Phil felt sick suddenly. Fury told him the announcement had been made right away, as soon as they got him discretely down to medical, and that the grief and anger over his death had brought them together, made them fight that much harder. His death had been the key to their success, according to Fury.
But if Clint hadn't known until after... Phil had no doubts about the importance of the archer's place on the team, they would have needed him at 100%, so if not telling him had produced that... now the question of whether him being dead had really done the good Fury had said it did began to surface. He'd tried never to wonder about it before, because it was done, and the idea that he wouldn't just die and be forgotten someday was nice. Everyone wanted their own memory to live on, to have a higher purpose.
"I'm sorry," he repeated, softer this time. "I..." He tried to think of what he could say to make this better, but suddenly all those reasons why Fury was right and this was a necessary thing just seemed to pale in comparison to what he'd put people through. "I should have fought him on this one. You're right. It was selfish."
He looked over at Clint, something he'd said suddenly clicking in his head. His medication really was affecting him if it had taken him this long to process the most vital part of Clint's words. "...you haven't slept or eaten in four days?" He straightened up. "I'm not the one who needs to lie down. Jesus. Sit." He pointed at the kitchen table, a tiny island of Formica with two plastic chairs. "I'll make you something and then you're going to bed. It would be a really terrible kind of irony if you killed yourself trying to find out if I was still alive."
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2012-05-12 04:51 pm (UTC)But if Clint hadn't known until after... Phil had no doubts about the importance of the archer's place on the team, they would have needed him at 100%, so if not telling him had produced that... now the question of whether him being dead had really done the good Fury had said it did began to surface. He'd tried never to wonder about it before, because it was done, and the idea that he wouldn't just die and be forgotten someday was nice. Everyone wanted their own memory to live on, to have a higher purpose.
"I'm sorry," he repeated, softer this time. "I..." He tried to think of what he could say to make this better, but suddenly all those reasons why Fury was right and this was a necessary thing just seemed to pale in comparison to what he'd put people through. "I should have fought him on this one. You're right. It was selfish."
He looked over at Clint, something he'd said suddenly clicking in his head. His medication really was affecting him if it had taken him this long to process the most vital part of Clint's words. "...you haven't slept or eaten in four days?" He straightened up. "I'm not the one who needs to lie down. Jesus. Sit." He pointed at the kitchen table, a tiny island of Formica with two plastic chairs. "I'll make you something and then you're going to bed. It would be a really terrible kind of irony if you killed yourself trying to find out if I was still alive."