Their last kiss was practically nothing. It was barely there, ephemeral for a moment that was the very end. It was a small simple period in the novel of loving gestures that filled their relationship. How quick and small it was is what makes Clint so fucking angry.
That's not true.
Since Loki murdered Phil, everything makes Clint angry. He functions in state of quiet enragement twenty-four hours a day. He doesn't know how else to be anymore. Hell, he's been hanging around Banner's heels like a needy puppy because he hopes that somehow, some of that anger management prowess will seep into him by diffusion.
When he looks back on that last day - not the last day Phil was alive when he was strung out on Asgardian mindfuckery but their last day together - he is so fucking angry that last kiss was short, rushed. There was no way he could've known or done anything different but it makes him furious anyway.
He had to get back to his duty watching over Selvig and the tesseract for another night shift. Phil was heading in the other direction, coming in from a long day on duty. On their last day, Clint met Phil for a few moments in the middle which was pretty standard for them – better than passing like ships in the night but not as good as being in sync. Over the years they had made that a life.
Clint remembers the way they ate together in their small kitchen with every new meal he sits through. He wasn't much of a cook but he'd scrabbled together some Kraft Mac & Cheese from the box on the stove before Phil wandered in. They ate it together out of the pot leaning against the counter with chopsticks because neither of them had done dishes in two weeks and those were the only clean utensils in the drawers.
Phil held up his overly-yellow macaroni at eyelevel and said "Just like Marco Polo used to do it." Clint responded with eloquent poke directly to the side. Phil laughed and jerked but didn’t move away.
They finished in companionable silence like they had a thousand evenings before. Clint threw his chopsticks in the trash and sighed. "I'll probably see you on base. Throw this in the fridge before you sack out."
Phil snorted. "Well when you ask so nicely."
"Hey, I just wanted to see you before I left but I'm already late. I've got to go before Fury does the rounds."
He'd moved towards the door but Phil caught him around the waist. He could break the hold easily - Phil was a Green Beret a lifetime ago but Clint is an active field agent - yet he stopped. He went still like always did - inside and out - when Phil was holding him. Phil slid his hand around the back of his neck and squeezed. Clint leans forward and presses his mouth to Phil's. His mouth opened and he tasted like American cheese, tap water, the wood of the chopsticks and Phil. He slipped his tongue between Phil's thin lips because he couldn't stay out when Phil let him in. Clint loved the way he answered back, his hand squeezing his nape, pulling him closer, tongue dragging across the roof of his mouth. Then, like always when they had to go their separate ways, they broke apart before it got too much.
Phil smiled at him though, a wide one. It was one from his self-satisfied set that told Clint that he'd be jerking off to that kiss when Clint walked out that door. "Have a good day, Agent," Phil smirked and actually grabbed his ass as he walked out the door.
Clint is angry at so much now that Phil is gone.
There should've been more to that day. He should've said screw work, lifted Phil onto the kitchen counter and blown him. He should've called in sick and not gone in at all. He should've told Phil he loved him before he left the apartment. When he thinks of that last kiss, that very last meeting of lips on lips, Clint wishes they had taken more time.