitance, well, that takes some doing.
I'm impressed, yeah, but I also kind of want to throw my hands up and go, for fuck's sake, you two.
I don't; the Grim Reaper is supposed to have some dignity.
I'll give him credit, though, when Phil finally speaks, he does a hell of a job.
I took you on missions because you got the job done, Clint, he says. You don't always obey orders and I can't even begin to enumerate your issues with authority, but you don't screw around on the job. When we got a tough assignment, I didn't have to make a choice; I always knew I was taking you. You might think you were the reason no one else would work with you, but I never let them have the option in the first place.
They're silent for so long that I'm considering just grabbing them both by their collars and shoving them in each other's faces. This is a level of unresolved I never even knew existed until now. These guys are legendary.
If this were a movie, they'd probably kiss each other now or something. Then again, if this were a movie, I'd probably let them go back to their lives and spend years together and grow old and all that stuff.
Real life is not a movie.
But they walk shoulder to shoulder now as we get closer to the gates, and they keep shooting these looks at each other when they each think the other isn't looking. They both know that they're doing it, but I guess it's plausible deniability or something.
And then we're there, the end of the road. The gates are tall and grey for me; I don't know what they look like to the men in front of me, but that's just how it works. We all see something different, and I'm pretty low on the pay scale, so I don't get to find out what this place looks like to the people I bring here.
They look at each other, then at me. I shrug.
You have to walk through, I tell them, even though I'm pretty sure they both already know.
What about you?
I stay. It's my job.
You sound like him, says Clint, and bumps Phil with his shoulder. Phil rolls his eyes, but doesn't bother answering.
They turn back to the gates and get ready, and Phil says, I suppose you can't tell us anything.
I've never been there, I say, and it's true. I want to throw these guys a bone, though, because I've enjoyed their company, and because they've been so much better about things than most people are.
So I say, It won't be anywhere bad.
I'd like to believe it's not a lie, but I don't know. I really don't.
They go to step over the threshold, and Clint freezes.
Wait.
He takes Phil's hand; Phil lets him.
So we stay together, Clint says.
It won't make any difference. I already know that, but I don't tell them. Instead, I nod and smile, though I know they can't see it, and I let them have one another, because who knows?
These two aren't like the others.
Maybe, for them, it will.