There was a bundle of nerves coiling tight in the pit of his stomach. He wasn't even certain that Coulson was actually here, it could have just been another lie from S.H.I.E.L.D. He just needed to know he was alive, that he was okay. If Coulson wasn't here, if it was some unassuming family, he could feign car trouble and ask to use the phone.

His hearing was impeccable, and the sound of the safety being taken off a gun was clear. His heart started racing, and he clenched his fist at his side. There was a gun strapped to his leg - you could never be too sure about what situation you were walking in to - but he didn't want to pull it yet. If it was Coulson, he knew that he wouldn't shoot first and ask questions later. That wasn't Coulson's style.

When Coulson came into view, gun trained on him, Clint was certain that he'd forgotten how to breathe. He was stood right in front of him, alive. He was fucking alive. He wasn't sure if the overwhelming feeling was relief, or the urge to punch him for lying, making the entire team grieve. "You... are looking pretty spry," Clint managed, voice rough and trembling. "For a dead guy."