"The world breaks every one and afterward many are strong at the broken places. But those that will not break it kills. It kills the very good and the very gentle and the very brave impartially."
- Ernest Hemingway
Not for the first time in his life—or even this week—Phil is dodging sleep. Succumbing to sleep means opening himself up to nightmares, to horrifying glimpses into something that was supposed to have been overwritten. If he's working, moving, doing, then he can evade that for just a little longer. But the reality of the situation is that he'll have to sleep sometime; caffeine and willpower only get you so far. That doesn't mean he isn't fighting exhaustion tooth and nail regardless.
He knows he should sleep, that he needs to rest. Wearing himself thin is putting his team at risk because if he's not at his best, then he's dragging them down. There can't be any weak links. He can't be a weak link.
But whenever he closes his eyes…
He shakes his head and fishes his keys from his jacket pocket. God, he hates this apartment. It's just another reminder of how things have changed, of how he's changed. After coming back to life, he couldn't very well take up residence in the place he'd called home for nearly two decades. Not when people like Clint or Natasha have used the place as a safe house of sorts for years. Post-mission crashes, moment of vulnerability, his old apartment had seen it all, which is why it would stand to reason that they might think it odd if it was suddenly lived in again.
Because they'd be watching it. He knows they would.
So Nick had moved him here. And it's not as though the place isn't nice—it is, probably even nicer than his previous apartment—but it's not really his. It doesn't have the feeling of being lived in. It hasn't seen the things his old one has. These walls haven't supported injured agents, or drunken ones, and he knows that if he turns up the corner of the Persian rug in the living room, there won't be a stain on the hardwood from several years past when Clint had decided to crawl in his window and attempt to bleed out on his floor. There are no pockmarks in the kitchen table from Natasha's knives, or punctures in the wall from Clint's arrows. There are no scuffmarks on the coffee table from Jasper's shoes, no rings from where Nick had refused to use a coaster. There are no sticky notes from Maria on the refrigerator, his phone, the lampshades, the bathroom mirror or his nightstand reminding him of important meetings or to apologize for the lack of milk in his refrigerator or to chastise him for the lack of milk in his refrigerator.
There are only ghosts.
Or so he thinks, anyway. At first when he finds the door the apartment unlocked, he expects Melinda or Grant, possibly even Skye. They'd all seemed reluctant to allow him to leave their sight and so it wouldn't surprise him to find anyone of them here now. But that's not who he finds.
He freezes in the doorway, his hand on the light switch when he sees Tony Stark parked on his sofa like he owns the place. There's a moment of slice that stretches on far longer than it should as they stare each other down.
"Mr. Stark," Phil says in greeting, the name feeling foreign on his tongue after having gone so long without being spoken.
"Phil," Tony answers.
Silence once again. Phil takes the time to close the door behind him—although he has half a mind to step out into the hall, slam it shut and flee back to the Bus—and lock it before facing the man once again.
"Who knows?" he asks.
"Just us."
Phil's head jerks up at the unexpected voice. He really must be slipping if he's unable to detect not only Tony Stark, but Captain America in his own quarters. Unconsciously, he finds himself taking a step backwards until his back is pressed against the door. Steve calmly sits at the opposite end of the sofa from Tony. They both watch him, but there's none of the anger he'd anticipated; just a look of expectancy from each of them. He shifts his gaze to the kitchen.
"Tea or coffee?"
"Sorry?" Steve asks.
"Tea or coffee," Phil repeats numbly. "Should I make tea or coffee?"
The two Avengers share a look.
"Tea's fine," Tony says, shrugging one shoulder. "Something tells me you've probably had more than enough coffee by now."
Phil nods slowly before turning and walking stiffly into the kitchen. He shrugs off his jacket, folding it over one of the chairs before he retrieves the kettle, fills it with water and sets it on the stove to boil. The mugs are where they always are, but it's always on his second guess that he finds them. He puts out three of them, finds the sugar, checks that the milk hasn't expired while he was gone, then waits. He stands and watches the kettle, wondering what to do about the two men on his sofa.
In a way, he almost feels relieved. This is something he's been expecting since his return to the field. He's trusted the system, trusted Nick's decision that anyone below a Level 7 security clearance wouldn't be authorized to know. But in the back of his mind, he's wondered. Why? Why couldn't they know? He's gone along with it, wondering when they would find out—because they would. Whether it was due to Fury's allowance or their collective ability to meddle like the best of them, they would find out. He expected anger, especially from Clint and Natasha, not the calm reception he'd just received from Tony and Steve.
And the timing, could it possibly be any worse? He's having trouble maintaining his grasp on reality, on his sanity, and it would figure they happened to appear just after he's uncovered some of the memories he was never meant to.
Suddenly, a thought a occurs to him: what if they're not really here? What if his exhausted, strained mind had simply conjured something he wanted to see? Something he needed to see? What if he'd really snapped? What if this was just his mind desperately grasping at some modicum of comfort after what he'd seen? What if he's just been talking to an empty apartment, preparing three cups of tea like a complete lunatic? Is he even in his apartment right now? How can he be sure he's even r—
"Phil."
He hears his name and realizes he's been standing here, staring at the kettle while it shrieked for who knows how long. Tony is in the doorway and moves forward to see to it but Phil holds up a hand to stop him. Surprisingly, Tony stops.
"It's fine. I have it," Phil assures him, moving the kettle and twisting the knob on the stove.
"You want help or you want me to wait with Steve?" the genius fishes.
"Go wait, I have everything under control," Phil replies.
Tony gives him a look like he doesn't really believe that statement, but he doesn't argue, to Phil's amazement. The agent can't help but heave a sigh of relief when the man retreats, leaving him alone in the empty kitchen. It gives him time to gather his thoughts and do his best to compose himself before he faces the two Avengers again.
He places everything on a tray and walks back into the room, clearly interrupting a hurried, hushed conversation between the two men. Setting a mug down before each of them—on coasters—he sits back in the chair opposite, toying with the string of his teabag around the rim of his glass as it steeps. There are several questions hanging in the air, it's just a matter of who asks which one first.
"When's the last time you slept, Agent Coulson?" Steve asks, leaning forward in his seat, his elbows resting on his knees.
Not the question he'd been expecting, but somehow not surprising either. He shakes his head.
"Irrelevant," he answers.
"You were recently abducted and tortured. From your medical file, you were displaying some concussion symptoms. When was the last time you slept, agent?" Steve asks again, his tone firm but not unkind.
Phil sighs and gives in. "Tuesday."
"It's Friday, Phil," Tony points out.
"I had noticed, thank you," Phil replies. He doesn't want to be rude, but his patience has worn thin this week and he'd rather not prolong what's obviously going to be a very stressful conversation. "If there's something you'd like to say to me, please stop beating around the bush and say it. Whatever you feel you have to get off your chest, I'd prefer to hear it straightforward."
"Wait, you think we came here because we're pissed at you?" Tony asks.
That gives Phil pause. He frowns. "Aren't you?"
"Not at you," Steve says.
"I don't understand," Phil admits. "I assumed you were here because you found out I wasn't dead, that you'd been lied to and were seeking retribution. Answers. Something."
"I'm not gonna lie, I was pretty pissed when I first found out you were still alive and off with a cute, new team," Tony says. "I mean, way to go just piling on top of my abandonment issues."
"Tony," Steve says with a long, slow sigh.
"But we're not here to lay down the law or freak out at you for not letting us know," Tony clarifies. "Maybe a month ago I would have been interested in something like that, but not now."
"This… isn't how I pictured this would go," Phil says.
"You're saying you pictured us finding out?" Steve asks.
"It was only a matter of time before one of you found out," Phil says. "I would have figured at least one of you would have punched me by now."
"Well, someone kind of already beat us to it," Tony said, gesturing to the cuts and bruises littering his face. "Looks like they put you through the ringer."
"So, what, you thought you'd just drop in and see how I was doing?" Phil asks, confused by the whole thing. He's still on the defensive, still waiting for the other shoe to drop.
"Something like that," Steve says. His expression darkens. "We know about Tahiti."
"It's a m—"
Phil bites on the inside of his cheek until he tastes blood. He knows the truth, why can't he stop himself from saying that? Steve expression softens, his eyebrows drawing up at the crease, pity written clearly in his features. It shouldn't make Phil angry, but it does, because good god he can't stand to be pitied.
"Tony's the one who found out," Steve tells him, his gaze swiveling to Tony. "Maybe you'd better explain."
"Right. Yeah. That might be best," Tony says, bouncing his knee. He looks apprehensive, like he's second guessing this whole meeting. "You know how, when I'm bored, sometimes I browse through classified S.H.I.E.L.D. material for a laugh?"
"You know how I override your security codes when I want access to your Tower?" Phil returns.
"Used to," Tony counters.
The comment stings, he can't deny it. But he lets it. He's been gone too long, missed too many things; he can't go on as though nothing's changed. Truth be told, though, he's not certain he's capable of managing anything else at the moment.
"Used to," Phil agrees quietly.
"Anyway," Tony mutters, knee bouncing again. "I was looking around and I happened to find some… files. They were write-ups of different missions, all with recent dates, all with your signature. JARVIS verified for me that it really was yours. At first I was… pissed. Beyond pissed. I mean, you were alive. And after all this time, you never tried to contact any of us. Apparently never thought to let us in on the secret, to pop in for a simple 'Hey, guys, not dead. How's tricks?' or anything. Never thought that we might deserve to know or that we might want to know. Not after Pepper cried for days or—"
"That's enough, Tony," Steve cuts in. "That's not why we're here."
"No. No, it's alright," Phil says peaceably. "He's right."
"No, I'm… fuck. You know, I didn't want to get angry? I don't want to be angry with you," Tony says, running a hand through his hair.
"You have every right to be angry," Phil says calmly. "I understand."
"Why don't you just finish explaining," Steve suggests.
Tony takes a moment to compose himself, shoving away whatever anger he's feeling in favor of Steve's suggestion.
"Yeah. Well… I mean, you can imagine that after finding those files, I had to dig deeper. And I did. And I found the videos."
"Videos," Phil repeats.
"All of varying length, all with different file names, but all with the word 'LAZARUS' in them. So I watched them."
"And what did you see?" Phil asks, his voice coming out a little more breathless than he'd intended.
"The videos were of you," Tony answers. "On an operating table. Some kind of… catalogue footage. I watched them and got ahold of Steve because I had no idea what to do about them. So I showed them to him. There was one where…."
Tony pauses. Phil is staring down at his tea, but he's somehow still aware of the fact that none of them are looking at each other. For his part, he's not sure he can stand to look them in the eye.
"You just… scream. They're messing with your brain and you just scream until you can't anymore and then it's just this noise. Like you'd scream if you had any voice left to, but you don't so… you can't," Tony says, his voice wavering unsteadily. "In the others, when you're not screaming, you're begging them to let you die. Over and over. And it's pretty fucking clear that you're in… about as much pain as I've seen someone be in without actually dying. Or being allowed to die. You just keep begging and pleading for them to let you die and they don't listen. They just watch you, just let it keep on happening and you—"
Phil jumps at the sound of something breaking. He and Tony both stare at Steve, the remnants of his mug shattered on the floor. Blood drips steadily from his clenched fist as his chest heaves, his nostrils flared in the very picture of righteous fury. He slowly manages to unclench his fist, exposing the shards of the mug embedded in his palm.
"I'm sorry," he apologizes. "I didn't mean to let my temper… I'll clean this up."
"The mess can wait," Phil says, rising a bit unsteadily from his seat. "I have a first aid kit in the bathroom, let's take care of your hand first."
He hadn't really expected them both to follow after him, having intended to retrieve the kit and return to the living room, but they're on his heels the whole way. So he flips the light switch and ushers them inside, directing Steve to sit on the toilet and for Tony to hold a towel beneath the soldier's hand.
"It's fine, I can just run it under some water and it'll heal—"
"It'll heal quicker if we get the glass out and dress it properly," Phil says, cutting him off as he drags a stool over and sits on it. "Just because you possess an accelerated healing ability doesn't mean you don't feel pain."
"That might be true, but there are more important things we should be focusing on right now," Steve says.
"Are there?" Phil asks, beginning to carefully pick the shards out with tweezers.
None of them say anything after that. Phil focuses on Steve's hand, resting on a towel in his lap. He feels better for something to do that will distract him from the thoughts running rampant in his worn out mind. He'd hoped to have time to deal with the past few days privately once he was out from under the microscopic gaze of his team, but he'd come back to find a different set of people that he'd have to force himself to keep it together for.
"They didn't tell you, did they?" Tony asks.
Phil pauses, his hand hovering uncertainly before he shakes his head and resumes his work. Steve is still and silent, letting him go on with it.
"They tampered with my memories," Phil says. "Until a few days ago, I believed I'd spent my recovery in Tahiti."
He huffs a quick, unamused laugh because of course it seems ridiculous now. It sounds ridiculous to say it out loud, but it had seemed real. It had seemed so very, very real and now he knows why. Or… mostly.
"That's what we were afraid of," Steve says. "Tony only got so far in those files before he had to back out. He made a copy of what he'd seen and called me in and we tried to figure out how to handle this. We monitored S.H.I.E.L.D. airwaves and it came down to Centipede's capture of you. At that point, we knew we had to approach you."
"And you didn't tell anyone else," Phil clarifies, spreading antibiotic ointment on the cuts after he's cleaned them.
"We wanted to talk to you first," Steve says. "To be honest, we both had to give ourselves some time to calm down and think about it rationally. Gut instinct told us to tell everyone and storm Fury's office, but this isn't about us. This isn't about anything we've gone through since then. This is about you and what you want to do."
Phil finishes dressing the soldier's hand and holds it between both of his own, staring at the fresh bandages. He supposes he should be thankful for small mercies such as the fact that they had decided to keep this knowledge to themselves. Because he's not sure he can face any of them just now. He can hardly look at the two men in front of him.
He nearly pulls away when Steve turns his hand over, covering both of Phil's. Nearly, but doesn't. He should feel comforted, he thinks, that both of them seem to care so deeply, but instead he just feels smothered. Trapped.
"Don't tell anyone," Phil says, his voice just above a whisper. "Please."
"If you don't want us to tell, then we won't tell," Tony assures him.
"I'm not hiding, I just…"
He shakes his head, lets it hang between his hunched shoulders. Lie. That's a lie.
"I don't know, actually," he admits. "I honestly don't know anymore. This wasn't supposed to happen. You weren't supposed to see me like this. If I'm being truthful right now, I'm having a hard time deciphering what's real and what I've been lead to believe is real. I trusted the system because I've always trusted this system and it hasn't let me down until now. For the first time since I joined S.H.I.E.L.D. I have to question the validity of that decision, because I was… I was supposed to be…"
It's getting hard to breathe. He's dimly aware that his hands are shaking as Steve's grip around them tightens. He was dead for five days. He had begged and pleaded and screamed for them to let him die and they had ignored him. He has never once broken under torture, has never begged for his life. But there is something earth shattering in the realization that he's never endured torture anywhere near comparable to what he'd suffered at the hands of the very organization he worked for. The organization that he trusted. The people that he trusted.
"Phil? Hey, come on, I need you to breathe for us here, okay?" Tony says.
He feels a hand on his back and then it all goes to hell. He flinches, twists away from the contact, and his head is full of white noise and his screams for death. His struggle against whoever is holding him down is lapping at the very edges of his perception as his panic breaks through the very carefully pieced together façade he'd had in place.
It takes time for him to come down, and when he does he doesn't even have the energy to muster more than vague feelings of shame at the realization that he's had a world class meltdown. He's sitting on the floor, pressed into the corner between the bathtub and the wall, knees drawn up to his chest and his arms wrapped tight around them.
"Okay, okay, no touching the back, I get it," Tony is saying hurriedly.
"It's fine," he manages to gasp. "I shouldn't have… reacted like that."
"You need to sleep," Steve says, laying a gentle, hesitant hand on his shoulder. "We're going to help you to your bed and you're going to sleep."
He feels himself nod slowly, feels hands on his arms, helping him stand on shaky legs before he's lead out of the bathroom and towards his bedroom. He waves off any further attempts at help, already mortified that he's allowed himself to fall so far so fast. The feeling of lying down in his own bed has never been more simultaneously gratifying and terrifying to him. Steve has retreated to clean up the mess in the bathroom and the living room, leaving him alone with Tony. He's not sure if that makes what he has to ask any easier.
"Mr. Stark," Phil begins tiredly. "I'm sure this will sound like an odd request, but do you think you could stay?"
Tony gives him a long searching look.
"It's not odd. Believe me, it's not odd," he says with a strange sort of insistence to his tone. "And yeah, of course we'll stay."
Why wouldn't he think it's odd? And then Phil knows. PTSD, The Mandarin, Extremis… Oh, oh, oh.
"Your arc reactor," Phil mumbles, scrubbing at his eyes. "You went through with it. I should've been there."
"Not like you had a choice," Tony says, shrugging one shoulder. He looks away, rubbing the back of his head. "But I kinda wish you had been."
As much as all of this hurts, as much a strain it puts on him, hearing that seems to be able to wound him all the same. Because he really should have been there. Not for the first time, he wonders how many other things he should have been there for. He'd heard about Erik Selvig falling apart after being released from Loki's control; could the same thing have happened to Clint? And if it did, would S.H.I.E.L.D. bother to try to help him?
"Pretty sure you're doing the opposite of sleeping right now," Tony says, sitting on the edge of his bed.
"Lot on my mind," Phil murmurs.
Tony shifts.
"Listen, whatever it was they did to you, whatever they kept from you, we're going to find out," Tony says after a moment's silence. "But that's gonna have to wait until at least tomorrow morning because, like an idiot, you haven't slept in three days. Not sleeping in three days can fuck with your head in the worst way imaginable. Believe me, I've been there. So seriously, go to sleep. Or else."
"Stop threatening him," Steve quietly chastises from the doorway.
"You would prefer it if I sang a lullaby?"
"I would prefer it if you stopped talking for five minutes," Steve snorts.
"I was being reassuring," Tony protests in a stage whisper.
They continue on like this for the next few minutes, but Phil isn't about to stop them. Somehow their quiet bickering seems to do the trick, and as Steve protests that continuing to talk will not help in the slightest, he drifts off into his first sleep in days.