A/N: So, what we've got here is a collection of tumblr prompts and one-shots (with the occasional two-shot) of varying lengths. Primary Avengers related, but you'll see some Ultimate Spider-Man and MIB crossed over there as well, with potentially more to come. Every chapter will list the primary pairing or characters interacting, so if you don't care for the pairing you can just skip over it. If you'd like to leave me a prompt, toodle on over to my bio and you'll find a link to my tumblr there. Just drop it in my ask and I'll see what I can do!
Phil is a fisherman. Phil's brothers are fisherman. Phil's father was a fisherman. Phil's father's father was a fisherman. Phil's father's father's father was a fisherman. Phil's father's father's father's father was a dentist, but no one likes to talk about that.
So Phil is a fisherman.
Living in Gloucester, Massachusetts means that you can't escape the fishing community, nor the ocean which supports it. Not that Phil would ever want to. He's loved the ocean since childhood, has always been fascinated by it and the things which call it their home. Following his father's footsteps only seemed natural. So some might call it something of a busman's holiday when he spends his day off in the middle of the ocean, on a boat beside Nick and a cooler full of beer, fishing.
"Shit, not that again," Nick snorts as he switches the portable radio on. "Don't you ever listen to anything else?"
"They're classics," Phil says defensively, adjusting the volume. Okay, so, they were oldies… but just try not to sing along when 'In the Still of the Night' starts playing. "And don't give me that. You think I don't hear you humming at the helm?"
Nick narrows his lone eye—and really between the eye patch and the bad attitude, it's no wonder the local kids call him The Dread Pirate Fury—before grabbing a beer and settling back in his seat, waiting for a bite on his line. Phil follows in kind, tipping his head back and folding his hands across his middle, happy to be out on the water without any worries about what their haul might be or what Stark's complaints about the state of the boat are and the ridiculous modifications he wants to set in place.
Just the sea, the fish, good beer and a good friend. That's all he wanted on his day off.
He got a little something more.
They'd been at it for a few hours before Phil got a nibble. Well… a nibble would be the understatement of the century. The next two hours were spent attempting to wrangle whatever had hooked itself at the end of Phil's line. Even between him and Nick, the effort was almost too much. By the time they'd reeled their prize close enough to the boat for a gander, they were both beyond exhausted.
"Well fuck me sideways," Nick huffs as they lean over the side after securing the line.
There is a massive Great White thrashing against their boat. Going by the length of it—which is near to twenty feet, by their best guess—Phil has to wonder how the line hadn't snapped. Sure, they'd brought out the heavy duty gear, hoping to reel in a nice swordfish or something similar, but this was something else entirely.
"Gorgeous," Phil exclaims, breathless.
Nick nudges him in the ribs. "The way you're looking at him… you at least planning to buy him dinner first?"
Phil rolls his eyes, but can't keep the smile off his face. Nick had always said he'd have made a better marine biologist than a fisherman, and maybe that's true, but it just wasn't in the cards. Besides, he's right where he wants to be.
"Wasn't there a reward for the shark that ate that Kintner boy a few weeks ago?" Nick asks.
"This isn't the shark," Phil says resolutely.
Nick narrows his eye suspiciously.
"The bite radius is all wrong," Phil says. "A friend at the sheriff's department let me read the report. Just in case we happened to land anything in our nets. This is not our shark, boss."
"Doesn't mean we can't make them think it's our shark," Nick hums.
Phil's expression is bland and unamused as he stares the other man down.
"It was a goddamn joke, Coulson, lighten up," Nick says.
"We're cutting him loose."
"Are you kidding me?"
"Great Whites are listed as 'vulnerable' on the conservation status ranking. Besides which, do you know how rare it is to see one of this size? Nick, there's no way we can take him in and—"
"Alright, alright, we'll cut your little fishy free," Nick interrupts. "Just please spare me the Save the Sharks spiel."
"Deal," Phil says, already ducking to retrieve the necessary tools.
Amidst Nick's complaints that Phil, despite normal appearances, is the craziest man on the whole goddamn boat, Phil leans over the side and gets to work on cutting their shark loose. He wonders if perhaps the shark is ill, or just very old… because it doesn't seem to be struggling any longer. The number of scars along its hide seem to suggest age; perhaps it's worn itself out as much as they have. He cuts the line, unwilling to reach into the shark's gaping maw to pull out the hook, and leans back into the boat. Curiously, the shark remains for a heartbeat before retreating with a flick of its great tail that gets the two men soaking wet.
It was strange, he thinks.
It almost seemed as though that shark were watching him.
"I'm telling you, it had to be about twenty feet," Phil says.
"Sure, sure," Clint says, rattling the ice cubes in his near-empty glass. "And you'd had how many by then?"
"I wasn't that drunk," Phil protests.
"Just buzzed," Natasha supplies.
"You mean like you are now?" Clint asks with a Cheshire Cat grin.
"No, now I'm drunk," Phil clarifies. "Or getting there. The point is, I know what I saw. Nick saw it, too, he can back me up."
"Considering our venerable captain is even more shitfaced than you're on your way to getting, I wouldn't be surprised if he backed you up on seeing the Loch Ness Monster," Natasha declares, polishing off her drink. She smacks Clint upside the back of his head. "Come play darts with me."
"Ohoho, you picked the wrong game to play, 'Tasha," Clint crows as he nearly falls out of his barstool. "You're going down hard."
"I need to get at least one win in you before I whip your ass at pool," Natasha clarifies, steering him toward the dartboard, "so you don't cry about it all night."
Phil shakes his head at the two as they leave him alone at the bar. Poor Maria is suffering through Nick's no-doubt exaggerated tale of their adventure at sea earlier that day, but at least the scotch in her hand seems to be helping. The little dive is something of a local attraction, a gathering place for fisherman after a long day or week at work, so it's surprising to say the least when a stranger slides into the seat beside him.
"I'm sorry, I couldn't help overhearing," the stranger—a handsome, well-built blonde with dazzling blue eyes—says. "You said you hooked a twenty-footer?"
Phil takes in the man sitting beside him. Plaid shirt, khaki pants, and a bright, eager expression. The only thing that seems off is the rather painful looking cut at his top lip. Phil weighs his options, but feels the scales tip significantly to one side when he catches the shark tooth necklace dangling from the necklace.
"Tourist, huh?" he deduces.
The man smiles, a flash of too-white teeth, seemingly unbothered by Phil's stiff reception. "You could say that. I just got into town, but I'm hoping to settle down here, to be honest. I've moved around a lot over the years and this seems like it might be the right place to hang my hat."
The man clears his throat, looking somewhat bashful at having said as much as he had.
"But, uh, if you'd prefer I leave, then I could do that," he says.
Phil doesn't know what keeps him from saying that's exactly what he'd like, that he doesn't feel like wasting his night talking about the sea to some yuppie city boy who's just looking for a bit of fun before he goes back wherever he came from. Perhaps it's because Tony had been a yuppie city boy once and he'd turned out alright in the end—mostly. Or perhaps it's because there's something in the stranger's eyes that does seem genuinely, intensely curious. So Phil gives in. He holds a hand out.
"Phil Coulson," he introduces himself.
The stranger smiles, gripping his hand in a firm handshake. "Steve Rogers."
"So, Steve," Phil says, pointing at his necklace. "I see you like sharks."
Steve looks down, touches the tooth briefly before looking up. "They're amazing creatures. Honestly, they're so fascinating to watch that sometimes it feels like they just draw themselves."
"You're an artist?" Phil questions.
"I don't know about calling myself an artist, but I do sketch quite a bit," Steve admits.
"Have any of those sketches on you, by any chance?"
The hour grows later and later as they pour over Steve's sketchbook, discussing sharks and sea life, drinking all the while. Somehow, as the bar closes and they're the last to leave, they both end up at Phil's house; a modest little dwelling overlooking the sea. This isn't how Phil had pictured the night would go, but as Steve presses him against the door of his bedroom and clumsily thrusts his tongue between the fisherman's lips, Phil decides that's quite alright with him.
It's been a long time since he'd had anyone in his bed. Far too long. In fact, he's sure the last time he's ever had a drunken hook-up was… well, probably back when he was the age that Steve is now. But that hardly matters once he's on his stomach with Steve draped over him and thrusting eagerly inside him. It surprises him when Steve latches onto his shoulder, biting down hard as he climaxes, and the combined sensations are enough to send Phil toppling over the edge along with him.
It's only after, when they lie in a sweaty, panting heap, that Steve touches the bite mark. He'd drawn blood and that seems to worry him.
"Sorry. I don't know what I…"
"It's alright. I liked it," Phil assures him sleepily.
Steve blushes as he grins, shifting where he lies. The younger man's body is, curiously, covered in scars. Phil wonders where he'd gotten all of them. But then, Phil's got more than his fair share of scars, some which he doesn't feel like being asked about, so he pays the other man the same courtesy.
But something seems to have Steve feeling uneasy. He looks… flighty, almost. As though he'd like to stay, but isn't sure of his welcome. Phil closes his eyes and reaches out to pat the man's arm before he rolls over.
"It's alright. I've got eggs for the morning," Phil assures him.
He hears a soft huff of laughter before the man's warm weight is pressed against him, his arm wrapped securely around Phil's waist, and he drifts off into a pleasant slumber.
It's still early morning when Phil wakes, the sun kissing the horizon and painting the sky a fiery orange. He tries not to feel disappointed when he finds the bed is empty. Likely the alcohol had worn off and the young man had remembered himself and beat a hasty retreat. Oh well.
Phil showers and changes, putting on a pot of coffee and making himself some breakfast. He's still got another few days off while some of their equipment is in for repairs, so he plans to enjoy them. It's a short walk from his house to the beach, and he finds himself soothed by the sea breeze as his feet sink into the sand with each step he takes.
He reviews last night. It had been… nice. It hadn't felt like the hookup that it was. There had been something about it which had seemed more intimate, more caring and tender. Phil considers himself a good judge of character, but everyone has to be wrong now and again. Still, he's having a hard time shaking the feeling that last night had meant something to both of them. Running a hand over his shoulder, where the bite mark is still tender beneath his shirt, he shakes his head and walks further down the beach.
He glances out across the waves as he walks, but stops in his tracks when something catches his eye. A fin. A shark. He raises his eyebrows when he notices how close to shore the creature is and walks forward until the water is up to his ankles. From here he can get a better look. The shark is enormous, a Great White, covered in scars and…
His shark.
The one he'd hooked yesterday.
But what's it doing here? And so close to shore? Maybe he was right yesterday. Maybe it is dying. He knows that sea creatures have been known to beach themselves when the end is near. Perhaps what the shark is seeking to do. What he's not prepared for is for the shark to suddenly come racing towards him.
He stumbles backwards when it's clear the shark isn't stopping. Surely it doesn't want to make a meal of him? He doesn't look anything even remotely like a seal. But he's surprised once again. As the shark reaches the beach, it breaches the water and where the shark had been there is now a soaking wet Steve Rogers, in the sand on his hands and knees and staring up at Phil.
Phil's not certain he's truly awake at the moment, especially when Steve rubs the back of his neck and asks, "Still have those eggs?"
Phil makes Steve enter and exit the surf several times before they return to his house. The blonde man watches him with concern as he silently prepares breakfast, not sure what to make of his silence. Granted, it's a lot to take in, so perhaps space and silence for the time being work best.
Eventually, Phil places a cup of coffee and a full plate of eggs, bacon and toast in front of him and slides into his own seat. The fisherman props his elbows on the table and rests his forehead against his clasped hands.
"Are you alright?" Steve asks.
"To be honest, I'm not quite certain that I am," Phil admits. "I just watched a man walk into the ocean and turn into a shark."
"Yes, you did," Steve agrees. He pokes his fork at the eggs on his plate. "Would it help if I explained it?"
"It wouldn't hurt," Phil says.
He leans back in his seat and wraps his hands around his steaming coffee mug. It's too early to make it a proper Irish Coffee, but he's strongly considering ignoring that particular societal construct, at least for the time being.
"I was in the Army," Steve tells him. "In World War II."
Phil stares at him, unmoving.
"That… will make sense soon, I promise," Steve says, in response to the fisherman's obvious disbelief, considering his youthful appearance. "My plane was shot down, into the ocean. I was stuck in my seat, couldn't get myself out as we sank. Have you ever thought you were drowning? Because I was drowning. It was terrifying. I'd heard stories that drowning was like… like going to sleep. But it wasn't. It was cold and painful and the loneliest, most hopeless experience of my life."
Steve pushes the eggs around his plate with his fork, seemingly lost in thought. Phil would like very much to call him on his bullshit, and likely would but for the simple fact that there's no bullshit that he can detect. And there's something very frightening about that.
"Just as I thought it was over, as I sucked in the first lungful of water, it happened. The Sea spoke to me. I know that sounds crazy, but sure as I'm sitting here talking to you, it spoke to me," Steve says. "It asked if I wanted to live. And of course, I said yes. It asked what I would be willing to do in order to live. So I said I would do anything it wanted, just so long as it could make this stop. And it did. Just… not in the way that I would have expected. The Sea transformed me into a shark in order to grant me life. The price is that I must wander the earth forever with this curse; at least once a month, before the moon is full, I have to take to the sea, or else forfeit my life."
He reaches for the tooth hanging around his neck and holds it up against the light.
"This is a symbol of my contract. It's what allows me to keep human form when I'm out of the sea," Steve says. "But any time I submerge in ocean water… I transform."
H sits back and waits for questions. He has no doubt the other man will have quite a few. Phil studies him thoughtfully, digesting the information he's just been given.
"I caught you," Phil declares.
Steve smiles. "Yes, you did. You also let me go."
"Is that where…?" Phil murmurs, gesturing to the cut on his upper lip.
"Your hook? Yes. It came out easily enough," Steve says, his fingers brushing the healing wound.
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be."
They lapse into a temporary silence.
"So, a shark, then?"
"Yeah. You haven't run off screaming yet."
"Is that what happened to the last guy you told?"
"Actually… no. You're the first. That I've told, I mean."
"Oh. Why me?"
"Well…"
Steve rubs the back of his neck, looking bashful again. "To be honest… I'm not sure. Something drew me to you after your cut me loose. I just knew I needed to see you again. Some part of me felt like, maybe, there was a chance you'd understand. Was I wrong?"
Phil considers the question. "No. But it might take some time yet before I'm convinced I'm still sane."
"That's understandable," Steve says.
"So what are your plans?" Phil wants to know as he sips his coffee.
"I'm not sure," Steve admits. "But I meant what I said last night, about wanting to settle down here. It's been a long time since I've really… lived with people. I've wandered, stopped temporarily in seaside towns and villages across the world for short periods of time, but I've never really lived anywhere besides the sea ever since my plane went down. I'm not even sure I can at this point."
He huffs a quick laugh.
"Besides, based on how I remember America… I think I might just be a little too old fashioned."
"Old fashioned isn't a bad thing," Phil remarks. "Sometimes I think we all might need a little old fashioned."
"Think so?" Steve asks, at last meeting his gaze, uncertainty flooding his eyes.
"I think you won't know unless you try," Phil answers. He taps the side of his mug. "You can stay here. If you'd like. It's small, but it's right by the water and—"
"If you'll have me, I'd be glad to stay," Steve says quickly. "You're sure you wouldn't mind?"
"I wouldn't mind an opportunity to get to know you," Phil says.
"I think I'd like that opportunity, too," Steve answers.
Phil's not entirely sure of what he's gotten himself into, but there's no turning back now.
"So this is the mysterious boyfriend you've been hiding from us!" Tony crows as Phil and Steve walk into the bar.
"Hiding from you, Tony," Pepper corrects him. She looks up at them both with a smile. "Hi, Phil. Hi, Steve."
"Hi, guys," Steve greets animatedly.
The pair of them settle in at the table. Six months had been a long time. Steve had been introduced first as Phil's new roommate and had been promptly incorporated into the group. If Phil thought he was an okay guy, then apparently that was good enough for the rest of them. It was only tonight that they had agreed to let everyone in on the fact that they were in a relationship—not that everyone hadn't figured as much, anyway. Really, it was something they had only decided on themselves a few short weeks ago.
"So, you and Steve, huh?" Clint leans in and asks.
"Yes. Me and Steve," Phil echoes, fighting back a smile.
"Good for you. He's quite the catch," Clint says.
At that, Phil can't hide his smile any longer. "Barton, you have no idea."