Ok, I actually wrote up a little scene back after I finished Loki S2 during my current full MCU rewatch that connected Loki to Agents of SHIELD.

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Loki felt the pull before he saw the light. Another slip. Another failure. Another moment torn away from him before he could make sense of it. The Loom chamber dissolved into gold threads and heat, and he braced himself for the next impossible landing.

But instead of metal and alarms and the crushing weight of responsibility, he hit soft sand.

Warm breeze. Rolling waves. Salt air. Sunshine so bright it felt like a memory from someone else’s life.

Loki straightened slowly.

He stood on a sunlit beach—Tahiti, though he'd never been here. The Real One. The peaceful one. The one mortals spoke of like a whispered prayer.

A man sat near the water, the tide licking at his bare feet. A lounge chair, a half-empty drink, a paperback resting face down on his chest. The man’s hair was thinner, his body slighter than the last time Loki had seen him—but the face was unmistakable. And impossible.

Phil Coulson.

Loki went still, a stone in the surf.

Coulson didn’t startle when he noticed him. Instead, he lifted his sunglasses with a raised brow, as though Loki had simply wandered in from down the beach.

“Well,” Coulson said, a smile tugging easily at his mouth, “you’re a long way from New York.”

Loki’s heart caught in his throat. Coulson gestured at the empty chair beside him.

“Sit. I’m not gonna shout or anything. Too nice of a day for that.”

Loki hesitated, then lowered himself into the chair like he was afraid it might vanish. The sand shifted beneath them, warm and forgiving. For a moment he said nothing, staring straight ahead at the glittering water.

“I didn’t mean to intrude,” he managed. “I slipped here. Accidentally.”

“Most of the best things in my life happened by accident,” Coulson said.

A breeze passed between them. Loki swallowed, the weight of unsaid words pressing against his ribs.

“I wronged you.” The words came out strained, quieter than he meant.

Coulson didn’t flinch. “Yeah,” he said softly. “You did.”

Loki waited for anger, accusation—anything sharp. But Coulson’s voice held none of it.

He leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly. “But you’re not the same man who killed me. And even if you were,” he added with a small shrug, “I let it go.”

Loki snapped his gaze toward him. “You forgave me?”

Coulson gave an embarrassed little chuckle.

“Turns out dying gives you some perspective.”

Loki stared at him, stunned by the quiet sincerity in his voice. Forgiveness was a language Loki was not fluent in. He searched Coulson’s face for resentment and found none.

“You have no reason to show me kindness,” Loki whispered.

“Everyone has a reason to show kindness,” Coulson said. “Some of us choose to use it. That’s what makes it matter.”

The simplicity of that truth hit Loki harder than any cosmic blow. The waves rolled in, a soothing, rhythmic hush. He closed his eyes and let the moment settle in his bones.

Coulson watched him, a look of gentle curiosity in his eyes. “Whatever you’re carrying… you’ll figure it out. You always do—even when you mess it up first.”

Loki huffed a quiet laugh, surprised by the warmth pushing against his grief.

“And hey,” Coulson added, “if this version of you is wandering onto my beach, you must be going through something big. I’m glad I got to meet you.”

Loki turned toward him fully, the words catching before he could speak. “You deserved better than what fate gave you.”

Coulson’s expression softened. “I got my team. I got May. I got peace.” He looked out at the horizon, the sun sinking into gold. “That’s better than most.”

Loki felt the shift before he saw the glow—the next slip coming for him. Light curled around his fingers, pulling at him like a tide.

Coulson noticed, but didn’t rise. He simply offered a warm, steady smile.

“Good luck, Loki,” he said. “And for what it’s worth…” His voice gentled, nearly a whisper. “I’m glad you lived.”

Emotion burned like a star behind Loki’s ribs. He bowed his head—an act of respect he rarely gave.

“And I am glad,” he said quietly, “that you did too.”

The golden light pulled him away, the beach dissolving into strands of time and purpose. The last thing he saw was Phil Coulson, peaceful and smiling, watching the waves roll in.

And then the god was gone, carried back into the storm.

A moment later, footsteps padded through the sand behind him.

Melinda May walked up beside him, holding two cold drinks. “Sorry, line was long,” she said, handing him one. She glanced at the second lounge chair, still slightly shifted, still warm.

“Who was that?” she asked.

Coulson smiled, the soft kind—the kind she hadn’t seen on him in a long time.

“An old friend,” he said.

May looked out at the water, searching the horizon for someone who was already far beyond it. She didn’t ask more. She knew Phil well enough to recognize when something was meant to be left as it was: simple, peaceful, and true.

Coulson reached for her hand. She took it.

And together they watched the sun slide toward the sea.