Chapter Text
The Avengers debriefings are just proof that Phil made the right decision in coming onboard the Initiative, because ordinary SHIELD ops were becoming routine and this, this is never ever going to be routine.
Stark has the first follow-up, because he actually does need to get back to SI. He looks...oddly subdued as he sets a flash drive on Phil's desk and slides it across.
"I wrote up a report," he says. "It's all on there."
Phil looks at it. "You voluntarily did paperwork?"
"In, uh, light of your injuries, and man you look like shit," Stark adds, "it was sort of generally agreed that perhaps right now was not the time for me to inflict...well, me...on you. So, um, I'm going to -- "
He starts to rise, and Phil says, "Tony. Sit down."
"O...kay," Stark agrees, dropping back into the chair.
"I can get this," Phil says, holding up the flash drive, "from anyone. What I need from you is a little different. I need to know about the team dynamic -- how they work together, how we can make them work better together."
Stark's brows pull together. "Why ask me?"
"Well, arguably, you're the most socially adept of any of them," Phil says.
"Aw, that's sweet. Also, worrying. But cool, okay," Stark says, and sits back and spends the next half hour providing the most concise, insightful team portrait Phil could ask for. Phil doesn't even have to talk.
When Stark leaves, Steve enters and lays an envelope on his desk. Phil opens it, intrigued. Inside are nine mint-condition vintage trading cards, each in a plastic protector sleeve.
"Where did you get these?" he asks, flipping through them, fascinated. Not a single one is damaged in any way he can see.
"It turns out when Captain America asks if anyone has old trading cards, it's really easy to find replacements," Steve says. "Natasha called it leveraging my social currency."
Phil smiles. "Will you sign them?"
"Well, no," Steve says, and then in a rush, "Because you're not allowed to die again until you get them signed, so I'm not going to sign them, so you're not allowed to die."
He says it with utter seriousness, but with a wary look in his eye, like Phil might think this is crazy. Phil understands; soldiers have their superstitions, and this isn't any crazier than Clint's sequential lucky arrowheads.
"I see. Thank you for replacing them," he says, and tucks them into his pocket. Steve gives him a sunny Captain America smile and a militarily precise account of the battle.
Natasha is after Steve, and she knows Phil well enough to know that more than anything he needs to hear what's been going on in the last three weeks, what new gossip she's picked up, what the state of SHIELD really is. She brings sandwiches and sodas and they eat lunch and talk, like they always have. At the end she rests her elbows on his desk and leans in.
"I talked to Clint," she says. "After we broke in to find you. He says things are good?"
Phil nods. "I think so. Dying aside."
She smiles. "That's what he said. Guess I know why you guys were always eerily in sync on missions."
"I think that came first, to be honest," he answers.
Bruce is next after Natasha, and they both know he doesn't really remember any of it. He just cracks stupid, really funny jokes about everyone for twenty minutes, and Phil finds himself laughing, even though it hurts and also totally ruins his rep.
And then there's Clint.
Clint sits up high, perched in the rafters over the hallway leading to Phil's office door, and watches the others go in and out. He's last on purpose; he doesn't intend to share Phil once the others are done.
His mind drifts into half-dreams; it's not uncommon for him. He keeps his eyes on the door, taking everything in, but his brain is elsewhere, sleeping, throwing up images from his subconscious. Today it's antiques, intermingled with his childhood. Clint likes the smell of dust you get from antiques, finds it comforting, knows dusty places are safe to hide in. He complains when Phil drags him into yet another antique store, but honestly, he doesn't mind them. Tons of places to hide. He remembers a preacher in their church when he was young: my father's house has many rooms.
Clint's been into pretty much every collectible store on the eastern seaboard, quite a few overseas, and some scattered around the rest of America. He's come to classify them: the big faceless antique malls full of little booths, the small high-end dealer shops, the shabby, creepy storefronts run by people who are one step removed from active hoarding. Comic book stores and baseball-card stores, the outliers, filled with teenagers getting their fix.
The first time Coulson stopped him, said Wait here and ducked into an antique store, Clint obediently waited. He figured it was a SHIELD cover operation, and Phil was checking in. He hadn't really thought anything more about it; it wasn't his place to question his handler, at least not as long as his handler was Agent Coulson.
The second time, he risked peeking through the window. The fourth time, he followed him in but didn't stand close enough to hear him talking. The sixth time, he listened, and then cracked up laughing.
Phil hasn't stopped him from following him inside since long before the Stark incident in Malibu, which is fuzzily when Clint dates their relationship from. Now when it happens, Clint wanders around and gets into junk while Phil chats with the owners casually about "Baseball cards, collector cards, ephemera -- that kind of thing."
Clint knows -- he kind of hates that he knows, but he loves Phil Coulson, so he knows -- that there are nine Captain America cards considered "vintage" by professional collecting standards. Phil owned them all before Fury ruined them, but he was always on a search for mint-condition ones. Clint had begun to think it was just habit that kept him ducking into weird old shops and setting eBay searches. Now, of course, they're probably going to have to start over. Coulson's probably secretly pleased.
The first four Captain America vintage trading cards were given out with certain war bond purchases in the forties (the first in '41, two in '42, one in '44). They're color photographs, with information about where war bond money goes printed on the back. Phil inherited three of them from his grandfather, who actually saw Captain America perform the day he bought the 1942 bonds. The bonds themselves helped pay for Phil's college education.
There were plenty of them printed, but they're old and cheap, so finding mint-condition ones is rare. Phil found the fourth in an antique mall in Houston, while Clint rummaged in a booth full of nonfunctional sixties kitchen appliances, baffled by humanity.
The next three Captain America cards (1946) came with the first Captain America comic, printed after the war was over. All three of them are enlarged frames from the comic showing Captain America -- badly drawn -- being heroic. They were inserted randomly, so you had to buy multiple copies of the comic to get all three; all three have an Official Captain America Patriot Club Membership Card printed on the back. Phil got two from his father, but they were in shitty condition so when he found a set of three together at a collector's convention (that was a crazy weekend, but kind of fun) he bought the whole set despite the outrageous markup. The ones from his father -- which have his dad's signature on one Patriot Club card and Phil's name in a childish scrawl on the other -- are kept with his important papers in a safety-deposit box somewhere.
The last two that are considered part of the vintage set were issued for Eisenhower's inauguration in '53. One is a miniaturized copy of a propaganda poster from the war, with the pledge of allegiance on the back, which is really random if you ask Clint. The other is a black and white photo of a younger Eisenhower and Captain America taken during the war, with the oath of office on the back.
The black and white card is the rarest. Clint blew a significant chunk of the salary he barely touches on a mint edition for Phil's birthday last year. Oh yeah, Clint Barton has Sources.
Phil's cards have been a private joke between them for so long that he has trouble connecting the smart, serious Cap he takes orders from with the campy loon on the cards. He likes Steve Rogers, and feels bad for laughing at him, but honestly. Those cards are fucking hilarious.
He's not especially threatened by Phil's idolatry of Steve; Phil only loves the symbol, and perhaps the legacy of his grandfather and father that he's now the caretaker of.
(Although if Rogers ever did get ideas, Clint is fully prepared to shoot him in the throat.)
He's going over the current valuations of the cards, individually, as sub-sets, and as a complete set -- when Banner leaves the office. He snaps out of his half-conscious state, waits until Banner's gone completely, and then drops to the floor.
When Bruce leaves, Phil waits patiently; he hears the thud of Clint's boots landing in the hallway from the ceiling, and a few seconds later Clint practically lurks into his office. Clint is a first-class lurker. It's one of the many reasons Phil fell for him.
"Fury authorized you for leave from the Helicarrier," Clint announces.
"No he didn't," Phil replies, but he's already gathering his things, getting ready to go.
"Well, I put in a request for transport and he approved that, which amounts to the same thing," Clint says.
This thing between them has always been Clint's call, really. Clint is the one who gets past security cameras and shakes any tails, the one who shows up in Phil's apartment unannounced, the one who came up with the cellist story. Phil has never questioned it because -- well, first, because Clint on his terms is better than anyone else on Phil's, and because Clint has never been allowed much control over his own life, so Phil could allow him control over this, at least. It didn't matter to him.
Now it's different. Now, everyone knows. That's fine too, for him, but he wonders if Clint's regretting it.
"Let's go," Phil says, and Clint nods, all business, and escorts him to their transport.
Phil knows that relationships have their own symbols, their own language -- things and words that don't translate to the outside world. Clint knows it too; he would have learned it in SHIELD agent training, if he didn't already know it from his days as a thief. Clint's had missions where he's had to seduce people into trusting him. Phil has watched him deftly, gently, but undeniably force intimacy with his marks through symbols, inventing them rather than letting them grow organically the way they should.
But with them, Clint and him, these things were already in place. They'd been working together for years before anything happened. Once it did, Clint tried to force it further, kept trying to use his SHIELD training, and Phil kept having to shut him down, to fling the fake, forced symbols back at him and put the real ones, the ones that grew during their working relationship, in their place. The first two months of their relationship severely tested Phil's patience, but it's been worth it.
"So," Phil says, as they climb into the jet, Clint taking the pilot's seat. "Get a tan?"
Clint smiles. He asked that after Phil came back from Malibu, smelling of scorched wool and metal. The op might have been awful but it's done now. Get a tan?
"Yeah, hell yeah," Clint says, as he lifts them off and breaks them low through the clouds.
"Not to ask the emotionally awkward question while you're in the pilot's seat of a multimillion dollar aircraft, but are you okay?" Phil continues.
"I'm all right."
"Do you remember it?"
Clint shakes his head. "Bits and pieces."
"Dreams?"
"No."
Phil nods. "Do I need to ask you about this?"
Clint's obviously considering this. Phil knows he needs to be asked; he can't just talk about things without being asked, because if someone asks that means they care, they're not just listening to be polite. Clint needs to know the people he talks to care about him.
Finally, there's a brief headshake. "No. Let's let this one go."
Phil nods. "Your call."
Clint sweeps them down around Manhattan, heading for the one land SHIELD base still standing.
"My sense of time wasn't good," Phil says. "How long before you found out?"
Clint shrugs. "You'd been dead a couple of hours by the time Natasha broke me loose. She told me. Team took it hard. Fury meant us to. Then we went into combat pretty much immediately, that lasted a while. Stark insisted on -- "
" -- shawarma, I heard."
"So...maybe six hours total. Not long."
"Long enough."
"Way too long," Clint agrees. "You?"
"Days. As soon as Loki got loose with you. I had to." Phil is silent for a while, trying not to think too much about how hard those days had been, about the mask he'd had to wear and the cost of it. Just thinking about it makes him tired. "That's why I went after him. Nothing to lose. Might get the satisfaction of seeing him burn." Phil glances out the window. "Still wouldn't mind that."
"Me either," Clint's voice is raspy. "So are we actually going to do a debrief?"
"We just did," Phil answers, eyes closing. He's so tired. "M'a sleep now."
"You do that," Clint says, his tone affectionate, indulgent.
Phil has an apartment near the base, but on the opposite side of it from the neighborhood where most of the SHIELD agents live (locals call that neighborhood Spookville). It's a bland street and a bland building, intentionally so, but inside it's nice. At least, Clint likes it, and he knows Phil does. Open-plan, lots of room for bookshelves and a gun safe, a decent kitchen. Phil's neighbors think he's an insurance investigator, which explains his occasional long absences.
Clint wakes him briefly to get him from the jet into a car, but he passes out again almost as soon as the car starts. He doesn't wake until Clint pulls into the parking space beneath his building.
Clint helps him out of the car, steadies him, makes eye contact to make sure he can walk on his own, and it's strange -- he's never taken the elevator up to Phil's floor before, never walked down the hall to his front door with him. Clint usually comes in through the window.
Phil's moving stiffly. It hurts to see, but Clint gives him a little space, goes into the kitchen to rummage for food while Phil disappears behind the high panel that blocks off the bedroom from the rest of the apartment. Clint has no idea why Phil thought he needed to wear a suit today, but it's probably a Phil thing, Clint's learned not to ask. He hears the jacket thump to the floor, the rasp of fabric as he pulls his tie off.
There is no edible food in this kitchen. Anything in the fridge has gone bad, anything out of it has gone stale, and the freezer has a frost-burned lasagne and something unidentifiable in tupperware.
"I have ugly pasta or mystery bowl," he announces.
"I'm not hungry," Phil says. Clint glances up, then crosses out of the kitchen, arriving just in time to help ease the shirt off his shoulders.
"Well, if you sleep now, we can -- " Clint stops, staring down at the bandage. It's long and pale, taped to the skin, hiding away the wound. Phil catches him, raising an eyebrow.
"Got a matching one on the back," he says.
"I know," Clint answers, confessing. "Tony gave me a camera feed of your room. The first time I'm seeing it in person, that's all." He kneels down and runs his fingers over it lightly. "Showering must be a bitch."
"Not breathing would be worse."
Clint nods, feeling for a moment like he can't breathe, either.
"That reminds me," Phil says, carefully taking his badge wallet out of his pocket. "I think this belongs to you."
Clint watches as Phil takes the corroded old arrowhead out of the ID and offers it to him. New Mexico, he remembers. Apache arrowheads. Two days off after the Thor job. Rough roads, beautiful desert, sand everywhere. A sort of unreality had settled over them; what they'd just seen was beyond the pale, even for them. Lying on a cheap motel bed after sex, talking about their next job.
You'll be assigned to watch Selvig. Keep him safe.
What will you be doing?
Fury's got something special in mind for me. You too, eventually. Don't worry about it.
Not worrying, then.
"You keep it," Clint says impulsively, taking the arrowhead and returning it to the pocket behind Phil's ID (he had more hair when that picture was taken). "I think that one's yours."
Phil studies him. "But it's your insane lucky arrowhead superstition."
"It's cool, you keep it," Clint insists, standing and picking up his shirt, carrying it to the laundry to hide how freaked out he suddenly feels. "I'll find another one soon enough."
"Is that so?" Phil asks, standing to unbuckle his belt. Clint takes pajamas out of the closet -- a neatly pressed set from a shelf for Phil, a not-too-dirty t-shirt and a pair of Phil's pajama pants from the heap of clothes on the closet floor for himself.
"Yep." Clint answers, toeing off his boots. "When you're healed up we're going to Yosemite."
Phil sighs. "This is going to involve camping, isn't it."
"Almost undoubtedly," Clint agrees. Phil eases into the pajamas unaided, then settles down on the bed on his side, grimacing. Clint ponders this problem.
He can see the issue. Lying on his back will irritate the entry wound. Lying on his front would irritate the much larger surgery wound where they went in to repair the lung. Lying on his side puts weight on both at once.
He climbs onto the bed and insinuates himself behind Phil, carefully tugging him back, taking the weight of his arm and shoulder. Phil shifts, then sighs in relief as the tension in his body slips away.
"So," Clint says finally. "I'm guessing sex is a no-go."
Phil snorts. "Try me in the morning. About two weeks from now."
"It's a date." Clint presses his face to Phil's neck, inhales.
"Thanks for the arrowhead," Phil adds, after a while.
"Thanks for not dying."
"Anytime."
Phil dreams about dust, about the peculiar grit that comes from handling old things, the way sifting through old paper roughens the fingertips. Houston, it was Houston. Standing outside an antique mall in the merciless Texas sun, Clint watching as Phil folds a plastic bag around the protective sleeve inside it.
You just paid fifty bucks for a piece of cardboard, Clint says, disbelieving.
It's worth three hundred, Phil answers, tucking the folded bag in his pocket. Clint has known for a while that Phil's been looking for collector's cards, but Phil thinks he doesn't really get it; this is the fourth in a set, the last one he needed to make his war bonds set complete. The dealer didn't know what he had.
Three hundred for a picture of Captain America?
Depending on who you ask, anyway.
Who you ask? What? Clint says, disbelieving.
Some things have no price, in the right hands, Phil replies. That was two missions before the Stark thing blew up. They're already dancing around each other, circling closer, crossing boundaries they probably shouldn't.
Who knew you were a sentimentalist? Clint asks, grinning.
Don't let it get out, Phil informs him, deadpan, and Clint laughs and climbs back into the car, which smells like hot upholstery and stale coffee.
Phil surfaces from the dream, briefly, tensing with the anticipation of pain -- it's become an instinct, as he heals -- but it's not as bad as usual. Clint's still behind him, body warm against his, helping to take the pressure off the wounds.
Two of the cards Steve gave him are replicas, the color Eisenhower Inauguration card and one of the war bond cards. Possibly they're forgeries. Either way, they're definitely not authentic, not that he'd tell Steve that. He'll have to start looking for replacements for those two.
Tomorrow. Right now, he's safe and Clint is here, and he can sleep.