I apologize for the massive butchery that is about to commence, but I couldn't help myself. I have so many feels. And pheels.
DISCLAIMER: I do not own The Avengers, The Dark Knight Rises, Sherlock or the affiliated characters, places, etc. I'm just mucking about and I'm not even very good at that.
"Mind if I join you?"
Bruce Wayne doesn't need to look up. He knows the voice, though he hasn't heard it in some time. He gestures to the empty seat across from him and Selina, watching the man gingerly lower himself into it. Selina, for her part, raises an eyebrow at the appearance of their guest, outwardly calm but her eyes betray a flighty look.
"I can honestly say I didn't expect to see you here," Bruce informs their guest.
"With good reason," the man replies.
"I should have known you weren't that easy to kill, Coulson," Selina drawls as she rests her chin on the back of her hand.
Phil Coulson merely smiles at the comment. He's paler than Bruce remembers, more worn looking. More gaunt. But then, few men go toe-to-toe with insane demi-gods and come out alive, never mind okay. He observes the sling the agent's arm is carefully done up in, fitting snugly over his customary suit.
"S.H.I.E.L.D. said they would be sending an agent along to settle our affairs. I'm pleasantly surprised by their choice," Bruce tells him.
"Speak for yourself," Selina adds.
"I can assure you, Ms. Kyle, that S.H.I.E.L.D. has no further interest in your… extra-curricular activities," Phil answers as he pushes a folder across the table to them. "You've got a clean slate."
Bruce picks up the file, skimming the contents. There are two golden cards within—one with the name Mr. Dick Grayson, the other with Mrs. Dick Grayson—but he's more interested in the other papers within. Birth certificates, marriage certificates, degrees, passports… S.H.I.E.L.D. certainly didn't cut any corners. Phil continues to speak as they look them over.
"Dick Grayson and Holly Robinson were married in the autumn of 2007. Mr. Grayson is a lawyer by trade and an inventor in his spare time, while Mrs. Grayson has a Masters Degree in Criminology. You were able to retire early due to the small fortune Mr. Grayson earned for the invention of the product you see detailed on page fifteen.
"The two cards you see are connected to an account with the Depository Bank of Zurich in Paris. While I would avoid their other office in New York, they do have one further office, in Kuala Lumpur. Should you have any questions, Andre Vernet, the Bank President, will be happy to assist you. His contact information is listed on page twenty-one. S.H.I.E.L.D. has deposited a modest sum into your account, which may be accessed and used however you wish," Phil explains.
Selina raises bother her eyebrows, underlining the digits following the dollar sign with a fingernail and mouthing the word 'wow' to Bruce as she does so. He looks at the agent across the table, a lopsided smile playing across his face.
"A modest amount?" he echoes.
Phil shrugs. "You've done Gotham City a great service, Mr. Wayne, and lost everything in the process. It's the least we can do to honor that sacrifice. We've erased all traces of Selina Kyle so both of you can start over, wherever and however you would like."
"I appreciate it," Bruce says honestly. He regards the man across the table thoughtfully. "Blake—"
"Will be watched over. Left to his own devices, but watched over," Phil interrupts, laying that particular doubt to rest. "You've chosen a fine successor."
"Gotham's my city. I wanted to make sure she was left in the right hands," Bruce says, his look wistful.
Gotham would always be his city. True, he was leaving her, but not unguarded. She would always have a guardian, a Dark Knight, to watch over her. It would just no longer be him. He had given her all that he had. It was time for a new hero to rise in his place. John Blake could be that hero.
"She was," Phil agrees.
They're silent for a moment, caught in quiet contemplation, before Selina breaks it. Her eyes are curious, her tone light and mischievous.
"What about you, Coulson? Surely Fury didn't send you all this way just to hand us a folder," she says.
"Perceptive as always, Ms. Kyle," Phil answers with a dip of his head. "I'm here to meet with another dead man, as it were. If you were to venture to room 221 of your hotel, you might find a Norwegian explorer named Sigerson holed up in there. I'm meeting with him as a favor to an old friend in the British Government."
"Awful lot of dead men in this villa," Bruce points out.
"Yes," Phil says simply.
Bruce has a feeling there's a story behind that, but he's not going to push the agent for it. Since it's very likely the man will die before talking.
"And what about you? No rest even in death?" Selina asks, her tone playful.
Phil chuckles at that. "This is rest for me. Hospitals make me stir crazy, so Fury let me handle this assignment to shut me up, since he couldn't force me to take an actual vacation."
"What about the Avengers? I take it they don't know," Selina comments.
Phil is still smiling, but his eyes are sad. He looks, if possible, even more tired than he had fifteen minutes ago. "No. They don't."
"You'll go back, though. Eventually, you'll go back. This, what we're doing here, this isn't your game," Bruce says knowingly.
"Fury isn't allowing me back to active duty until I've done some healing. Officially, I'll be dead for another few months, for everyone's protection as well as my own, but when that time is up I'll be returning to the field," Phil explains carefully. "The rest is classified, I'm afraid."
Bruce has known Phil long enough to take the hint. He watches the agent rise from his seat with great care, and rises with him. Phil shakes both their hands in turn, his ever-present smile growing just a fraction wider; a mark of sincerity.
"Enjoy your retirement, Mr. Wayne," he says.
"It's Mr. Grayson, actually," Bruce counters.
"Right," Phil answers, and Bruce can see amusement in his eyes. "Then to you, Mr. and Mrs. Grayson, I wish you a wonderful life."
"Likewise," Bruce says.
"Goodbye, Agent Coulson," Selina says with more sincerity than Bruce had expected.
"Goodbye, Ms. Kyle. I can say with a degree of certainty that we'll never meet again."
The three of them smile at that, briefly, before Phil is gone and the two of them are left alone. Bruce resumes his seat, his head full of questions that he knows he doesn't need to answer. As he and Selina wait for their drinks, he turns his head by chance, and sees a man sitting a few tables away. They catch each other's eye.
He nods.
And the man nods back.
It's enough.
Phil suppresses a groan as he sits on the edge of the bed, swinging his legs up so he can rest against the pillows. He's done too much, he knows, but he's reluctant to admit it. His conversation with Sigerson was especially draining—the man has an ego and personality to rival Stark's. The comparison sends a sudden jolt of longing through him. He wants to go home. You know you have it bad when you're missing Tony Stark.
He lets his eyes slide shut with a sigh. He's in no shape to return to the land of the living. In his current state, he's highly vulnerable. It's a wonder Fury even let him out for this small errand, but he's grateful for that much. He's close to nodding off when the telephone beside the bed rings. He contemplates ignoring it but, thinking it might actually be important, he fumbles to answer it. The man at the front desk informs him, in Italian, that there is a gentleman looking to speak with him and may he patch him through, signore?
He agrees, issuing a quick "Pronto" when it's clear he's been connected.
"Thank you."
Phil opens his eyes. The voice is tired, grateful. And carries a notable British accent.
"It's what we do," he replies simply.
"Not always."
"No, not always," he agrees. "You'll be looking after Blake, correct?"
"Someone has to."
"I can't think of anyone more suited to the job," Phil says honestly.
"I appreciate that. I can't look after Master Wayne any longer, but this… this I can do. Goodnight, Agent Coulson."
"Goodnight, Mr. Pennyworth," Phil responds, slipping the phone back into its cradle when he hears the call disconnect.
He lets his eyes slide shut once more. It's not terribly late, but late enough for him to be tired. The painkillers had mostly worn off by the time he'd returned to his room and the dosage he'd taken then is starting to kick in now. Sleep isn't very far off. This unassuming Italian villa is a meeting place for dead men. No one speaks of it, but most who run in specific circles know of its existence. The majority of the men who gather here will never return to the living as the men they had been upon arrival.
But Phil Coulson is an exception.
Having done his duty, he lets sleep take him and dreams of home.