Fanfiction: Calling All Avengers (Complete)

[sporadic_writer]

Title: Calling All Avengers
Writer: Sporadic_Writer
Status of work: Complete.
Disclaimer: I don't own this.
Fandom: The Avengers movie.
Characters and/or pairings: In order of appearance: Phil, Steve, Clint, Natasha, Tony, Bruce, and Thor.  Hints of Phil/Clint and Tony/Steve.
Rating: PG-13.
Warnings, kinks & contents: Description of violence and torture.  Sexual situations.
Length: 8,066 words.

A/N: I think that Quantum Leap must have been working in my subconscious.  Sounds like crack, but it's drama.

Summary: Due to alien tech, the Avengers' minds were scattered to various alternate universes, and Phil Coulson is responsible for collecting each and every one of them.  Fortunately, once an Avenger is sent back to their original universe, they automatically regain their identity and memories, so all Phil really has to do is "tag" them and initiate the process.  Still, easier said than done.


“Why is it glowing like that?” Fury asked warily. The Tessarect, almost in response to his alarm, began to send out long rays of multi-colored light that strengthened until it was nearly blinding. Phil, who was sensibly several meters away, threw up an arm to shield his eyes. When it was over, the Avengers were all lying on the ground, unmoving, along with the techno thief hired by a particularly unsavory shadow group to steal the Tessarect.

“Damn it.” Phil knelt next to the closest Avenger, who happened to be Clint, and tried to find a pulse in the cold wrist. He got it, pulsing regularly and strongly, and sighed in relief. At least he was alive. They were alive. Phil stood up to make the rounds and check on the others.

The doctors and paramedics summoned from various areas of SHIELD took charge of the scene and transported the fallen back to the main hospital at headquarters. The lead scientists were also brought up from their labs to examine the Tessarect, with care, to determine whether medical treatment would be unduly affected by the alien tech. Every time Phil ordered an update, they seemed rather baffled, and the prognosis was not encouraging until a breakthrough a few days later.

“Congratulations, Coulson. You're going to go collect them all,” Fury told him dryly, handing him a deceptively simple watch and six thick files, all of which bore Phil's own handwriting.

Phil looked down at the files bemusedly. “I don't understand.”

“Oh, it's really simple: Dr. Dirac and company figured out the reason for the comas. Apparently, the Tessarect managed to intersect with several other universes and threw each Avenger's consciousness to an alternate self.”

Phil stared. After a moment, Fury started laughing, and Phil relaxed in annoyed relief as he toyed with the silver watch. “That's an awful joke, sir.”

“I'm not joking, actually; I was just laughing at the look on your face,” Fury smirked. “Yeah, this is your life; go ahead and geek out and meet Dr. Dirac in the main lab. She'll show you how to work the watch.”

Sometimes Phil really had to wonder why they were friends.

“Take some time to review each file! Don't get yourself lost!” Fury called, chuckling some more, as Phil left resignedly.

He wasn't sure how long he'd be occupied, so he fed and watered his cat, Bob, and set up a few booby traps around his file cabinet. After all, he couldn't have Nick feeling too comfortable about rifling through his papers like that. Friendships needed boundaries, especially ones like theirs. Finally, with a nod of satisfaction, he went down to meet Dr. Dirac.

Steve was the easy one. Phil loved Steve. He would polish his Captain America figurines all over again once he got back home. No “ifs” about it.

He was standing on the corner of First and National, and he had no idea where he was supposed to start, so he automatically made his way towards SHIELD headquarters. But maybe there wasn't a SHIELD in this world. His steps faltered, and he rubbed unconsciously at a scar that he didn't have while he weighed his options. He could change directions and head for Stark Tower. Imagine a world without Tony Stark's ego; the universe would probably implode without the scaffolding. But Phil didn't have to mull over his path much longer since a sudden commotion a block away just broke out.

“Captain, stop!”

“All agents on hand!”

“We just want to talk, Captain!”

Hearing those familiar words, like an unfunny deja vu, Phil pressed himself against the short brick wall between shops and watched as Steve hurled himself around shrieking pedestrians and beeping cars and came sprinting fluidly towards him like an Olympic athlete heading for the gold.

Phil came out from his cover and opened his mouth to call the man over, but Steve accelerated a lot
more quickly as the SHIELD agents gained on him, and before Phil knew it, Steve had collided with him, and they landed in a painful pile of bruised limbs (his anyway).

“Ow,” Phil gasped, completely winded by the impact, as Steve scrambled desperately away from him.

“I'm really sorry about that, sir, but I'm in a really big hurry right now, and-” Steve made generous eye contact but back pedaled even as he talked, his eyes huge with shock and confusion from his abrupt awakening.

“He has a friend!” One observant SHIELD agent shouted as they spotted Phil. That really does sound threatening, Phil noted with interest, as Captain America did his duty by a poor citizen caught up in his mess.

He gripped Phil's wrist firmly and hauled ass for the next couple of blocks until they had left the SHIELD agents in their dust. When he was sure that they couldn't be followed, he finally let go, and Phil caught his breath in wheezing gulps while Steve kicked broodingly at the tiny rocks of asphalt on the pavement.

“Looks like you've been having a difficult day,” Phil observed with a gentle smile that made him look trustworthy and likeable.

Steve pressed his lips together. “I-well, it's not the worst day ever, but it's getting close.” He seemed at a loss for words, so before he could decide to leave, Phil gestured at the nearby Starbucks.

“How about a cup of coffee? My treat,” Phil offered.

Steve squirmed unhappily, looking around them suspiciously. “That's very kind of you, sir, but I seem to be in some trouble, and I can't get you involved. They already saw you with me back there and made assumptions.”

“Having a hot drink can really help the brain work,” Phil said encouragingly. “Anyway, I go to this Starbucks all the time; I know there are four exits, if you count the window in the bathroom.”

Steve looked at him uncertainly, but his mouth twitched at the joke, and seeing Phil's apparent calm helped him to make the decision. He nodded slowly and went wonderingly through the door that Phil politely held open.

Phil shook his head in conflicted bemusement. He used to have all those daydreams about running into Captain American, newly resurrected, and inviting him to his house. When it did actually happen now, he was just glad that he was forty-something, had a stable job, his own house, and could offer the good Captain more amenities than he could have done as a ten year old fanboy.

He followed Steve into the coffee shop and watched as the poor man mouthed the unfamiliar terms and looked curiously at the strangely foamy drinks that people were holding and drinking. Phil was quite glad that he'd suggested the coffee; Steve had come with him easily, but there was no guarantee that the others would be so trusting. He needed some caffeine if he was going to make it through with his mind intact. Fantastic, he could feel the headache building already.

Phil revised his mental check list. First, he'd buy Captain America a mocha frappachino (to make his inner child squeal in glee at achieving a childhood dream); then, he'd sit them down for a nice talk that hopefully wouldn't turn hostile before it ended. If Steve chose to leave, Phil wasn't sure he could stop him or find him again. He didn't want to take chances and accidentally traumatize Steve by forcing his mind back to the right universe without preparation.

Regardless, he had to focus on doing what he had come there to do: Get Captain America to touch his wristwatch.

Clint. Clint had to make his life difficult.

He recognized the normally straight long back, shoulders hunched together in exhaustion and stress. He shifted a little against his metal pillar, and Clint whirled around, a honed knife at the ready. Phil froze, but Clint, his eyes hard with suspicion, stalked over to check his bonds and tightened the knots until Phil knew resignedly that he'd need to go to Medical later and get some burn cream.

“I don't like this game,” Phil said calmly, not tugging at his bonds; any sign that could be mistaken for a struggle would worsen the situation.

Too late.

A muscle jumped in Clint's cheek, and he slammed the switchblade beside Phil's left ear. “It's not a game,” he hissed angrily. “You sick fuck, what did you do to that little girl?”

Oh, crap, Phil thought as he rifled through his mental inventory of Clint's file. Casey Newman. Found in a shallow ditch in the forest outside of her parents' farm. The two male suspects were later found in another shallow ditch not too far from the one with the little girl. Three years before Clint had joined SHIELD.

Phil had seen photographs of the two men, and he didn't think he resembled either one of them. He wondered uneasily about his life in this strange world; surely, he wasn't really some child murderer.

He looked Clint steadily in the eyes. “I didn't hurt Casey.”

The other man huffed a derisive laugh. “Really? I guess you give free stuffed toys to all middle-aged men.”

Phil tried not to break into sudden sweat. He was starting to think that Nick was right, and that he should have taken more time to prepare for the unpredictabilities of each life, but how long would that have taken? They would have lost everyone by the time the SHIELD analysts considered Phil to be ready.

But it was hard to agree with his previous logic when trying to ignore the growing clench of Clint's fists. He imagined their impact on his kidneys and tried not to flinch.

“You know, man, I don't have time for this. I have a little girl to save, and you're a major obstacle in my path,” Clint said softly, sounding much more intimidating than he would have if he had yelled. He smiled humorlessly, pulled his knife out from the metal pillar with ease, and pressed the blade against Phil's mouth.

“You can tell me what you know, or I can wait until you feel more cooperative. But I'm feeling really impatient, so I gotta let you know now: I'll be having some fun in the meantime.” Clint tapped the blade once, twice, expecting to see Phil scream or cry or break down and confess all. And Phil would, if he were guilty, if he could give Clint the information that he was driving himself mad to obtain.

Phil didn't look away from Clint's face. “I'm sorry. I don't know anything.”

Clint's eyes darkened furiously even as the chilly smile stayed, and he slid the knife slowly down to Phil's right hand, where the edge rested against the second joint of his thumb. “Then I guess I'll start the fun early.”

“I know,” Phil agreed, and the smile finally wavered, as Clint tried to process Phil's strangely calm, sad acceptance. He glared at Phil in angry confusion before abruptly throwing the knife onto a nearby table and clambering out the room through a hatch in the ceiling, leaving Phil in the dank darkness.

Phil did what he could: he slept. Hours later, he woke up to the feel of cautious hands moving over his wrists and ankles, undoing the knots and gently massaging some circulation back into his limbs. Clint didn't look up as he settled Phil onto the dirty floor and handed him a hot coffee from McDonald's.

He sounded as ashamed as Phil's ever heard him when he muttered, “Sorry about all this. I thought you were friends with Trenton and Diego. It's my fault though; I guess even if you told me you always give free toys to new parents-Trenton, that lying bastard-I wouldn't have believed you.”

Phil stayed quiet. He never would have expected that he could live an ordinary life as a toy store owner and still be caught up in the seedier side of life. Or maybe it was fate that Clint would always give him trouble or keep him up at night. The coffee did help make up for things though.

Clint still sounded agitated when he pulled the final loops of rope away. “It's a really good thing that I met your friend. Steve, I think? Anyway, I'll take you to the hospital; they'll probably keep you under observation for a while, but it's mostly cuts and bruises. And maybe the concussion from earlier.”

Paying no attention whatsoever because an apologetic Clint was horribly awkward to witness, Phil just gratefully drowned himself in his coffee; once he felt his dry throat working, he asked, “Could I have my watch back, please?”

When Clint meekly brought it to him, he fastened it around his wrist and reached out lightening-quick to grab the other man's hand. Clint's eyes widened, and his mouth dropped open as the shock from the watch threw him back to their world.

Two down. Four to go.

His name is Phil Coulson, and he's a manager at Noveau Finances Global Bank.

The terrorist with the big eyebrows poked the gun harder into his back, efficiently demanding that he walk faster to the steel vaults in the back.

Phil had pressed the silent burglary alarm, but the utterly unconcerned expressions on the terrorists' faces, even after the first police car had arrived, told him that the police might not be able to help. The terrorist pushing him, now mentally labeled Mr. Eyebrows, shoved him into the wall near the main bank vault and leveled the gun at the middle of his forehead. “Type in the password,” demanded Mr. Eyebrows, as he gave Phil another poke for emphasis.

“The vault requires two passwords,” Phil lied without batting an eyelash. He couldn't be sure that the bank contained the same prototypical computer virus that it did in his world, but better safe than sorry.

Mr. Eyebrows did not like the revelation. “Why would it need two passwords? Who has the other one?”

“I'm only the morning manager,” Phil explained with a touch of impatience for realism. “We have another manager for the afternoon. Any client who wishes to access their vaults in the bank would need to inform us ahead of time so that we can both be here.”

Mr. Eyebrows glowered at Phil distrustfully. “I find it difficult to believe that no one in the bank would know the other password.” He barked an order at one of his subordinates, and the man left and came back dragging Adrian, one of the bank tellers, who was working there to pay his way through his PhD.

Adrian looked terrified, and Phil tried to send him a reassuring look when their eyes met, but Adrian's eyes were filled with fear and seemed a little unfocused. Mr. Eyebrows shook Adrian roughly and yelled into his face, “What's the password? Who knows the password?”

“I don't know,” Adrian whispered. “Please, I don't know. I'm just a teller. No one here knows the second password. It's, it's meant to be a security measure.” Adrian's voice cracked, and he started to hyperventilate as panic got the best of him.

Phil could tell that Adrian wasn't going to live much longer; either his heart was going to give in a few more minutes because of stress, or the terrorist leader would decide that watching Adrian die would be a great incentive for Phil to jog his memory more zealously. Phil watched tensely as Mr. Eyebrows stared threateningly at Adrian.

Suddenly, the previously silent foyer outside the vaults room burst into loud cries of shock and grunts of pain as the lights cut out, and a barely visible figure uncurled from a corner of the high ceiling and cut smoothly though the standing terrorists, leaving them on the floor, moaning in pain or eerily quiet.

The remaining terrorists surrounding Phil and Adrian closed ranks; Mr. Eyebrows grabbed Phil around the chest and dug his gun into the soft part of Phil's chin while his buddy, Mr. Pasty, did the same with Adrian.

“Show yourself,” Mr. Eyebrows shouted. “Or the manager gets it!”

Utter silence reigned for a long moment before footsteps could be heard coming closer and closer, and the gunmen opened fire for long minutes before stopping and waiting, ears cocked. The footsteps grew louder and louder, the owner apparently not at all disturbed by the gunfire. Unnerved, the two gunmen sidled nervously backwards with their hostages in tow. Phil caught the panicked look between Mr. Eyebrows and Mr. Pasty, and he could tell that they were close to running out of ammo. The echoing footsteps finally stopped a few meters away, and two flashing objects flew from the darkness and neatly nailed each gunman's dominant hand.

Mr. Pasty yelled in pain before recuperating faster than Phil gave him credit for, and he yanked Adrian's head back before whipping out a pocketknife that carved a thin line into the poor guy's neck. “You wanna see how long it takes for him to bleed out?”

Phil considered breaking Mr. Eyebrows's foot and freeing himself to help Adrian out, but he thought that Natasha had everything under control. The black clad figure came out of the darkness, just barely visible in the emergency lights around the bank vaults, and Phil looked her in the eyes. She looked so tired and world-weary in the same way she had before being recruited into SHIELD. Phil remembered watching her through various hidden video cameras whenever she came briefly out into the open to get groceries or court death because she was sick of hiding.

Natasha didn't say anything, and she looked at Adrian almost sadly with a tender look in her eyes. Mr. Pasty relaxed. And you should never get overconfident, Phil thought, as Natasha's sadness turned into a smirk, a beautiful sign of spirit and life, and Mr. Pasty and Mr. Eyebrows ended up flying past their hostages with amusing twin expressions of utter shock.

“Thank you,” Phil said, trying his best to dampen down all instincts SHIELD and bringing out the bank manager, all fearful eyes and shaking hands. He stepped closer, planning to offer his hand. She eyed him warily and skittered to the opposite corner, her back not quite to him when Clint's voice rang out.

“Wow, Natasha, you're a badass in all worlds,” he drawled, swinging a heavy duty flashlight in one hand and an arrow in the other. Brain and stab, Phil thought a bit morbidly.

“Who are you?” she demanded, hostile suspicion at a stranger knowing her name.

Steve appeared beside Clint with a first aid kit in hand. “We tied up all the gunmen, and the other hostages seem to be okay. Are there any injuries here?” He gauged the situation and held his hands up in a gesture of peace before garnering a slight nod from Natasha and approaching Adrian to clean and bandage the gash on his throat.

Phil wasn't unhappy to see the two Avengers, but Natasha was clearly spooked and a few seconds from making a break for it. He turned on the regular civilian charm and gave her a worshipful, bashful look, as he said earnestly, “I have no idea who you all are, but thank you for saving us. Could I...is it okay if I shake your hand?”

For a moment, Natasha fought a visible struggle, until a vulnerable side to her won. She stepped closer to Phil and extended her hand to grip his, and her eyes said it all: if this was somehow a trap, if she was going to die, then she would accept that justice from a civilian, one like so many others whom she had disregarded or failed or otherwise harmed incidentally on her missions.

As Phil held Natasha's hand, he watched as her face opened in sudden relief as recognition flooded her face, and she alertly looked round at Steve and Clint before she returned home. This world's Natasha, free of their Natasha's consciousness, began to slump to the floor, and Clint caught her shoulders to ease her down. Phil studied her twitching eyebrows and decided that she'd probably be okay and wake up in a little bit.

“She'll be back,” Clint said confidently; Phil was pretty sure Clint was talking to him, but the other man wasn't making eye contact. “Like Steve and me. The lab's really churning out those watches. I think they'll all be sorry when we come back and end their alternate reality experiments.”

“Who's next?” Steve asked, giving Adrian one last supportive pat and an oddly commiserating smile.

“I hope the watch isn't running out of power,” Phil muttered mostly to himself, as he angled the watch this way and that, hoping that he could jog the watch into working properly. They had been waiting over half an hour for Tony Stark to show up at the casino, but so far no egotistical genius had shown up anywhere near their craps table.

“Maybe it was just a coincidence that you met each of us right away,” Steve mused aloud, but he didn't seem convinced either. “Maybe we should walk around and look for him.”

Clint drummed his fingers on top of the slot machine nearby. “Or maybe Tony is supposed to be here, but hey, he wouldn't be him if he didn't screw with the universe by not doing what he's supposed to be doing.”

Phil and Steve thought about that for a minute.

“Hey, there!” Phil said as drunkenly as he could five minutes later. “Is Tony there? He gave me this number and told me to call him whenever I wanted to get hammered together. I'm not sure I got the digits right. I had some trouble getting home last night, and I was worried that maybe I upchucked onto the paper. It's really hard to read now.”

Pepper Potts's response was as vitriolic as it could be without getting into outright cussing and physical threats against his safety if he didn't stay away from Tony.

“Okay,” Phil said, rubbing at his ear ruefully. “Tony didn't answer his phone, so I called Pepper at the company, and hopefully, she really does think that I'm some random guy who made friends with Tony in a bar last night.”

“Would Tony really give out his number like that? Or his company's?” Steve asked, looking a little horrified.

“He did used to have a drinking problem. It wouldn't be unbelievable for a drunk man to get overly friendly with another drunk and think of them as best friends,” Phil gently reminded Steve. “If Pepper forces him to go to the best private clinic downtown, we'll be able to make contact with him. Let's leave a message for Natasha, and then we'll go.”

Clint grinned briefly, digging out a specially designed arrow meant to explode into neon paint, and Phil felt regretful that he hadn't seen that smile since Clint almost tortured him in the bunker.

At the addiction clinic, they waited two hours before Tony showed up around lunchtime in an oversized gray sweatshirt, track suit pants, flip flops, and the newest Marc Jacobs sunglasses. From behind the nearly indigo lenses, he surveyed the room and paused to give both Steve and Clint skeptical looks; he passed over Phil with apparent acceptance, and Phil felt abruptly grateful that he continued to refuse the bottles of cognac that his uncle tried to press on him after every visit.

“This isn't one of your better ideas, Pepper. Just look at that line. You wouldn't guess that one of the foremost addiction clinics would have so many people clamoring for help, would you? I'm going to go home now. Let me know when the crowd lets up.” Tony let out the dismissive excuse before turning on his heel and trying to get back out the door. He was blocked from leaving by the woman entering who, at Pepper's entreating look, let the door fall closed beyond Tony's grasp with a smirk.

“Tony!” Pepper shouted in a wobbly voice, close to tears. “If you don't stay, I'll quit. I'm not going to be your CEO and take care of your company and watch you drink yourself to death.”

Tony turned around reluctantly, and his frown deepened the stress lines around his eyes beyond the borders of his expensive sunglasses. “I'm not an alcoholic, Pepper.”

Her disbelieving laugh was mostly a sob. “Have you looked at yourself, Tony? Something's wrong: you always look so sick, and you won't see a doctor.”

Phil examined Tony's face and noted the grayish pallor and the expression of restrained pain pulling his lips tight. The palladium poisoning was clearly nearing its last stages.

“It wouldn't do any good, Pepper,” Tony said obliquely; it seemed he had communication issues even in this world.

“Talk to someone at least. At least do that,” Pepper ordered despite her tears, her voice and posture growing stronger as she intimidated Tony into a seat near the basket of magazines, where Natasha had already settled.

Phil thought about telling Clint and Steve to sit down too instead of lounging around the empty counter, toying with the “Absent for lunch” sign, looking out of place, but he suspected that Tony would feel boxed in if they all suddenly started to take seats around him.

Reluctantly following Pepper's push, Tony fell into the armchair and started sulking, only to pause in sudden deliberation when Natasha shifted in her seat nearby; his sly glance her way distracted him from leaving as he found an excellent means of revenge against Pepper.

He leaned over more than necessary to snag a copy of Hot Rod Magazine, and he gave Natasha a smarmy smile as he flipped to a random page and held it in front of her. “What do you think? Interested?”

The page, intentionally or not, happened to depict a full-figured blonde woman sitting suggestively on the hood of a red Ferrari in an open park. Natasha's eyes flicked to the picture and then to Tony, and she gave him a cool look before answering, “She's not really my type.”

Tony blinked slowly before dipping his eyes to the page, and he made an exaggerated frown. “Really? I thought Ferraris were to everyone's taste.”

Natasha arched an eyebrow at him. “I'm not everyone.”

Tony looked her up and down, and his expression was more evaluating than sleazy. “Wow. Huh. Yeah, I can see that.”

Natasha's lips quirked before turning into a bright smile, like a woman reluctantly charmed, and she held out her hand to shake Tony's, but he held his hands unexpectedly in the air. “Sorry, I don't shake hands. It's a thing.” Tony sounded sincere, but Natasha scowled, and Phil worried that she'd grab his wrist and break it while forcing a handshake.

Steve stepped up to the bat when he presented himself with his usual calm demeanor. “Excuse me, sir, misses. I hope I'm not intruding.” Being filled with wholesomeness came in handy, as Tony watched him with tolerant curiosity. Steve addressed him earnestly. “I just wanted to introduce myself and say 'Hi' since I recognized you from North Hill Community College. You did this great exhibition there about two years ago.”

Tony's eyes narrowed. “Pepper? You're my up-to-date diary; did I do that?”

Pepper gave him a long-suffering look. “Yes, you brought your old prototype of Jarvis to show the college students, remember? And then half-way through your demonstration, the Chancellor personally shoved you off the stage and told you never to come back.”

“I don't remember that,” Tony said dismissively before turning back to Steve. “So, college kid, guess you were really awed by the existence of A.I.?”

“No, well, yes,” Steve admitted, “But mostly I thought it was funny that your A.I. called Chancellor Brandt 'a bloody pissant.' He really is one.” His tone rang with a note of sincerity, and Phil wondered about the story behind it. The name 'Brandt' sounded rather familiar, and he knew almost everything to know about Captain America.

Tony laughed whole-heartedly, and he took off his sunglasses, revealing bloodshot eyes that gleamed boyishly with malicious joy. “You're a hoot, kid.” The lines around his mouth relaxed, and he leaned forward, offering his hand to Steve. “I guess I can make an exception.”

And they got Tony.

“What's in the purse?” Clint asked, as they walked towards the hotel, where the seminar would take place.

Natasha swung the silk clutch back and forth. “Before I went to the lab, I stopped by Bruce's room to grab some of the tranqs that he keeps in case of emergency.”

Clint grimaced. “Good idea; I do not want the Hulk mad at us, especially when we're not going to have the advantage of familiarity.”

Steve was preoccupied with other matters. He checked himself over worriedly before stamping his feet to lessen the dust on his shoes. He looked round at Phil. “How strict is the dress code? Do you think they'll let the rest of us in?”

“Don't worry about it,” Tony said confidently, suddenly back from wherever he'd gone. He fanned out an uncountable number of C-notes in his hands before playfully smacking Steve on the head with the stack. “Quick and dirty tip: money has benefits.”

“How were you able to access your bank account here?” Phil asked, taken aback. He looked around, wary of seeing wailing police cars zooming up. “Did you somehow keep this Tony Stark's memories?”

“What? No,” Tony scoffed. “Though he does seem to have found this really intriguing way of hooking up the Iron Man suit to a vodka dispenser, and I would really like to know how he did-okay, joke, joke. Don't give me those looks.”

He flashed a black card with gold embossment. “All you need is this baby and a special code that all rich people know.”

“Really?” Steve asked, half-believing.

“No, of course not. Don't be gullible. I just did some fantastic onsite hacking.” Tony started pushing them into a special formation, with Phil and Natasha in the middle, Steve and Clint flanking them, and Tony himself heading the group. It was hard to ignore the flinch that Clint restrained in his shoulders as Tony kept nudging him closer to Phil.

Thanks to Tony's generosity, they were admitted through the double-doors to the seminar, which was currently in the Q&A session.

“I thought your article was really enlightening. It almost feels that all you theorized could happen, Dr. Banner,” the young graduate student currently holding the microphone gushed with obvious hero worship.

Bruce, sitting on stage with a water bottle rolling in his hands, gave a rather weak smile. “Yes, it does sound like it could, doesn't it?”

“The idea is incredible. I really hope it happens in my lifetime,” the graduate student continued on, not quite mindful of the way Bruce's expression abruptly dissolved into barely controlled fury.

“No, son, you wouldn't,” Bruce said quietly, eyes boring into the student's. “Having this farce of a treatment exist is a crime against the world; instead of men, instead of heroes, you have monsters!” As he leaned over the podium, his chair scraped painfully across the floor, and his pained whispering grew into angry spitting.

“Nothing more than rabid animals that leave devastation and destruction in their paths! My wife-that monster-Excuse me, I need a moment.” He shoved back his chair, heedless of it falling to the floor, and barged past the other scientists on stage with a muttered apology, leaving the auditorium shocked and murmuring.

“I'll handle this.” Tony popped an hors d'oeuvre into his mouth. He looked about to refuse the narrow cylindrical packet that Natasha pushed into his hands, but he thought better about it. It crinkled as he shoved it into his jacket pocket.

“You should have backup, in case Bruce transforms,” Natasha reminded him tersely. “He's not going to know you, and you don't know him. Not this him.”

“The rest of us will hang back in one of the conference rooms,” Phil quickly decided before handing around comms and pushing Tony's directly onto his ear.

“Whoa, don't try getting into my body parts, Coulson.” Tony rearranged his hair, shoved his hands into his pockets, and sauntered down the carpeted hall towards the men's room.

The rest of them crowded through the nearest door and left it half open in case they'd need to rush to give Tony backup. Casting an eye around the minimal space between bodies, Clint hopped onto the table and sat cross-legged for a moment before making a face and pulling the bunched up newspaper from below his seat. He flipped it open, scanning the articles half-heartedly before blinking in shock and focusing on a particular story.

“Huh!” He whistled lowly through his teeth, drawing the others' attention. “Doesn't The Hulk look a little different?”

He held up the large photo emblazoned across the front page below “Green Monster Terrorized City: Killed Five, Wounded Three.”

“He has bigger eyebrows,” Phil offered, leaning in closer to take a better look. “Squarer cheeks.”

“Yeah,” Steve shook his head in confusion. “His facial structure seems completely different.”

“Dr. Banner,” Tony said, his voice echoing a little tinnily through the bathroom walls as it filled their ears. “What a coincidence.”

“Who are you?” Bruce demanded angrily. “And how the hell did you get in here? This is a single-occupant bathroom.”

“I thought we could have a talk,” Tony said easily. “Anyway, it's not single-occupant if it has a mini foyer with two easy chairs. Here, you can have the nice squishy one.”

They were all starting to put it together, but Natasha said it first. She quickly tapped the input button and hissed, “He's not The Hulk! He wasn't the one exposed to the rays.”

Bruce made an irritated scoffing noise. “I'm not answering any more questions. You can read the article. Or burn it. I plan on revising it and re-submitting it to let the world know the truth. Excuse me.”

“You know,” Tony said slowly, chair springs squeaking as he flopped onto a seat. “I think we have a lot to talk about because I know a little something about being the engineer of destruction. And I don't think your military employers approved of your speech earlier. Seemed a bit indiscreet.”

“Are you threatening me?” Bruce bristled.

“Do you hear that?” Steve asked suddenly, turning towards the auditorium where the seminar was still continuing.

Everyone tensed, hands going to vests and belts and resting on various weaponry.

“Tony has it right,” Clint said, head slightly cocked. “Those in-tempo thundering steps speak military to me.”

“Stark, hurry it up,” Phil conveyed through his comm. “You've got company.”

Tony sounded perfectly calm, unconcerned even, as he continued talking, not showing any indicators that his attention was on anyone but Bruce. “How about seeing a world where your research led to something good? Eventually anyway?”

“I would ask if you were on drugs,” Bruce stated warily. “But, unfortunately, you seem far too lucid for that. You're probably talking about alternate universes, so sorry, but that's not an area of physics that I have an interest in.”

Steve nailed the first half-dozen soldiers with his shield while Natasha and Clint caught the next ones with their tranquilizer darts. Only one made it through, and he ended up falling to the ground after meeting Phil's taser.

“Tony,” Steve started to say warningly.

“Fair enough,” Tony sighed dramatically as he stood up. “Well, how about a hug goodbye? No? Okay, at least a handshake, buddy? I promise that I'll leave you alone afterwards.”

“You cut it pretty close,” Phil observed mildly as he helped Tony off the expanse of flattened yellowing grass.

“Why does Asgard look so much like Kansas?” Tony asked, toeing one of the spiky bushes growing haphazardly from the side of the road. “By the way, you're welcome.”

“It's New Mexico,” Phil corrected. He recognized that stretch of road from driving down it towards the last convenience store in miles before reaching the little encampment that SHIELD had erected around the giant hole in the ground.

“Poor Thor,” Clint said, coming up beside them. “He gets kicked out of the house even in this universe.”

“It's good for us though,” Bruce pointed out, wandering out from the copse of birch trees. “He won't have his powers, and we won't get squashed like bugs in case we're not persuasive enough, and he gets convinced that we're annoying hacks.”

“And it's usually easier to convince people of things when you get them on their own,” Steve added, as he and Natasha stepped out quietly from a small, nearly hidden path through the woods. He meant no harm, clearly thinking of his easy tagging by Phil.

But Clint's brow darkened as he remembered what had happened when Phil had tried to talk to him alone and what he had nearly done. He glanced over, realized how close he was to Phil, and hastily backed away several steps, and Phil stifled a sigh. Clint was going to have to get over the near-torture incident, or they were going to have to talk about it. They couldn't work together if Clint kept forgetting that Phil was an active field agent and could survive a lot of hostile situations. Being roughed up was nowhere near the top of his nightmares list.

“We found a cabin a few meters east; it might be Thor's,” Natasha announced, breaking the awkward silence that had fallen, before anyone could ask about the tension. “What's the game plan?”

“We don't need a game plan,” Tony said dismissively as he brushed off lingering strands of grass from his chest. “I just blabbed away at Bruce, and look how nicely he came along.”

“Let's just go and see,” Bruce suggested. “If he's living out here by himself, he's probably pretty lonely and won't mind some company.”

They all looked to Phil to check with him, and he sighed briefly before waving for them to go ahead.

“Too bad he didn't find Jane in this universe,” Steve said quietly. “He must be really depressed about his dad if he just set up house here instead of trying to find a way to get back.”

When they reached the cabin, they stared at the door for a few minutes before Clint reached out first to knock. Before his fingers touched wood, the door opened, and Thor, smiling brightly, stood there on the porch with a newly baked pie (apple from the smell of it) in his hands.

He continued to beam down on them, eyes trailing from one person to another, and then he boomed, “Welcome, my friends!”

“Yeah, we'd like to be. So, the thing is, you don't know us, but you will once you shake my hand,” Tony cut in. “Or anyone's hand here, really, we're not picky.”

Thor's smile faded a little as he cocked his head in confusion. “But I already know you all. Has the Tessarect interfered with your memories?”

There was a lot of quiet as they tried to digest what Thor was saying, and finally, Phil just asked to clarify, “Thor, do you know that you're in a different universe?”

“Of course,” Thor said, looking bemused before enlightenment hit. “Ah, I had forgotten again that Midgard is unused to such occurrences.”

“You're used to getting your mind thrown into your alternate self's body?” Natasha asked skeptically.

Thor laughed loudly at what he presumed to be a wonderful joke. “No, no, I meant that it has happened before, so the phenomenon has been studied in Asgard. I believe that my knowledge of the situation has helped to protect my consciousness from being absorbed into this one.”

“That's great!” Steve said, looking relieved that he wouldn't have to experience any more jumps in time or reality. “We can all just hold hands and go back then.”

Thor's smile disappeared, and he uncharacteristically stumbled around his words. “Well, actually, I, uh, I did have something important that I need to do first...perhaps we can meet at the cafe in town? Loki-”

At first, Phil thought that Thor had made another one of his accidental references to his homicidal brother, but the answering call from a cool, arrogant voice quickly showed his mistake.

“Thor.” Loki, wearing a more fashionable coat and trousers than anyone else living in the area, strolled up the garden path and looked around with distaste. “I see you're still interested in cultivating your carrots and potatoes.” He said it in the manner of someone who could easily and happily mistake one for the other.

The Avengers all tensed up for battle, but their adrenaline began to drain as they realized that Loki didn't care at all about their presence; his focus was entirely on Thor.

Loki didn't wait for an answer before continuing, “I'm tired of your petulance. Grow up and get over whatever fight you had with Father. Mother's worried that you're suffering from sickness.”

“I'm in perfect health, Brother.”

“Mental sickness,” Loki clarified sharply. “You left Mjolnir behind without a second look; I always thought that it would only leave your hand when cleaved off. What is going on in that brain of yours?”

Thor sighed heavily before pushing his apple pie into Bruce's hands before coming down the front steps and approaching Loki. “I'm not coming home. Father knows why, and it's between the two of us. I can't hold him in high regard anymore.”

Loki stared at him incredulously. “It's been weeks, Thor. It can't be that bad. What was it? Did he decide to move the coronation day?”

Phil listened with bemusement and realized that Loki sounded a lot like younger brothers all over the world trying to reason with their stubborn, rebellious older brothers. His harshness seemed to be hiding a fair amount of worry and confusion.

Thor shook his head before tenderly placing his hands on Loki's shoulders. “The coronation day is no longer mine. I shall stay on Midgard indefinitely.”

“You would leave Asgard without her rightful ruler?” Loki scoffed. “You think that Father will wait so patiently for you?”

“Loki,” Thor hesitated a moment before soldiering on. “We were both well trained for the role, and you remember the promises we made Father when young.” Loki started shaking his head. “Yes, you will do just as well as I-better, I know!-as ruler of Asgard.”

Loki looked laughably horrified, and he backed away from Thor. “You, you've gone mad! Thor, what's happened to you?” His eyes fell on the Avengers, who had stayed to the side, and his face grew furious with conviction. He raised a threatening hand, sparks beginning to fly. “You mortals! It has to do with you, doesn't it? What have you done to my brother? Speak now before I twist your blood and rend your bodies to agony!”

Thor spread his arms in defense of them before turning his upper body to murmur discreetly, “I believe that we should leave now.”

“Definitely, let's go before a smack down happens. Your brother's a psycho even when he likes you,” Clint muttered back.

Everyone was in a lousy mood afterwards. They walked out of the lab, ignoring the doctors and scientists trying to debrief them. Phil placated them with apologies and reassurances that the Avengers would be back early tomorrow morning to provide all information.

“Later, folks,” Tony threw over his shoulder as he marched to the living room with the liquor cabinet. “I'm going to celebrate not dying from palladium. Again.”

Steve followed behind him closely and stole the first glass of brandy, downing it all in one gulp. Tony threw a scowl at him for the theft but didn't close the screen door on him, so Phil decided that they'd be good company for each other. He could rest assured that Steve's alcohol tolerance and quick reflexes would prevent Tony from going too far with the drinks.

“Hey, Bruce, let's get drunk, buddy!” Tony called out, another glass of brandy already in hand, dodging to one side as Steve tried to steal that one too. Steve's hand brushed against Tony's front, and, judging by the startled but pleased expressions on both their faces, it was a good thing that Bruce didn't seem interested in joining the impromptu party.

Bruce was busily patting around his pants pockets and feeling through his jacket. “Maybe later. I really want to talk to Betty right now. I just can't find my phone.”

Phil took pity and passed his own cell phone over. Bruce snatched up the phone and immediately started dialing in the digits. “I'll give it back to you tomorrow morning, if that's okay.”

“Take your time,” Phil said. “I'm sure you want a long conversation with her.”

“Thanks-Oh, Betty! No, I just wanted to hear your voice. It feels like it's been a long time-” Bruce flashed Phil a grateful smile and disappeared into the hallway leading to the suites. That left Phil, Natasha, Thor, and Clint standing on the outside patio.

Thor had been staring mournfully at the stars for a while, with a twist to his mouth, but he was a far cry from being able to give up his throne and get his brother back in this universe. Finally, he sighed a bit sadly and straightened up from his slump against the railing.

He nodded solemnly at Phil and Clint before turning to Natasha and saying, “Natasha, I find that I will most likely sleep uneasily tonight. I would rather continue with our obstacle course project and construct the mountain range a little earlier than planned. I would value your company if you feel the same way.”

The lingering shadow in Natasha's eyes dissipated a bit, as her face brightened at the idea of working on a pet project and just losing herself in physical labor for a while. Memories of her past reared their head every so often, but it had been years since she had been in such a dark and solitary mindset. She needed to regain her balance. Out of solidarity, she nudged Clint and exchanged a look with him to see if he was okay without her; he wordlessly urged her to go, and then, with a faint smile, she and Thor were gone.

Oh, hell, this is awkward. Phil stifled the desire to make a lame excuse and leave as quickly as the others had. But that wouldn't help the unhappiness pulling at the corners of Clint's mouth.

“I'm sorry, Phil,” Clint mumbled, shame welling up in the eyes he kept turned away from Phil's.

“You didn't do anything to me,” Phil reminded him patiently.

Clint let out a harsh bark of laughter. “I would have done it if Steve hadn't found me and convinced me to let you go.”

Phil shrugged philosophically. “You thought I was going around abusing and killing little kids. Even at the time, I could see where you were coming from.”

Mouth thin and eyes dark, Clint wasn't going to be convinced of Phil's forgiveness anytime soon. Phil fought with himself for a bit before making up his mind that maybe he should just give Clint some space. He hadn't expected the other agent to take things to heart like that, but sometimes he felt that he still didn't know Clint very well at all.

Phil rocked back on his heels a bit before finally patting Clint awkwardly on the shoulder and heading towards the house. He was caught off guard when Clint finally moved from his stiff position and grabbed him around the shoulders. He could feel the other man's heart beat steadily as they stayed pressed together, and he could feel a hot flush move up his neck and face. His throat was too dry to say anything.

Clint held him tightly around the waist, one hand only letting go to grab one of Phil's, the right one, and Clint quickly kissed the tip of each finger before murmuring, “I'm sorry,” into Phil's ear. Then he jumped back and away, melding into the night more quickly than Phil could recover.

All Phil could really do was stand there, frozen, staring blankly in front of him. His hand prickled a bit from the warmth that Clint had left behind, and he brought his fingers up to his mouth while he thought about Clint and what they were going to do now.

End Notes: I hope I provided enough context for each alternate universe.  To keep proper pace for the story, I felt that I couldn't add as much detail as I wanted.  I did my best with the tagging, but I wasn't sure how to categorize my own story.