Avengers Fic: A Good Idea
Title: A Good Idea
Fandom/Pairing: Avengers: Phil Coulson/ Clint Barton
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Don't own, down't sue, don't take this too seriously.
Warnings: Spoilers for movie.
Summary: Phil Coulson tends to have a lot of ideas that he wishes he didn't need.
A/N: I FINALLY SAW THE MOVIE today, and like the rest of the internet I HAVE FEELINGS...
Phil Coulson knows a lot of things that he wishes he didn't. Like what it is to be on the line listening to a battle he can't control, or how sometimes there's just no keeping enough pressure on a wound to keep someone's blood inside their body. Or that the world's best hope hinges on the shoulders of five people- five extraordinary people, but just five nonetheless. It's six, counting Fury, who's holding things together on a string and a prayer. Who's staring at him right now, ordering him not to die.
Phil also tends to have a lot of ideas that he wishes he didn't need. Cover stories for when the questions got too close, backup exits for when an operation inevitably went sideways. He even knows exactly who to call and what to say when, fuck, Clint's been compromised by a war-mad god.
He's got contingencies for every operation, except maybe this one. It's getting hard to focus, to even remember what he'd just been telling Fury, but he thinks it was about the television show he'd watched with Clint last week in Portland, about how the heroes hadn't gotten it together to act until they'd already lost one of their own.
"It's okay, boss. This was never gonna work if they didn't have something to-" he cuts himself off, because it doesn't really apply here, doesn't even make sense, and with the last of his energy following his blood out of his body, he doesn't have the energy to explain it.
---
He finds out three days later that he'd technically been dead for over thirty seconds.
It's not even a record.
---
He's surprised when Hill is his first visitor; his first question- where the hell is Barton dies on his lips when she hands him the card. Captain America- the one he'd picked that one up off of eBay three years ago- is covered in blood.
She doesn't need to even say it. His contingencies have failed.
Hill's eyes widen, suddenly; Phil realizes it's because she's looking at his face, reading his expression, and she hurries to explain. "Rogers is fine," she says. "They're. Well, we all heard that you'd died, I didn't even know until this morning." She frowns, chooses some words and decides against them. "They rallied, though. Came together, saved the day, exactly the way Fury thought they would."
There's no good reason to tell her otherwise, not with her eyes gone so hard. She's the type that still sees some sort of nobility in death, maybe, and it's likely that she's so angry about it now because the ploy worked on her, too.
"These were in my locker," is all he can think to say instead.
"If it's any consolation, the blood's yours." She shrugs, smiling though she's clearly irritated with him. He wonders what her orders are, why she's the one here instead of anyone else.
Underneath the drugs and whatever else is wrong with him, the cardboard still feels soft. It bends under his thumb, and he can't actually tell if the blood's dried.
---
"Congratulations," Fury says when he stops by; Phil doesn't even know how long he's been out, this time. He guesses it's been three or for since he'd first woken up here, in what's turned out to be the UC Davis Medical Center's Trauma ward, but his internal clock's still off. Beneath the painkillers, either he aches, or feels nothing at all.
He can't feel his legs. Has the idea, again, to actually look down to confirm that they're still there, but the prospect of actually doing so is stupidly daunting. Same as the last time he woke up. His legs are there, he's in one piece, but some of the pieces have been broken. He's slated for another surgery this afternoon, and can't even remember what it's for.
The doctors had repeatedly assured him that it won't be permanent, that he'll soon be regretting ever wishing that he could feel his legs once the numbness fades. It's going to hurt, badly, they've warned him, but he already knows what that look in their eyes means. They're hopeful, determined.
They wouldn't need hope if they actually had certainty.
He forces his focus back to Fury.
"For what?"
"While the status of the Avengers Initiative is admittedly up in the air, the Avengers did take initiative. We won."
Phil manages a smile, doesn't really feel it. He wonders when Clint's going to show up. Probably about ten minutes after visiting hours have ended, knowing him. "Back to business as usual, then?"
"Not exactly." Fury trails his hand along the edge of the counter, toys with one of the cardboard boxes of medical supplies that Phil hasn't yet been able to identify. "The powers that be ordered a nuclear strike, which Stark, of all people, managed to use to our advantage. The Avengers were last seen at a shawarma joint in upper Manhattan and haven't been on our radars since."
He's not sure which part is tripping him up, the nuke or the shawarma, or the fact that Clint's not here. "Seriously?"
"Officially." Fury shrugs. "Unofficially, they may have been seen at the tertiary base during the week following the fight. They're fine, Coulson. They've gone to ground, and we've got them under varying levels of surveillance."
"Even Stark?"
"You ever know the man to hide from a camera?" Fury shakes his head. "As far as The Powers That Be are concerned, the Avengers have disbanded. Which means you're not the only ace up our sleeve."
"Me?"
"You, me, Hill, and two doctors," Fury counts off on his fingers, "are the only people in the world who know both who you are and that you're still breathing."
Aces up sleeves are only as useful as the plays they can make, and Phil hasn't been this far out of the game in his life. But he appreciates the thought. It's the exact idea he would've probably had- going to ground while The Powers That Be inevitably decide that they're better off running the show without the Avengers- were he in any sort of position to be having ideas. "How long?" he asks, because otherwise he has to start dealing with the fact that Clint's not among the five who know. There's got to be a reason for it, and he doesn't know what it is.
"A while. You'll be back in the loop as soon as you need to be. And that'll probably be too soon," he nods at the hospital bed; it's the first real admission that he's even noticed Phil's condition. "But we'll roll with it."
---
It's three weeks before Phil's able to leave the hospital, and even though he's got the leash of physical therapy appointments- three times a week for the next two months- the sun on his face as he lurches towards the waiting car feels like freedom. If Hill notices that he's moving with all the speed and grace of a man twice his age, she's tactful enough not to mention it.
She's talking instead about the house SHIELD's arranged for him, about the identity that he's being given, and the accounts they've set up in his new name. The details, she promises, are waiting for him on his new kitchen counter, which is apparently granite. It sounds nice. Phil watches out the window as the city fades into suburbs, feigning interest. He's still on painkillers. Will be for a while, yet.
There's a thick folder on the dashboard; Hill reaches over and hands it to him once they're on the road, tells him that he's to disavow all knowledge of its contents. It's the internal reporting summary, a handful of emails. It's the type of thing that used to clutter his inbox, and the familiarity is strangely comforting. There are three field reports, and tacked to the front is an amended form, signed by Hill, that he recognizes all too well.
Contained herein are the psych evals and field reports for and from agents SR, CB, and NR. BB's history with SHIELD is such that I believe attempting contact for the sake of this matter would be counterproductive in the long run. Obtaining a full report from T is also unlikely, given the prohibitive cost of the logistical requirements required to chase down a god for the sake of paperwork. Reports are not also expected from TS, who merely thinks he's a god. Several attempts have been made to contact TS through PP, though it my estimation that Ms. P's allegiance to TS, as well as her duties with Stark Industries, have cemented beyond the point of her being a useful intermediary in these matters.
Pepper had blown Coulson off repeatedly, even before taking leadership most of Stark's company. The idea that Hill seems surprised by this fact is amusing, but he's flipping past it already, eyes scanning through until he finds the first page of Barton's report.
The summary is short and to the point- almost as clinical as Rogers's, Phil will realize once he's gone back to read it. There are no jokes, no sarcasm, and they'd been electronically submitted. The words "I couldn't stop. Couldn't even want to." bring him up short, and it's probably best if he read this without an audience. He turns the packet over, flips through the blank back sides of every printout. He doesn't know what it is he's looking for until he doesn't find it.
On the wall of his home office, which had undoubtably been sanitized by now, hung page three of an ammunition discharge report from an op that had been blown before they'd even arrived on the scene. According to Barton, there'd been more point drawing Director Fury being eaten by sharks than there'd been in filing a report on shots that hadn't been fired.
The pages he's holding now are completely devoid of coffee stains, dawdling sketches, and crusted layers of white-out.
---
Hill doesn't leave until she's satisfied that he's satisfied with the groceries in the fridge and the furniture layout and the books on the shelves- all of which were new copies of books he'd already owned. Their spines are uncracked. There's a laptop in the office loaded with investment tracking databases and basic office software, which fits perfectly with his cover, and though the level of detail is the kind of thing Phil likes seeing in an operation, it's not worth investigating at the moment.
There are gray and brown and navy suits in the closet, but even though the cut and fit seem like they're exactly right, which they probably are, they don't feel like his at all.
They're not supposed to. He's not Phil Coulson, anymore.
He's been wandering the house for hours, getting the layout and planning escape routes, checking the locks on the doors and windows. He's selected three excellent places to hide a gun, and isn't at all surprised to find that someone, probably Hill, who'd been assigned his reassignment, had already stocked them.
He tells himself that there's nothing more for him to do besides move in here, become who he's supposed to be, so he might as well get to it.
One hour, he promises himself, and he can go back to the folder that he'd left on the table in the entryway, finish reading Barton's report. He forgets to wash out the obviously new coffeemaker, and the first sip tastes a little off, though it could just be that he's grown accustomed to the horrid hospital vending machine equivalent. Sitting down with the still too-hot mug, he begins to unpack the details of his new life, spreading it all out on the table. He's a banker, divorced, fairly successful, but not so much that he's interesting. Grew up in Illinois and Indiana.
Underneath the stack of identity and account information, at the bottom of the box, is the framed picture.
I thought it best this didn't get logged into the archives, Hill's written neatly on a post-it on the front, and Phil knows that he's thanked her for all her help already, but right now is the first time he's actually feeling it.
It goes on the wall in his bedroom. It's the only piece of art in this house that he's had any part in choosing.
---
Phil's back is screaming at him as he settles the ice-pack under his shoulder and lies down on top of the comforter.
He starts from the beginning this time, reading the reports in the order Hill had put them. He doesn't let himself skip ahead. All of this is on a need-to-know basis, and he doesn't need, strictly speaking, to know any of this. Hill hadn't needed to smuggle copies out for him, but three pages into Rogers' report, he's not surprised that she'd done so. There are photocopies of every one of the cards he'd left in his locker, the blood printed black over the images.
It's a protest, barely visible in her own reports, which gloss over the events of Phil's passing with stark aplomb before discussing their results. It's obvious that she's angry with Fury for using Phil's death as a tool.
She doesn't know that it had been Phil's idea in the first place.
He moves on through the rest of Hill's assessments to Fury's executive summary- the cost of the damage done to Manhattan is staggering, though Phil supposes a nuclear bomb detonating in Midtown would've been worse.
Roger's report is informative, succinct, and exactly what he wishes all his agents would turn in, but every page or two, Phil finds himself staring at the picture across the room and missing having something to complain about.
A flip of the page and a deep breath, and he's looking at Barton's report. By the time he's turning to the second page, he wishes he hadn't cajoled Hill into getting any of this for him.
Barton hadn't merely been compromised. He'd been present to everything that had happened. Completely unable to exert any sort of will, unable to even want to try. He'd known where to strike and what to sabotage. He'd felt himself doing it, even felt himself wanting to do it, and he'd made terrifyingly significant progress towards that end until he'd taken a hit to the head, courtesy of Natasha.
That's all it had taken to fix him. It's a little astounding that it had been so simple. Part of Phil wants to contact Fury, request an update on Barton's surveillance, because it's just too good to be true, but he'd be tipping his hand.
Barton had come out of it, woken up to find Natasha waiting with him, explaining only what he needed to know, but not, Phil notices, everything. In return given her what information he'd had, and it hadn't been much.
Barton had joined the fight immediately, and all reports indicate that he'd followed all orders to the letter. He'd gotten a good vantage point to see the Chitauri's attack patterns- they'd been lousy at banking, and Stark, apparently, hadn't been. Barton's report went on to mention that the Stark Tech grappling arrows were actually as good as SHIELD had been promised, and that they'd saved his ass when he'd been blasted off his rooftop.
Rogers' report said that he'd thrown himself off of it. Both are equally plausible.
The deployed ammunition summary at the end is long and varied, and it's the first one he's ever submitted that's itemized properly. Phil turns to the next page and takes a deep breath, reading the heading.
---
Natasha's report is only as illuminating as her earliest reports to SHIELD had been. She'd never trusted anyone, completely, except for Clint. Over time, her reports had grown gradually more open and honest, but Phil's still shocked to find that she's retreated as far as she had.
"...Afterwards, we left the restaurant and headed to the extraction point to wait for SHIELD transport. We arrived at the tertiary facility for debriefing, at which point plans were made for Thor to take both the Tesseract and Loki back to Asgard for safekeeping. At this time there we are assisting with cleanup where need be, and completing our SHIELD mandated post-mission assessments while waiting for further orders."
She doesn't hint at all at the Avengers' plans to vanish. It's unlikely that Fury himself hadn't known until they'd already gone.
Psychological Evaluation Summary. Subject: Agent Clint Barton. Date: May 15
The signs of guilt and remorse Barton exhibits go beyond that of other Field Agents in similar situations where personal agency has been similarly externally controlled for comparable spans of time. While he does seem aware that his actions in Manhattan have alleviated SHIELD's concerns regarding his continued clearance, he disagrees with this assessment.
Over the course of the six sessions he attended before his disappearance-
Phil stops reading, stops breathing. His shoulder twinges.
The span of ten seconds tells him that it's worse not to know. He adjusts his ice pack and reads on.
-Barton has exhibited signs of genuine remorse for his part in the proceedings, especially those which be believes to have led to the death of his former handler, Agent Phil Coulson. Though he frequently dissembled, changed the subject or closed down completely during our conversations, a measurable amount of progress was made over the course of our daily sessions. A few of his remarks made during our last session are provided below, verbatim:
"This line of work, you find someone you can trust, you just don't do what I did to them. I mean, I know- I didn't stab him, or whatever, but without my help, Loki wouldn't have ever had the chance to get that close."
It's not the first time Phil's reached for his phone before realizing that he can't call. It doesn't stop him wanting to.
"Fuck it," the transcript proceeds. "You know when I found out? Afterwards. I'd fought with these people, hung out stuffing my face with them for hours, after it was all said and done, and every one of them knew... Nobody- fuck, not even Natasha- had bothered to mention it. It wasn't until our transport arrived that it occurred to me to ask where Coulson was. Everyone went quiet. Sat in the back of the chopper with all of them while Natasha filled me in. Everyone else just tried not to stare. At least Fury, when he showed up, still only had one eye, you know?"
At this time, it is my supposition- and nothing more- that while Barton had been on the way to accepting the death of Phil Coulson at the time of this transcript, the process was not complete. Whether this was the lone factor in his disappearance, or a focus point, or merely yet another in a long line of stressors, the only data I am able to sufficiently report is that he has missed three sessions and I do not expect to see him walking through my door under his own volition any time soon.
Addendum, May 21: I have just heard from Agent Hill that Barton was not the only member of the team who have, suddenly and without explanation, disappeared. This may cast his situation in a new light, as it is my hopeful estimation that the reasons for his truancy are tactical in nature, rather than merely evasive or indicative of deeper psychological undertones. That said, I do strongly recommend he resume counseling immediately upon his reappearance, whenever that may be.
---
Mostly, Phil tries not to think about Clint, and when he fails, he does so in the privacy of his own suburban home. His physical therapists just don't need to see it, and anyway. This was more or less his idea, after all.
At night, though, he has to admit the possibility while all his actions might've been for the greater good, he'd been completely blind to what the greater good had actually been.
It had been the odd break between missions, a stolen weekend in Portland where they'd played tourist, sitting for hours on the patio of a tiny cafe and doing the Sunday crossword just because they could, for once. Before that, it had been a half-joking Valentine's day card with a much more valuable Captain America trading card shoved inside, and before that, it had been trudging soaked into a New Mexico hotel room, sodden clothes falling wetly to the floor.
Maybe it hadn't been the greater good, but it was so much better than this.
---
Phil has lots of ideas, lots of plans. He's set up safe houses for SHIELD agents, and for those wanting to stay underneath SHIELD's radar.
Barton and Natasha, he's certain, won't be found unless they want to be. Or unless they're needed. Fury seems to think they'll come back at the eleventh hour, a point that Hill obviously disagrees with, given the passages throughout the reports that she's elected to underline in thick red pen.
Really, all Phil needs to do is wait for another disaster to strike- a major one- and he'll have an estimate on Barton's most likely location.
The thing is, though, it seems a little familiar. Fury seems very confident for someone who honestly doesn't know where their best weapons are.
Phil's an ace up the sleeve himself, and Hill knows it. She knows where the others are hidden.
---
Physical therapy. Sleeping. Weaning himself off of painkillers as quickly as humanly possible. Regretting it. This is what Phil does, now. But every day, he can feel his head coming back online a little bit more, his focus returning. He can go through every book Hill had found for him and look for clues that aren't there. He can search his house for anything he hadn't noticed before and get nothing but a screaming muscle in his lower back that's threatening to pull his spine out through his skin.
But in the mornings- on the good mornings, when his body's finally starting to feel like it's not going to wrench itself apart at the slightest provocation- he can read more lines of financial data before they stop making sense.
---
Hill's too smart to flaunt Fury's orders, not until there's a need. But she's unhappy with those orders, that much had been obvious the first moment she'd appeared at the hospital.
She'd also been the one tasked with setting up Phil's new everything, and she'd been amazingly thorough. Hiding the guns, smuggling the picture from his office, replicating his entire library while making sure that the cleanup crew in his old place weren't letting anything important through, not that Phil had ever been stupid enough to use operational assessment forms as bookmarks. She'd built an entirely new identity for him, establishing every kind of history a person could need. She'd even filled his computer with highly detailed records of his alias' property investments.
There's an undeveloped plot of land in Bremer County, Iowa, that isn't at all familiar until he finds it on a map. It's on the outskirts of a town named Waverly, which has never come up in conversation. It has, however, come up in the course of background checking a SHIELD agent, where it was cited as the site of a circus that had once come to town.
Hill's buried it so well that it's taken Phil two weeks to notice it, but now he knows what to look for. There's another property listed, an apartment building that doesn't show up in any of the other records she'd created, but he still does a double take once he realizes where it is. Across the street from the county library. Next door to Cafe Cello.
His heart's in his throat as he stares at the street view of the address.
There are a lot of things Phil doesn't know, and now counted among them is the fact that Clint Barton, apparently, is somewhat of a sentimentalist.
Among the things Phil does know is that Clint Barton would never let that get in the way of staying gone for long. It might already be too late.
---
He knows that SHEILD is monitoring his accounts, his passport, his everything. He also knows that Fury would've delegated the hell out of something like this. He's got a fairly good suspicion that she's got his back, on this one. He doesn't need it, per se, but he appreciates people who appreciate contingencies.
He will, however, need a fair amount of painkillers if he's going to make it through a two hour flight.
And maybe a few more, for when Clint inevitably punches him in the jaw.
---
There's always a plan B.
He can't tell which arrow Clint's holding to his throat right now, not with it pressed so tightly against the hollow of his throat, making it impossible to explain, to speak, to answer Clint's question. He has to make do with his eyes, willing him to understand.
It's me.
Despite himself, he can't help searching Clint's eyes for hints of blue that might be brighter than they should be. All he finds, though, is rage.
---
It's an eternity before Clint speaks. "They told us you died."
It's too soon, he knows it is, but he tries anyway. "Reports of my death have been-"
"Don't," Clint spits, shoving himself away from Phil; on anyone else, the gesture would read as defensive, but Phil knows he's just stepping back to get a clearer shot. "No. Because reports of your death weren't even reported until we'd already won. And as far as exaggerations go, say what you will about Natasha, but she wasn't talking in superlatives when she told me what happened. She was barely talking at all."
"I'm sorry, but-"
The arrow's already embedded in the far wall. Phil had barely seen Clint's arm move, and honestly, his reaction probably shouldn't be relief. "They wanted to lock me up, afterwards, did you know?"
Clint turns away suddenly, heading for the kitchen. This distance is defensive; his aim's completely elsewhere, but it allows Phil the chance to lean heavily against the door for a moment, get some of the strain off his lower back. If he tried to follow right now, he's not sure he'd make it three steps. "Everyone else got the basic debrief, fifteen minute eval," Clint says from the kitchen. "I kept getting called back, for hours, fucking days."
"You were the only one among them who spent any time-"
"Under alien mind control? Yeah. No kidding. And then I came out of it, fought my ass off, only to discover that given the option, I would've rather stayed under."
"What?"
"At least then I didn't care if you lived or died," Clint says, and Phil can translate it, make it mean at least it wouldn't have hurt, but right now, he's not sure it would be accurate. Warily, he risks a few steps towards the kitchen, reminding himself that he'd expected this. Clint's got the refrigerator door open; it's contents are really only as telling as they ever are. A few leftover takeout containers, half a six-pack of beer.
A moment goes by, and Phil can feel the chilled air reach out across the floor.
Clint's shoulders sag, and he swings the door shut. He takes a breath before turning around, and this time- his eyes are still the right shade of blue- he just seems tired. Too tired to rage anymore, all that's left is worry and regret, and Phil's too focused on keeping himself upright to puzzle their exact sources. He's got a tight grip on the edge of the counter, trying to ease the strain.
He glances up as Clint opens the freezer and takes out an ice pack. Hefting it in his hand, he turns back to Phil with an assessing glance. He's trying to decide what to risk- tossing it only to have Phil collapse trying to catch it, or coming close enough to hand it to him.
Phil's ridiculously grateful when he opts for plan B. Enough that when Clint doesn't back away once he's taken it, he catches himself hoping.
He slips the ice pack up under his jacket and over his shirt, and leans back against the wall to hold it in place before looking up. Clint hasn't shaved today, but he he probably had yesterday.
"Fuck," Clint mutters, fingers twitching as concern takes over. "You okay?"
"Well, I died. For a minute." Right now isn't the time to get into it. "And then I pulled my back, and right now? That's actually worse."
"So you almost died," Clint allows, his tone making it clear that it's barely an improvement.
"Didn't even come close to your record," Phil adds, feeling the tension ratchet back up to unbearable as he continues, stupidly. Bringing up old, bad missions is not the best idea he's ever had, and he's had a few, now. "It was barely thirty seconds."
"It was a month and a half," Clint replies, but after a moment his fingers twitch again, releasing an invisible bowstring. The gesture isn't a new one- Phil doesn't even know if Clint's aware that he does it, but the familiarity gives him a base to work with, finally.
"Look. I'll explain all of it, and I'll apologize again-" he hasn't actually apologized yet, he realizes, but Clint's letting it slide. "But do you mind if we sit down, first?"
"Whatever, yeah." Clint frowns, glancing curiously at Phil's torso like he's trying to see through to his spine. Instead of moving towards the kitchen table, though, he's stepping back, reaching up to touch Phil's arm.
He's guiding him back out of the kitchen, then down the hall, and Clint's bedroom is even more sparse than Phil's, but then again, Clint probably hadn't had Agent Hill trying to decorate.
"Sit, lie down, whatever you need," Clint waves him to the bed. "You taking anything for it?"
Phil pulls the pill bottle from his pocket. He should've taken one before coming here; he'd known he was going to be sore. He could've gotten ahead of it.
"I'll grab you some water," Clint nods, and backs out of the room.
---
Phil opens his eyes to find a strange ceiling above him and movement on the edge of his vision. Clint, leaning against the dresser, is crossing his arms.
"You feeling alright?" His voice sounds hoarse, like he hasn't used it in a while, and Phil blinks again, trying to figure out the light coming through the window has changed, how long he'd been passed out- an hour or so at most, he figures. The ice pack is a vaguely cool presence against his back, and he's sore as hell, but it's an improvement.
Still, getting back up to sitting is a graceless endeavor. Clint's crossed the room already, is helping him sit up next to him on the bed.
Phil leans against him a little bit because he can, now.
"Sorry about that," he manages. "Didn't mean to-"
"It's cool," Clint says, nodding, calm now. "Was probably for the best."
"Hm?"
"Gave me some time to think." There's humor in his voice, and it could mean anything but it sounds like an admission. Phil's certain that a fair of the amount of the time Clint's had to think had actually been spent freaking out. "Forgot to tell you, earlier. You know, back when I- in the living room. I'm really glad you're not dead."
"Me too." Phil nods, and Clint's close enough to kiss. More importantly, Clint's ridiculously prone to taking risks, and moves in first. It's not perfect, not revelatory; maybe it's just about tabling all the rest of it for later.
For once, though, Phil's not the only one in on the plan, and it goes off without a hitch.
Fandom/Pairing: Avengers: Phil Coulson/ Clint Barton
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Don't own, down't sue, don't take this too seriously.
Warnings: Spoilers for movie.
Summary: Phil Coulson tends to have a lot of ideas that he wishes he didn't need.
A/N: I FINALLY SAW THE MOVIE today, and like the rest of the internet I HAVE FEELINGS...
Phil Coulson knows a lot of things that he wishes he didn't. Like what it is to be on the line listening to a battle he can't control, or how sometimes there's just no keeping enough pressure on a wound to keep someone's blood inside their body. Or that the world's best hope hinges on the shoulders of five people- five extraordinary people, but just five nonetheless. It's six, counting Fury, who's holding things together on a string and a prayer. Who's staring at him right now, ordering him not to die.
Phil also tends to have a lot of ideas that he wishes he didn't need. Cover stories for when the questions got too close, backup exits for when an operation inevitably went sideways. He even knows exactly who to call and what to say when, fuck, Clint's been compromised by a war-mad god.
He's got contingencies for every operation, except maybe this one. It's getting hard to focus, to even remember what he'd just been telling Fury, but he thinks it was about the television show he'd watched with Clint last week in Portland, about how the heroes hadn't gotten it together to act until they'd already lost one of their own.
"It's okay, boss. This was never gonna work if they didn't have something to-" he cuts himself off, because it doesn't really apply here, doesn't even make sense, and with the last of his energy following his blood out of his body, he doesn't have the energy to explain it.
---
He finds out three days later that he'd technically been dead for over thirty seconds.
It's not even a record.
---
He's surprised when Hill is his first visitor; his first question- where the hell is Barton dies on his lips when she hands him the card. Captain America- the one he'd picked that one up off of eBay three years ago- is covered in blood.
She doesn't need to even say it. His contingencies have failed.
Hill's eyes widen, suddenly; Phil realizes it's because she's looking at his face, reading his expression, and she hurries to explain. "Rogers is fine," she says. "They're. Well, we all heard that you'd died, I didn't even know until this morning." She frowns, chooses some words and decides against them. "They rallied, though. Came together, saved the day, exactly the way Fury thought they would."
There's no good reason to tell her otherwise, not with her eyes gone so hard. She's the type that still sees some sort of nobility in death, maybe, and it's likely that she's so angry about it now because the ploy worked on her, too.
"These were in my locker," is all he can think to say instead.
"If it's any consolation, the blood's yours." She shrugs, smiling though she's clearly irritated with him. He wonders what her orders are, why she's the one here instead of anyone else.
Underneath the drugs and whatever else is wrong with him, the cardboard still feels soft. It bends under his thumb, and he can't actually tell if the blood's dried.
---
"Congratulations," Fury says when he stops by; Phil doesn't even know how long he's been out, this time. He guesses it's been three or for since he'd first woken up here, in what's turned out to be the UC Davis Medical Center's Trauma ward, but his internal clock's still off. Beneath the painkillers, either he aches, or feels nothing at all.
He can't feel his legs. Has the idea, again, to actually look down to confirm that they're still there, but the prospect of actually doing so is stupidly daunting. Same as the last time he woke up. His legs are there, he's in one piece, but some of the pieces have been broken. He's slated for another surgery this afternoon, and can't even remember what it's for.
The doctors had repeatedly assured him that it won't be permanent, that he'll soon be regretting ever wishing that he could feel his legs once the numbness fades. It's going to hurt, badly, they've warned him, but he already knows what that look in their eyes means. They're hopeful, determined.
They wouldn't need hope if they actually had certainty.
He forces his focus back to Fury.
"For what?"
"While the status of the Avengers Initiative is admittedly up in the air, the Avengers did take initiative. We won."
Phil manages a smile, doesn't really feel it. He wonders when Clint's going to show up. Probably about ten minutes after visiting hours have ended, knowing him. "Back to business as usual, then?"
"Not exactly." Fury trails his hand along the edge of the counter, toys with one of the cardboard boxes of medical supplies that Phil hasn't yet been able to identify. "The powers that be ordered a nuclear strike, which Stark, of all people, managed to use to our advantage. The Avengers were last seen at a shawarma joint in upper Manhattan and haven't been on our radars since."
He's not sure which part is tripping him up, the nuke or the shawarma, or the fact that Clint's not here. "Seriously?"
"Officially." Fury shrugs. "Unofficially, they may have been seen at the tertiary base during the week following the fight. They're fine, Coulson. They've gone to ground, and we've got them under varying levels of surveillance."
"Even Stark?"
"You ever know the man to hide from a camera?" Fury shakes his head. "As far as The Powers That Be are concerned, the Avengers have disbanded. Which means you're not the only ace up our sleeve."
"Me?"
"You, me, Hill, and two doctors," Fury counts off on his fingers, "are the only people in the world who know both who you are and that you're still breathing."
Aces up sleeves are only as useful as the plays they can make, and Phil hasn't been this far out of the game in his life. But he appreciates the thought. It's the exact idea he would've probably had- going to ground while The Powers That Be inevitably decide that they're better off running the show without the Avengers- were he in any sort of position to be having ideas. "How long?" he asks, because otherwise he has to start dealing with the fact that Clint's not among the five who know. There's got to be a reason for it, and he doesn't know what it is.
"A while. You'll be back in the loop as soon as you need to be. And that'll probably be too soon," he nods at the hospital bed; it's the first real admission that he's even noticed Phil's condition. "But we'll roll with it."
---
It's three weeks before Phil's able to leave the hospital, and even though he's got the leash of physical therapy appointments- three times a week for the next two months- the sun on his face as he lurches towards the waiting car feels like freedom. If Hill notices that he's moving with all the speed and grace of a man twice his age, she's tactful enough not to mention it.
She's talking instead about the house SHIELD's arranged for him, about the identity that he's being given, and the accounts they've set up in his new name. The details, she promises, are waiting for him on his new kitchen counter, which is apparently granite. It sounds nice. Phil watches out the window as the city fades into suburbs, feigning interest. He's still on painkillers. Will be for a while, yet.
There's a thick folder on the dashboard; Hill reaches over and hands it to him once they're on the road, tells him that he's to disavow all knowledge of its contents. It's the internal reporting summary, a handful of emails. It's the type of thing that used to clutter his inbox, and the familiarity is strangely comforting. There are three field reports, and tacked to the front is an amended form, signed by Hill, that he recognizes all too well.
Contained herein are the psych evals and field reports for and from agents SR, CB, and NR. BB's history with SHIELD is such that I believe attempting contact for the sake of this matter would be counterproductive in the long run. Obtaining a full report from T is also unlikely, given the prohibitive cost of the logistical requirements required to chase down a god for the sake of paperwork. Reports are not also expected from TS, who merely thinks he's a god. Several attempts have been made to contact TS through PP, though it my estimation that Ms. P's allegiance to TS, as well as her duties with Stark Industries, have cemented beyond the point of her being a useful intermediary in these matters.
Pepper had blown Coulson off repeatedly, even before taking leadership most of Stark's company. The idea that Hill seems surprised by this fact is amusing, but he's flipping past it already, eyes scanning through until he finds the first page of Barton's report.
The summary is short and to the point- almost as clinical as Rogers's, Phil will realize once he's gone back to read it. There are no jokes, no sarcasm, and they'd been electronically submitted. The words "I couldn't stop. Couldn't even want to." bring him up short, and it's probably best if he read this without an audience. He turns the packet over, flips through the blank back sides of every printout. He doesn't know what it is he's looking for until he doesn't find it.
On the wall of his home office, which had undoubtably been sanitized by now, hung page three of an ammunition discharge report from an op that had been blown before they'd even arrived on the scene. According to Barton, there'd been more point drawing Director Fury being eaten by sharks than there'd been in filing a report on shots that hadn't been fired.
The pages he's holding now are completely devoid of coffee stains, dawdling sketches, and crusted layers of white-out.
---
Hill doesn't leave until she's satisfied that he's satisfied with the groceries in the fridge and the furniture layout and the books on the shelves- all of which were new copies of books he'd already owned. Their spines are uncracked. There's a laptop in the office loaded with investment tracking databases and basic office software, which fits perfectly with his cover, and though the level of detail is the kind of thing Phil likes seeing in an operation, it's not worth investigating at the moment.
There are gray and brown and navy suits in the closet, but even though the cut and fit seem like they're exactly right, which they probably are, they don't feel like his at all.
They're not supposed to. He's not Phil Coulson, anymore.
He's been wandering the house for hours, getting the layout and planning escape routes, checking the locks on the doors and windows. He's selected three excellent places to hide a gun, and isn't at all surprised to find that someone, probably Hill, who'd been assigned his reassignment, had already stocked them.
He tells himself that there's nothing more for him to do besides move in here, become who he's supposed to be, so he might as well get to it.
One hour, he promises himself, and he can go back to the folder that he'd left on the table in the entryway, finish reading Barton's report. He forgets to wash out the obviously new coffeemaker, and the first sip tastes a little off, though it could just be that he's grown accustomed to the horrid hospital vending machine equivalent. Sitting down with the still too-hot mug, he begins to unpack the details of his new life, spreading it all out on the table. He's a banker, divorced, fairly successful, but not so much that he's interesting. Grew up in Illinois and Indiana.
Underneath the stack of identity and account information, at the bottom of the box, is the framed picture.
I thought it best this didn't get logged into the archives, Hill's written neatly on a post-it on the front, and Phil knows that he's thanked her for all her help already, but right now is the first time he's actually feeling it.
It goes on the wall in his bedroom. It's the only piece of art in this house that he's had any part in choosing.
---
Phil's back is screaming at him as he settles the ice-pack under his shoulder and lies down on top of the comforter.
He starts from the beginning this time, reading the reports in the order Hill had put them. He doesn't let himself skip ahead. All of this is on a need-to-know basis, and he doesn't need, strictly speaking, to know any of this. Hill hadn't needed to smuggle copies out for him, but three pages into Rogers' report, he's not surprised that she'd done so. There are photocopies of every one of the cards he'd left in his locker, the blood printed black over the images.
It's a protest, barely visible in her own reports, which gloss over the events of Phil's passing with stark aplomb before discussing their results. It's obvious that she's angry with Fury for using Phil's death as a tool.
She doesn't know that it had been Phil's idea in the first place.
He moves on through the rest of Hill's assessments to Fury's executive summary- the cost of the damage done to Manhattan is staggering, though Phil supposes a nuclear bomb detonating in Midtown would've been worse.
Roger's report is informative, succinct, and exactly what he wishes all his agents would turn in, but every page or two, Phil finds himself staring at the picture across the room and missing having something to complain about.
A flip of the page and a deep breath, and he's looking at Barton's report. By the time he's turning to the second page, he wishes he hadn't cajoled Hill into getting any of this for him.
Barton hadn't merely been compromised. He'd been present to everything that had happened. Completely unable to exert any sort of will, unable to even want to try. He'd known where to strike and what to sabotage. He'd felt himself doing it, even felt himself wanting to do it, and he'd made terrifyingly significant progress towards that end until he'd taken a hit to the head, courtesy of Natasha.
That's all it had taken to fix him. It's a little astounding that it had been so simple. Part of Phil wants to contact Fury, request an update on Barton's surveillance, because it's just too good to be true, but he'd be tipping his hand.
Barton had come out of it, woken up to find Natasha waiting with him, explaining only what he needed to know, but not, Phil notices, everything. In return given her what information he'd had, and it hadn't been much.
Barton had joined the fight immediately, and all reports indicate that he'd followed all orders to the letter. He'd gotten a good vantage point to see the Chitauri's attack patterns- they'd been lousy at banking, and Stark, apparently, hadn't been. Barton's report went on to mention that the Stark Tech grappling arrows were actually as good as SHIELD had been promised, and that they'd saved his ass when he'd been blasted off his rooftop.
Rogers' report said that he'd thrown himself off of it. Both are equally plausible.
The deployed ammunition summary at the end is long and varied, and it's the first one he's ever submitted that's itemized properly. Phil turns to the next page and takes a deep breath, reading the heading.
---
Natasha's report is only as illuminating as her earliest reports to SHIELD had been. She'd never trusted anyone, completely, except for Clint. Over time, her reports had grown gradually more open and honest, but Phil's still shocked to find that she's retreated as far as she had.
"...Afterwards, we left the restaurant and headed to the extraction point to wait for SHIELD transport. We arrived at the tertiary facility for debriefing, at which point plans were made for Thor to take both the Tesseract and Loki back to Asgard for safekeeping. At this time there we are assisting with cleanup where need be, and completing our SHIELD mandated post-mission assessments while waiting for further orders."
She doesn't hint at all at the Avengers' plans to vanish. It's unlikely that Fury himself hadn't known until they'd already gone.
Psychological Evaluation Summary. Subject: Agent Clint Barton. Date: May 15
The signs of guilt and remorse Barton exhibits go beyond that of other Field Agents in similar situations where personal agency has been similarly externally controlled for comparable spans of time. While he does seem aware that his actions in Manhattan have alleviated SHIELD's concerns regarding his continued clearance, he disagrees with this assessment.
Over the course of the six sessions he attended before his disappearance-
Phil stops reading, stops breathing. His shoulder twinges.
The span of ten seconds tells him that it's worse not to know. He adjusts his ice pack and reads on.
-Barton has exhibited signs of genuine remorse for his part in the proceedings, especially those which be believes to have led to the death of his former handler, Agent Phil Coulson. Though he frequently dissembled, changed the subject or closed down completely during our conversations, a measurable amount of progress was made over the course of our daily sessions. A few of his remarks made during our last session are provided below, verbatim:
"This line of work, you find someone you can trust, you just don't do what I did to them. I mean, I know- I didn't stab him, or whatever, but without my help, Loki wouldn't have ever had the chance to get that close."
It's not the first time Phil's reached for his phone before realizing that he can't call. It doesn't stop him wanting to.
"Fuck it," the transcript proceeds. "You know when I found out? Afterwards. I'd fought with these people, hung out stuffing my face with them for hours, after it was all said and done, and every one of them knew... Nobody- fuck, not even Natasha- had bothered to mention it. It wasn't until our transport arrived that it occurred to me to ask where Coulson was. Everyone went quiet. Sat in the back of the chopper with all of them while Natasha filled me in. Everyone else just tried not to stare. At least Fury, when he showed up, still only had one eye, you know?"
At this time, it is my supposition- and nothing more- that while Barton had been on the way to accepting the death of Phil Coulson at the time of this transcript, the process was not complete. Whether this was the lone factor in his disappearance, or a focus point, or merely yet another in a long line of stressors, the only data I am able to sufficiently report is that he has missed three sessions and I do not expect to see him walking through my door under his own volition any time soon.
Addendum, May 21: I have just heard from Agent Hill that Barton was not the only member of the team who have, suddenly and without explanation, disappeared. This may cast his situation in a new light, as it is my hopeful estimation that the reasons for his truancy are tactical in nature, rather than merely evasive or indicative of deeper psychological undertones. That said, I do strongly recommend he resume counseling immediately upon his reappearance, whenever that may be.
---
Mostly, Phil tries not to think about Clint, and when he fails, he does so in the privacy of his own suburban home. His physical therapists just don't need to see it, and anyway. This was more or less his idea, after all.
At night, though, he has to admit the possibility while all his actions might've been for the greater good, he'd been completely blind to what the greater good had actually been.
It had been the odd break between missions, a stolen weekend in Portland where they'd played tourist, sitting for hours on the patio of a tiny cafe and doing the Sunday crossword just because they could, for once. Before that, it had been a half-joking Valentine's day card with a much more valuable Captain America trading card shoved inside, and before that, it had been trudging soaked into a New Mexico hotel room, sodden clothes falling wetly to the floor.
Maybe it hadn't been the greater good, but it was so much better than this.
---
Phil has lots of ideas, lots of plans. He's set up safe houses for SHIELD agents, and for those wanting to stay underneath SHIELD's radar.
Barton and Natasha, he's certain, won't be found unless they want to be. Or unless they're needed. Fury seems to think they'll come back at the eleventh hour, a point that Hill obviously disagrees with, given the passages throughout the reports that she's elected to underline in thick red pen.
Really, all Phil needs to do is wait for another disaster to strike- a major one- and he'll have an estimate on Barton's most likely location.
The thing is, though, it seems a little familiar. Fury seems very confident for someone who honestly doesn't know where their best weapons are.
Phil's an ace up the sleeve himself, and Hill knows it. She knows where the others are hidden.
---
Physical therapy. Sleeping. Weaning himself off of painkillers as quickly as humanly possible. Regretting it. This is what Phil does, now. But every day, he can feel his head coming back online a little bit more, his focus returning. He can go through every book Hill had found for him and look for clues that aren't there. He can search his house for anything he hadn't noticed before and get nothing but a screaming muscle in his lower back that's threatening to pull his spine out through his skin.
But in the mornings- on the good mornings, when his body's finally starting to feel like it's not going to wrench itself apart at the slightest provocation- he can read more lines of financial data before they stop making sense.
---
Hill's too smart to flaunt Fury's orders, not until there's a need. But she's unhappy with those orders, that much had been obvious the first moment she'd appeared at the hospital.
She'd also been the one tasked with setting up Phil's new everything, and she'd been amazingly thorough. Hiding the guns, smuggling the picture from his office, replicating his entire library while making sure that the cleanup crew in his old place weren't letting anything important through, not that Phil had ever been stupid enough to use operational assessment forms as bookmarks. She'd built an entirely new identity for him, establishing every kind of history a person could need. She'd even filled his computer with highly detailed records of his alias' property investments.
There's an undeveloped plot of land in Bremer County, Iowa, that isn't at all familiar until he finds it on a map. It's on the outskirts of a town named Waverly, which has never come up in conversation. It has, however, come up in the course of background checking a SHIELD agent, where it was cited as the site of a circus that had once come to town.
Hill's buried it so well that it's taken Phil two weeks to notice it, but now he knows what to look for. There's another property listed, an apartment building that doesn't show up in any of the other records she'd created, but he still does a double take once he realizes where it is. Across the street from the county library. Next door to Cafe Cello.
His heart's in his throat as he stares at the street view of the address.
There are a lot of things Phil doesn't know, and now counted among them is the fact that Clint Barton, apparently, is somewhat of a sentimentalist.
Among the things Phil does know is that Clint Barton would never let that get in the way of staying gone for long. It might already be too late.
---
He knows that SHEILD is monitoring his accounts, his passport, his everything. He also knows that Fury would've delegated the hell out of something like this. He's got a fairly good suspicion that she's got his back, on this one. He doesn't need it, per se, but he appreciates people who appreciate contingencies.
He will, however, need a fair amount of painkillers if he's going to make it through a two hour flight.
And maybe a few more, for when Clint inevitably punches him in the jaw.
---
There's always a plan B.
He can't tell which arrow Clint's holding to his throat right now, not with it pressed so tightly against the hollow of his throat, making it impossible to explain, to speak, to answer Clint's question. He has to make do with his eyes, willing him to understand.
It's me.
Despite himself, he can't help searching Clint's eyes for hints of blue that might be brighter than they should be. All he finds, though, is rage.
---
It's an eternity before Clint speaks. "They told us you died."
It's too soon, he knows it is, but he tries anyway. "Reports of my death have been-"
"Don't," Clint spits, shoving himself away from Phil; on anyone else, the gesture would read as defensive, but Phil knows he's just stepping back to get a clearer shot. "No. Because reports of your death weren't even reported until we'd already won. And as far as exaggerations go, say what you will about Natasha, but she wasn't talking in superlatives when she told me what happened. She was barely talking at all."
"I'm sorry, but-"
The arrow's already embedded in the far wall. Phil had barely seen Clint's arm move, and honestly, his reaction probably shouldn't be relief. "They wanted to lock me up, afterwards, did you know?"
Clint turns away suddenly, heading for the kitchen. This distance is defensive; his aim's completely elsewhere, but it allows Phil the chance to lean heavily against the door for a moment, get some of the strain off his lower back. If he tried to follow right now, he's not sure he'd make it three steps. "Everyone else got the basic debrief, fifteen minute eval," Clint says from the kitchen. "I kept getting called back, for hours, fucking days."
"You were the only one among them who spent any time-"
"Under alien mind control? Yeah. No kidding. And then I came out of it, fought my ass off, only to discover that given the option, I would've rather stayed under."
"What?"
"At least then I didn't care if you lived or died," Clint says, and Phil can translate it, make it mean at least it wouldn't have hurt, but right now, he's not sure it would be accurate. Warily, he risks a few steps towards the kitchen, reminding himself that he'd expected this. Clint's got the refrigerator door open; it's contents are really only as telling as they ever are. A few leftover takeout containers, half a six-pack of beer.
A moment goes by, and Phil can feel the chilled air reach out across the floor.
Clint's shoulders sag, and he swings the door shut. He takes a breath before turning around, and this time- his eyes are still the right shade of blue- he just seems tired. Too tired to rage anymore, all that's left is worry and regret, and Phil's too focused on keeping himself upright to puzzle their exact sources. He's got a tight grip on the edge of the counter, trying to ease the strain.
He glances up as Clint opens the freezer and takes out an ice pack. Hefting it in his hand, he turns back to Phil with an assessing glance. He's trying to decide what to risk- tossing it only to have Phil collapse trying to catch it, or coming close enough to hand it to him.
Phil's ridiculously grateful when he opts for plan B. Enough that when Clint doesn't back away once he's taken it, he catches himself hoping.
He slips the ice pack up under his jacket and over his shirt, and leans back against the wall to hold it in place before looking up. Clint hasn't shaved today, but he he probably had yesterday.
"Fuck," Clint mutters, fingers twitching as concern takes over. "You okay?"
"Well, I died. For a minute." Right now isn't the time to get into it. "And then I pulled my back, and right now? That's actually worse."
"So you almost died," Clint allows, his tone making it clear that it's barely an improvement.
"Didn't even come close to your record," Phil adds, feeling the tension ratchet back up to unbearable as he continues, stupidly. Bringing up old, bad missions is not the best idea he's ever had, and he's had a few, now. "It was barely thirty seconds."
"It was a month and a half," Clint replies, but after a moment his fingers twitch again, releasing an invisible bowstring. The gesture isn't a new one- Phil doesn't even know if Clint's aware that he does it, but the familiarity gives him a base to work with, finally.
"Look. I'll explain all of it, and I'll apologize again-" he hasn't actually apologized yet, he realizes, but Clint's letting it slide. "But do you mind if we sit down, first?"
"Whatever, yeah." Clint frowns, glancing curiously at Phil's torso like he's trying to see through to his spine. Instead of moving towards the kitchen table, though, he's stepping back, reaching up to touch Phil's arm.
He's guiding him back out of the kitchen, then down the hall, and Clint's bedroom is even more sparse than Phil's, but then again, Clint probably hadn't had Agent Hill trying to decorate.
"Sit, lie down, whatever you need," Clint waves him to the bed. "You taking anything for it?"
Phil pulls the pill bottle from his pocket. He should've taken one before coming here; he'd known he was going to be sore. He could've gotten ahead of it.
"I'll grab you some water," Clint nods, and backs out of the room.
---
Phil opens his eyes to find a strange ceiling above him and movement on the edge of his vision. Clint, leaning against the dresser, is crossing his arms.
"You feeling alright?" His voice sounds hoarse, like he hasn't used it in a while, and Phil blinks again, trying to figure out the light coming through the window has changed, how long he'd been passed out- an hour or so at most, he figures. The ice pack is a vaguely cool presence against his back, and he's sore as hell, but it's an improvement.
Still, getting back up to sitting is a graceless endeavor. Clint's crossed the room already, is helping him sit up next to him on the bed.
Phil leans against him a little bit because he can, now.
"Sorry about that," he manages. "Didn't mean to-"
"It's cool," Clint says, nodding, calm now. "Was probably for the best."
"Hm?"
"Gave me some time to think." There's humor in his voice, and it could mean anything but it sounds like an admission. Phil's certain that a fair of the amount of the time Clint's had to think had actually been spent freaking out. "Forgot to tell you, earlier. You know, back when I- in the living room. I'm really glad you're not dead."
"Me too." Phil nods, and Clint's close enough to kiss. More importantly, Clint's ridiculously prone to taking risks, and moves in first. It's not perfect, not revelatory; maybe it's just about tabling all the rest of it for later.
For once, though, Phil's not the only one in on the plan, and it goes off without a hitch.