You have fifty-seven voicemails. Please enter your SHIELD Identity Number.
-taptap-. -taptaptaptap-
First message. -click-
"Alright, I don't have much time left, but what I do have, I'm gonna use better than you. Now shut up, sit down, and listen…"
If Phil Coulson could have pinpointed the day his life turned upside down and became an endless stream of paperwork and annoyed grief, he would have pointed to a quiet day in March, in 2004. It should have been cause for celebration; he'd just been promoted to senior agent, had reached level six clearance, and he'd even beaten Fury at chess. He should have been enjoying his accolades and readying for the new task of forming his own strike team...But no.
That was the day Clinton Francis Barton, newly transferred from a jarhead regiment in the Middle East, punched Sitwell in the face over a can of Mountain Dew and led the whole of the then current agent population of SHIELD on a merry chase that ended with Phil putting a taser dart into his knee cap. Unfortunately, that only pissed him off, and Phil got tackled for the first time since he'd been made senior agent. It took three huge agents to pull Barton off, but not before the sniper got a punch in that left Phil with a split lip and a burning urge to thoroughly thrash him. Or kiss him.
Fast forward ten years and seven bitch fights later (they were SHIELD legend at this point, much to Clint's pride, and Coulson's annoyed dismay. May and Natasha had kept count), and Clint was the best specialist they had ever had. He was smart enough to read the signs, stubborn as a goat, and steady as a monolith; too many times to count, Coulson had trusted Clint's eyes over all the other intelligence he'd had at his disposal, because Clint didn't do things by halves, and he sure as hell didn't look the other direction. They'd reconciled their differences over good beer and better pizza, developing a rapport that Fury routinely called 'romantic' under his breath, and that Phil simply acknowledged with a slim smile before jabbing an elbow into his superior's gut.
Oh, the last decade had certainly brought the two closer together, especially after Natasha joined their team, but Phil...well. He didn't believe in breaking that rule, not when Clint already caught so much shit about his last...several exes. He didn't want to add to that number, either...and if he were honest with himself, he didn't want to be the cause of the gray sadness that lined Clint's face, like...others. It was selfish, and he knew it, but still…Clint mattered to him, and Phil wasn't even sure the man would even want a relationship with another man; for all intents and purposes, Clint was as straight as his arrows, and there was little sense in adding awkwardness where there need be none.
"Twenty klicks out and coming in fast, bossman." Clint's voice sounded, soft and sure in his ear, and Phil let a little sliver of a smile cross his lips. Yeah, even if this was all he had, it was more than enough. This was the life they knew, had, really, always known. His gun was a comforting weight in his hand, the winds were dying down just enough…"Fair winds today." Even if Clint couldn't quite make out what the dark clouds to the south were bringing, he knew what to do, what he always had to do...
"Very much so. Where are you?" This would, hopefully, be an easy job; he was tired, and he really was looking forward to a day or so off. Clint and Tasha were due over at his place tomorrow anyway for their weekly Dinner Theatre; Clint would cook and shoo the two of them out of the kitchen, while Phil and Natasha both educated him on musicals, plays, and classic movies. Sometimes they switched it up to music, though he had quite an ear for it anyway, and sometimes it was books. Reading aloud, because the man who could snipe a fly off a daisy at five hundred yards and barely brush pollen off the flower had a hell of a hard time focusing on words. Phil never minded; Clint loved listening anyway, and it was easier for him to concentrate.
"Highest perch there is, you know that." Dammit, that meant...
"...Up on the radio tower?"
"You know it. Ten klicks, sir." Goddammit. Of course...
"Barton…"
"Five klicks and counting." Oh, there was going to be hell to pay for this one.
"Will you please come down?" Too late, the song of arrows filled his comm as the winds howled for a moment, something huge and heavy landing on the roof, and Phil swore softly, cocking his gun and bounding up the stairwell he'd been resting on. He took the six flights two, three steps at a time, heart hammering as his footfalls, normally silent, pounded through the concrete and metal, ringing all the way up. Arrowfall still sang in his ears, and as he shoved through the metal door Clint had so graciously left unlocked, he had to pause at the brilliant sunlight, half-blinded.
"SIR, GET DOWN!" Clint's howl through the comm unit brought him into immediate focus, and Phil dove for the gravel as something huge and heavy dove down towards him, turning up at the last second by the arrow that imbeded itself in the roof, nearly to the fletching. Phil rolled to his feet easily and took off at a run, bringing his gun up to fire at...damn. What he was staring at now defied any normal explaination, and he might not have recognized the monster for what it really was if he hadn't glimpsed a scrap of fabric, tangled in the long mane, covered in runic symbols.
"Dammit, Barton, you didn't say it was Asgardian!"
"I didn't realize Loki'd gotten out! Or that the slimy shit could shape-shift!" Phil hissed angrily as a brilliant green tail lashed out, sending up a stinging spray of gravel while the serpent that Loki had become grinned viciously, all teeth and gaping jaws. If you looked closely, you could just make out the golden horns just above those slit-pupiled eyes, and the mane flowed from between them all the way down against rope after rope after rope of long, sinewy green scales, and Phil felt his heart stutter as the beast poured over the gravel, emerald eyes glinting.
"Welcome, Ageeent Coulsssson. I presssssume you remember me?" His voice was a mockery of the smooth accent he usually had, higher pitched and far more deadly. Loki towered over him, looking too much like that world wyrm thing Thor had mentioned last...Uroboros, that's what he looked like. A monster of monsters, hell bent on revenge...
"Much, much to my dismay." Phil unloaded a clip into the monster's maw and as Loki reared back, screaming in rage, he took off towards the immense radio tower, just as Clint started in with his speciality arrows, the ones Phil always, always ended up banning from active duty. He had to admit though, the frost tip was very effective, and sent Loki back against the roof itself, the enormous serpent screaming obscenities as ice splintered over his eyes and nostrils.
The second was one actually created from the Destroyer that Loki himself had sent down, really not that long ago...and fire erupted where the ice had torn into the scales, and Phil deemed it prudent to haul ass as Loki started spitting, poison and blood splattering in steaming droplets all over the gray stone. Clint met him on the roof's gray surface just as he made the tower, the ropes he'd swung down on abandoned, and the two took off towards the other end of the warehouse, Clint's ruby lenses glinting in the bright sunlight.
"Helluva day, sir!" The grin on his face was all teeth and little amusement, and Phil smirked faintly, turning only to fire a few more shots at the beast, who had shrunk a little, flinging off bits of charred scale and frozen mane, still howling in anger.
"Helluva day indeed, Barton! Extraction point!"
"East of the building, Tasha's got the chopper! We're gonna have to swing it!" Phil squawked as he stumbled, Clint catching his jacket and hauling him back upright in the few seconds he'd delayed them. He was thankful for that strength, but only for a moment as he processed those words.
"Are you kidding me?!" Clint grinned wider now, humor clearly lighting his eyes as he drew his bow, the warehouse's edge coming close. He had to be kidding, absolutely had to be...
"Nope! Best way to get down, especially fast! There's Nat, c'mon!" Clint paused for a breath, half a moment, and his grappling arrow flew like a shadow of the wind, latching onto the helicoptor's skids and fanning out dual lines. Phil caught his and still running, swore softly; he hated the jump, the sudden weightlessness…when behind them, he heard the terrible hiss of scale on stone, and risked a look back. Loki was shifting back, half snake, half Asgardian, all monster as he clawed and slunk over the stone, blood marring his handsome, cold features, one eye ravaged by the fire and ice, his face and bared chest covered in burns still icy on the edges. He raised a hand, hissing out a spell that he then flung into the air between them and Phil jerked back just as they hit the edge, his hands slipping on the line as alien magic burned through his body.
"COULSON!" Clint's voice, normally so loud and belligerant and damned annoying, was fading in his ears, and wasn't that ironic, because he was screaming, screaming Phil's name, Phil could see that, as the wind whipped around him, and he fell, the spell wrapping around his conscious and-
Darkness.
You have fifty-one voicemails.
"Hey, you still there? Good, because seriously, this shit...this shit sucks. So much. And it doesn't get any easier…
"Barton, you will let me pass."
"Over my dead body, sir."
"...That can be arranged very, very easily.."
"You'll see him when Bruce is done."
"Dr. Banner…"
"Is just as trained as any other physician, and Coulson personally trusts him."
"...You have ten more minutes." The voices, they were odd; a deep voice, one that tolerated no nonsense, and a very slightly higher one, that clearly didn't give two shits about the other one...and then there was the quiet murmur of whoever was flashing a light in Phil's eyes and generally checking him over...Phil came to with a start and a bit-off swear, hissing faintly at the bright light and...were those restraints?
"Where the ever-living fuck am I?!" He snapped out, tensing against the leather and wool straps, more pissed off than he'd ever been, even when that bitch Amanda had stolen his boyfriend at homecoming. "And who the hell are you?" He snarled at the startled man with the curly, salt-and-pepper hair and round glasses. He looked careworn and rumpled, like he'd just been in bed, and Phil's lip curled a little in disdain. He didn't think he'd done anything to get him put in the hospital, but that was clearly where he was... The older man sighed, taking off his glasses, and settled back in his chair.
"Phillip James Coulson?" Phil stiffened, jaw set, and the man sighed again, this time more out of annoyance than weariness. "Look, I'll let you go if you promise two things."
"...What things?"
"Don't take a swing at me, for one. Neither of us, nor anyone else, will like the result." Came the enigmatic reply, and Phil raised an eyebrow, but nodded. That was fair...mostly. He really wanted to pick a fight right now, though…."Second, I need you to promise me that no matter what, you'll at least hear myself, and those who want to talk to you, out. Because we're doing this for your welfare, Phil, and we'd really like to make things work for a possible long-term." Phil blinked, cocking his head now, more than a little confused.
"...Okay, fine. I won't hit you, and I'll listen to you. But, seriously, the hell is going on?"
"First off, I know your name, but you clearly don't know me. I'm Bruce Banner." He popped the buckles and let Phil shake out the pins and needles before offering a big, calloused hand. "Second, you were attacked by a magical spell that's managed to revert you from forty-nine to somewhere in your teen years." Phil gaped for a long moment, then gave a short, sharp bark of a laugh. He was vaguely aware of the voices quieting in the doorway, but there was a curtain up, and all he could see were tall shadows lurking, listening. He ignored them.
"You're shitting me, right?" Bruce raised an eyebrow, hand still extended. "C'mon, dude, Bruce or whatever your name is, I can't be almost fifty. I can't." Phil ignored his hand now, working the rest of the restraints off, frowning at the loose suit he was wearing. The shirt wasn't that much bigger, but the pants barely stayed on his hips, and they were just a little too long; the jacket, or at least, he thought it was the jacket, was bunched up next to his pillow. Dark blue eyes darted around the room, narrowing at the small window, and the smaller vent above. If he could just...
"Please don't try to escape." Bruce's wry voice froze him, and the doctor sighed, settling back and flipping through an obscenely thick file. From what little Phil could see, half of the notes were heavily redacted. "Look, you're not nearly as good as you think you are, and unfortunately, SHIELD has your entire dossier. Including your juvie record." Phil made a noise best defined as a squeak at that, eyes going wide as he stared. "Oh yes. I haven't seen it yet, but I'm very impressed by what I've heard."
"You…"
"Mmmhmm."
"Yet?"
"We're not idiots, Phil, so you'd best get used to that. To be fair, though, it took you some time to adjust the first time around…"
"Are we done, Doctor Banner?" The deep voice sounded again, making Phil jump, eyes wide and his face going pale, because that did not sound friendly in the least...and a tall, one-eyed black man rounded the curtain, his long leather trenchcoat hardly concealing the obvious body armor under it. He was armed to the teeth, clearly, and Phil shivered at the opaque darkness in his eye. The man looked like he thrived on terror...and then Phil's eyes locked on the man that came around the curtain behind him, and he shifted, just a hair, to hide the sudden reaction.
Because this guy? This guy was built, just the way Phil liked, and the teen felt his mouth go dry at the sight of those truly incredible arms. He was all muscle and craggy, handsome features, the stubble on his face just that extra layer of sex appeal. And those eyes...dark as stormclouds and just as alluring, ruby-tinted sunglasses pushing back blond-brown spiky hair as he crossed his arms and outright glared at the one-eyed man. The body armor they wore was similiar, save this guy had no sleeves and...was that a shooting glove? Oh sweet god…
"You've seen him, now get the fuck out." Even that gravelly voice was sexy, and Phil suppressed a whimper with sheer willpower, keeping his gaze locked on the taller man, because if he focused on Sexy over there…hell, even the tight band around his neck that held his earpiece was sexy, black leather on tanned skin, the cords in his neck just delicious looking...
"Barton, I will shoot you." Barton, okay, that was a good name, it suited him, and Phil swallowed his arousal with difficulty, drawing all of his considerable anger and dismay into haughty arrogance. He was good at that.
"Who the fuck are you?" He demanded, bluffing for all his skinny worth, and hoping very, very much so that no one called him on it. One-eye gave him a look that made him want to apologize, but he held his ground, hands fisted in the sheets, before the other man sighed.
"...Director Nick Fury, of SHIELD. You don't remember who you were, obviously, but I know quite well who you are, right at this moment. Phillip James Coulson, seventeen, proud miscreant of Boston, MA. Son of Robert and Julie Coulson, born July eighth, nineteen sixty-four, huge Captain America fanboy-"
"Stop!" He squawked, trying not to glance at Barton, though he could see a distinctly odd expression on the man's face. He looked...like he wanted to...but why…"I want to see my parents! I'm a minor still, you can't hold me without my parents being notified!" He demanded, feeling seven, not seventeen...and his breath stuttered as a deafening silence filled the room. Fury looked taken back, Barton had bitten off a swear, and Banner was looking down. Phil gulped audibly.
"Please...I just wanna talk to my mom."
"...I'm very sorry, Phillip." Fury said quietly, and turned on his heel, stalking out of the room. Banner followed, eyes pointedly ahead, and Phil stared after them, fear welling in his heart.
"Wait...please…"
"They're gone, kiddo." Barton's voice was softer now, sad and broken in a way that Phil didn't understand, and he looked at the man, really looked at him. And started to shake.
"Gone where?" He sounded like a little boy, and Barton's face twisted, some long-seated grief clawing under the surface before he settled on patient, honest sympathy.
"They passed away when you were thirty, Phil. I'm very sorry...they aren't here anymore." He gaped, disbelieving, and Barton winced, shaking his head a little. "I'm sorry, I really am, but-"
"Barton, assignment." The earpiece hanging off the band around his throat chirped, and he hissed out another foul word.
"Fuck, I'm sorry, kid, I gotta go...look, I'll see if we can get Steve down here, he's...he's better at this. I'm sorry…" He took off as Phil startled back to awareness, and the teen felt despair wash over him as the door shut, ever so gently...the first sob took him completely by surprise, and he dissolved into a child's tears, more alone than he'd ever been.
"Mom…"
Clint felt like he wanted to throw up. Actually, throw up, then shoot himself in the head for leaving Phil back there, all alone...but Bruce wasn't going to tell the kid the truth, because Bruce had despised his parents, and Fury...Fury was expedient. And the sooner Coulson was back to normal, the better. But Clint...Clint had loved his mom, even if his old man had been a fuckin' drunk and abusive asshole, and Phil had loved his parents, and they him, with all his heart...and Clint did love Phil.
That was the crux of it, really. The painful, heart-breaking crux of it. And Clint resolutely shoved those feelings back into the damn closet for the time being. And prayed that his foray down to the briefing room would bring him into close proximity of the one damn person in this whole building that could actually do something about this whole fucking mess...His head snapped up as he heard the rising voices ahead, and he breathed a faint thanks out when he recognized one. Cap was annoyed at the junior agents, but too polite to say no to their requests for autographs...well, Clint had no problem whatsoever interrupting. He pushed his lenses down and took a deep breath.
"Get the fuck back to your posts, junies, before I call Coulson on your sorry asses!" He snapped out as he rounded the corner, face a hawkish mask, mouth twisted in a scowl. The junies scrambled out of his way silently, racing off to face someone far less imposing, and Steve closed his eyes, rubbing his temple.
"Thanks, Clint…"
"Don't mention it...Look...I...we have a problem." Steve sighed a little, and Clint felt his heart fall.
"I know about Phil..."
"He didn't know his parents were dead. He doesn't know...anything but that he's seventeen and now that he's totally alone." Clint could have smacked himself for blurting that out, and he winced as Steve froze, those bright blue eyes snapping wide open. Steve didn't often look like that; like he was seeing ghosts seventy years in the past, but when he did, Clint knew now to wait, be patient…
"Which room?" That was Cap, all Cap, none of Steve's sweet innocence showing in the frozen blue eyes, and Clint felt his spine straighten at the order in those words, shoulders dropping back.
"Down the hall to your left, seventh door on the right. Unmarked, though you'll probably still be able to hear the sound of a young man crying." Steve brushed past him, and Clint risked getting put into the wall to grasp his shoulder, pausing him. "...Go easy on him. He's not the soldier you knew, he's not even the man he was." Those eyes seemed to thaw, just a little, and Clint let him go, watching until the dark blue leather went around the corner. He wanted to go back, but...his earpiece chirped again, and he swore, long and loud and full of venom, and settled for stomping down to the briefing room.
There was gonna be hell to pay for this.
You have forty-three voicemails.
"I don't want this. I want to go home, but there's no one left...you asshole, you fucking asshole, you shoulda left something like this...just in case.
Phil had soaked the expensive suit jacket by the time the soft knock sounded on the door; in all honesty, he wasn't sure that he even really heard a knock, or just wished he did, until the knob turned and a tall shadow eased into the room. He hiccuped weakly and rolled towards the wall, curling around his pillow and the jacket, clutching the only things he had to his name so close, so maybe no one would take them from him.
"Go 'way…"
"Phil?" The voice was low and masculine, but gentle; oddly gentle with the size of the man that settled on his bed. He was big, that much Phil could sense, but how much so, he could only guess from shadows and the weight pulling him back towards the door, the mattress sinking a little more. He shivered, too aware that he hadn't even been left a blanket, and hiccuped again.
"Please, jus' go 'way…" He stammered out, eyes squeezing shut. He didn't want this, didn't want to be here, wanted to go home...wanted to go home to his mom and his dad, to his chocolate Lab, Roxy, and the quiet home he'd grown up in...When the sudden realization that that, all of that, was gone, really hit him. He started to sob harder now, every wall he'd ever had up breaking, and he barely heard the bitten off curse before two big arms hauled him upright and he was pressed to a warm, leather-covered chest.
He howled his grief and fury, lost himself in the whirlwind of sorrow, and gradually, painfully, cried himself hoarse. The grief drained out just as slowly, leaving him quiet and sniffling, cradled to the man's chest like a child...and for this guy's size, he almost could have been a little kid. This man was enormous, all around, and Phil felt his tension ease, just a little, as a big, calloused hand stroked through his hair, deep voice singing a soft, soft Irish lullaby. Why that particular song struck him, he wasn't sure; it was odd to hear, almost, but comforting, and where there had been knife-sharp shards before, numbness crept in. It wasn't...good. But it wasn't as bad. And maybe, that was good.
"...Thanks, Mister…?"
"Just Steve. I'm sorry, so sorry, Phil, that things had to come out this way…" That was when he looked up, brows knitting at the name 'Steve'...and Phil's jaw dropped open. The man who had held him as he bawled like a baby was none other than a very concerned looking Steven Rogers...Captain freakin' America. Phil felt his stomach lurch unpleasantly with the newest shock, and Steve must have seen something in his face, because the man pulled back and pressed an empty wastebin into his arms...and Phil lost everything he'd ever had for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
"...All due respect, sir, but you can take your high-handed bullshit and shove it up your-"
"Agent Barton would be better suited on surveillance detail for the latest of Loki's victims." Natasha cut him off smoothly, shooting a glare his way as his mouth hung open, and he snapped his jaw shut with a growl, turning to stare out the window. She could deal with Fury's shit today; he'd done more than enough already, and he closed his eyes with a grimace, flashing back to just a little while earlier, when they'd been so close to escaping...so close…
Phil was looking back, Clint didn't know why, but he was looking back at the thing Loki had become, and Clint fired the dual lines, hoping he could get his handler's head back in the game. He knew the temptation was there, to take on the sorry bastard and get a little revenge, but pragmatism came with experience, and if ever there was something out of his league, Loki was certainly it. But Phil was catching the line, jumping off...and the son of a bitch, he looked back again...and this time, it all went to hell. The flash of light seared even through his lenses, and Clint had to blink several times before he realized that Phil was struck, and he was falling. He heard himself screaming from far away, even as his body slid down the line, reacting when he could not act of his own accord, and he wrenched his shoulder to catch his now unconcious handler, tying him onto the line before letting Natasha carry them away. Something was wrong, was so wrong, but Clint couldn't figure it out, and Phil was-
"Barton, your report." He grit his teeth, whole back tensing as the remembered pain shot through his shoulder blade; he wasn't badly hurt, it'd just be a bitch to draw the bowstring for a day or two, and he wanted to ice it. But work first. He rattled off the report, sharp, too sharp, of course, always too acidic for Fury and Hill's tastes, but it was efficient. Efficient and brutally honest, and finally, they dismissed them both, and Clint beelined for Stark's undercover little bar, sunken in the bowels of the SHIELD building. Technically, it didn't exist, but also technically, neither did half of SHIELD, so Clint figured it didn't matter anyway. And god, he needed a drink and a smoke. And Tony would have both, at the ready.
To his surprise, both Bruce and Tony had the bar running today; he slipped inside, holding the door for Tasha, and locked it behind both of them; he didn't have a key, but he had a lockpick kit, and they were almost the same thing. Tony waved them over, and Clint looked interested in the way that the smoke from both their cigerettes didn't linger.
"Advanced filtration system, I wanted a place where we could really relax." He answered in lieu of an actual question, the stub resting between greasy fingers as he flickered over what Clint could only assume were the SHIELD databases. He just shrugged and stole two from the pack, offering one to a weary Natasha, who lit it, then his, and started mixing them both some shots.
"Thanks, Tony...this…"
"Yeah, yeah, I know." The mechanic looked up now, dark eyes ringed with shadows and his normally trim beard scruffy, and his hands and arms were streaked in black grease, knuckles broken open and a hangnail forming. "Look...Bruce told me what happened. I take it Cap's…?"
"Hopefully explaining this shit to him. Because I...I can't. I fucking suck at emotions and crap anyway, and this…"
"Is a clusterfuck all around." That was Bruce, who stubbed out his cig and came over, nursing a rather large glass of scotch as he set his tablet on the counter between them, Coulson's dossier files uploaded on the scratched glass surface. "Whatever was done to him, he doesn't know what he was...and that makes him a hell of a liability. There are some very powerful people in this world, and outside of it, who hate Coulson with every inch of their being…" His blood ran cold; he could name seven off the top of his head.
"Fuck."
"Exactly. I've already put in paperwork to make us his legal guardians. And I contacted Strange." Now all three of them stared at Tony, and he grimaced. "Look, I know it's not something I like to do, but I've got no way of fixing him to back how he should be; Stephen might. No guarantees he won't drive me absolutely batshit, but at least this means Phil won't get taken by Child Services or some shit. And maybe this will wear off soon. Maybe not. Fuck if I know." Clint wanted to throw up again now, and he pushed away his alcohol, focusing instead on the burn of nicotine in his veins. He hadn't smoked in a few years, but today...it burned a little of the nausea away, and he rubbed his eyes.
"So we put him in the Tower till this shit is fixed; yeah, like one pissed off teenager will do great with six adults and an AI disciplining him." He muttered, and Bruce sighed.
"Better that than have him dead." Okay, yeah, that was so true, and Clint did his damnedest to hide the twitch; judging by Natasha's faint eyebrow, he wasn't entirely successful. But Tony barreled on, setting up plans already for Phil's rooms to be retrofitted with gaming systems and new clothes, and locking Phil's access to the lower levels until otherwise specified. He personally didn't think this was gonna work; actually, he was already laying a bet in his head that not even Gambit would take that this shit was all gonna backfire. But it was all they had, and at the moment, he'd rather have that, than have Phil dead.
Fuck, he was so screwed.
Phil had never been so miserable in all his young life. And if he was counting the last time he'd spent three days in the Boston Juvenile Detention Center...yeah, this was pretty bad. He was hunched over in ratty jeans and a band shirt borrowed from that Tony guy; he was a bit manic and annoying, but nice enough to lend him clothes. Clint...that was Barton's first name, and Phil had finally managed to stop swooning around him, had offered, but all the clothes he'd brought were just too big…he'd saved one of the belts offered, though, and it was a comforting weight around his waist as he was escorted through into the basement of the enormous Tower, his eyes wide and bewildered. This place...this place was massive!
How the hell had Stark built it all? He knew about Iron Man now, and of course he'd known about Cap...and this whole Avengers thing, it seemed bizarre, insane that the world still needed superheroes this far into the future...and that he had been the one to organize them. It seemed...crazy. Insane. Terrifying…he hunched over the bundle in his arms, the suit he'd been in when whatever the fuck had happened to him wrapped up neatly, and he clutched it close. It was a lifeline, of sorts, of normalcy, even if it wasn't his kind of normal. A big arm rested lightly over his shoulders, and he glanced up, startled.
Clint's face looked like it could have been carved from stone, silent behind those ever present lenses, but the arm was reasuring and strong, and Phil leaned into it, a little surprised by the comfort it gave him. They passed into the elevator, just two of the Avengers and Phil, (Bruce and Tony were talking to some guy named Stephen, and the Black Widow was nowhere to be seen) and he closed his eyes, feeling the slow climb up to what he assumed were the living quarters. Tony had explained everything, brown eyes flashing as he laid out the quarters Phil would have, and the conditions he would be living under. Phil didn't like it, but he couldn't debate it; Bruce and Fury had been in the room too, quiet and serious, and they'd all explained that without the Avengers, without SHIELD...he didn't stand a chance. And he'd had the time to read over a little of his files…
He really was alone.
"Thanks…"
"...No prob. How're you...how're you doing?" Clint looked at him now, and Phil swallowed, painfully aware of the height difference between them; it didn't seem like much at first, but Clint was a good five or so inches taller...and just...yeah, okay, he had to get his head out of his ass. The guy was just being nice, and clearly felt awkward as fuck.
"...I'm...okay." He replied quietly, carefully, and Clint was watching him, gauging his response, and he gave a weak, sad laugh. "Well, okay, I feel like shit, but...yeah. I'm...I'm okay." A soft huff of a laugh made him smile, just a little, and Clint's arm left his shoulders, big hands settling deep in the pockets of his jacket, and Phil felt just that little bit colder.
"That's...that's good...So, um, right now, Tony and the others have it set up so technically we're your legal guardians until this...crap stops, okay?"
"...Dude, you can swear around me."
"You're like, fifteen, and I get in enough trouble as it is." Phil gave him a glare and Clint just shrugged. "What, it's true, and no, don't look at me like that."
"I'm seven-fucking-teen!"
"Language, Phil." He winced as Captain-...Steve sighed behind them, looking odd in plaid and khaki. "And stop baiting Clint, please. Tony does that enough as it is." He grumbled just a little, but the elevator chose at that moment to ding open, onto a neat, modern hallway that led to a handsome oak door. He was escorted over steel gray carpeting, and Clint opened the door...to a nice apartment, clearly that of an older man's, but...Phil felt his heart leap. Along the wall to his left, his whole Captain America collection stood proud and strong, even his trading cards...to his right, a small kitchenette, barely a cabinet, a range, and a microwave, but it was enough. Just beyond the bar-counter of the kitchen was a small couch and huge panel of glass; it popped alive with news and sports, and he realized it was a damned television, so slim it could be mounted on the wall.
"Whoa…" Back to the left was a door half-open; he could see a handsome bed and what looked like a deep closet, and he figured the bathroom was just beyond it too. It wasn't huge, by any means, but going from his tiny attic bedroom at the top of his parent's house to...this...it was palacial in size. It was all perfect...and he was dimly aware of Clint slipping out, Steve almost following him. He turned, swallowing the lump in his throat, and Steve gave him a weary, gentle smile.
"Dinner's at six; one of us can come get you, if you'd like, or we can just send you an alert to your phone."
"An...an alert's fine...thanks. Um...yeah...thanks."
"You're welcome. Just let us know if you need anything, alright?"
"S-sure…" Steve closed the door gently, and Phil swallowed, turning back. This was it...he ducked his head. "Mom…."
"What do I do?"
AN: Sorry about the huge wall of text; I had to reformat the whole document, sorry guys!