Got Made

Disclaimer: I don't own anything... even my lint got taken.

000/000

000 PREVIOUSLY 000

It was on his fourth wandering that he stumbled upon a junior Agent of SHIELD. It was the year 1987 on Earth 389271 and he was twenty-two-years-old. His name was Philip Coulson...

Or rather Philip stumbled upon him.

000/000

The wet rasp of his labored breathing echoed in his ears. He tried desperately to quiet it. Loud boot-steps thumped as groups of mercenaries splintered into organized groups in their search for him. He coughed, covering his mouth with his hand. Thankfully the shouting below him covered the sound. Shakily he pulled away his fingers. Blood dotted his palm. He already knew he had internal bleeding. The ache in his side screamed with each breath that he took. There were superficial cuts on his face and his right thigh was bleeding sluggishly, not enough to leave a blood trail yet. Alarms blared sharp as the mercenaries grew frantic.

Today just wasn't Junior Agent Philip Coulson's day.

Phil sighed, a rattle to it. Slowly he began to drag himself through the air vents. Mentally he started to make a list of every single instance of incompetency his enemies had been making. And in his head, he labeled his former and now dead partner as an idiot. This SNAFU was totally not Phil's fault. O'Brady had blown their cover and then got his head blown off. So yeah, he was covered in drying bits of brain. Classy. Phil had escaped the immediate scuffle with only his aforementioned injuries. And brain stains on his suit.

The young man encountered a fork in the ventilation system with a grate in the four-way intersection. Just like in the movies, a pair of gossiping idiots were talking as they guarded a door. Curious, Phil cocked his head to the side to listen over the shouting and alarms.

"Christ, Bob! How come we can't be going after this infiltrator?" the dimmer of the two goons asked his compatriot, his New Jersey accent grating to Coulson's sensitive ears.

"Because, you idiot, we can't leave this fucker here," Goon Number One replied, a Texan drawl dragging out his words. "With one look after ripping off his glasses, Morty dropped dead. Appearing out of nowhere like that, sheee-it... Boss wants this guy's mojo and his eyes. So yeah, can't leave him here. What if he escapes?"

"But... we got him blindfolded and chained up. He ain't going anywhere."

"Orders are orders, asshole. And how many times do I have to tell you? It's Robert, not fucking Bob. Do I look like a fucking Bob to you?"

How unprofessional. Phil snorted, curiosity taking hold. Well, this is already a fucked situation. So fuck it, let's see this 'fucker'. He went left, sliding almost silently through the shaft. After a moment, he came to a dead- end with another grate right in front of his face. Phil blinked his hazel green eyes. Peeking in, the agent raised his eyebrows at the dramatic sight below.

A man with short white curls tight against his skull was seated in a chair. His hands were primly lying on his thighs, palms down. His back was straight as an arrow and his head was cocked to the side like a bird. Chains were wrapped around him and the chair; the chains anchored to the floor at four points. A large, livid bruise took up over half the man's face, though part of it was blocked from view. Like Goon Two said, a white cloth served as a blindfold.

To the side of the room, a table of gleaming steel held a pair of glasses with blue lenses, a folded pile of cloth, and what looked like a ring from the angle Phil was at in the vent. Nothing else was in there except a camera in the far upper corner. With a curse, Phil knew that he couldn't risk being caught on the camera in the room with only one door out.

"It's alright," the man spoke, startling Phil. "I can short it out." He straightened his neck and slowly pivoted his head to the side. The camera burst apart, raining glitter. "There."

Now doubly curious, the Director was going to be so pissed, Phil slammed the grate with a hard fist but caught it in time before it could crash onto the floor. He had no desire to tangle with the Goon Twins. He then wriggled around to the point where he could drop down feet first. His injuries protested but Phil ignored the pain. He dropped like a three-legged cat; landing on his feet and then falling to his knees with a hiss rushing out from behind his gritted teeth.

"That sounded painful," the still chained-up man said.

"If you... can short the camera," Phil huffed through his pain, "Couldn't you just escape by yourself?"

"And miss all the fun?" the white-haired man asked. He quirked his lips into an almost-smile and the chains slithered off of him. He stood, barely the same height as Phil. "My name is Harry," he said in a pleasant tone. He held out a hand in the direction of the table. The unusual glasses zoomed into his outstretched palm. Phil tried not to gape like a country bumpkin. "You need to hide your surprise better." The blindfold was ripped off, revealing delicate, closed eyelids. The being named Harry slipped the aviator style glasses up the bridge of his elegant nose. He blinked his eyes open. And then he smiled.

"Err..." Phil finally realized how pleasant looking this man-being was despite the strange blue glasses. And the SHIELD junior agent couldn't even begin to guess his eye color. "I'm Philip," he said lamely. 'Oh my God, really? Really?' He had a feeling this 'Harry' was laughing at him just from the way the corners of his eyes crinkled behind the almost transparent lenses. "We should go now." He refused to take a step back when Harry crowded into his personal space. But he did flinch when gentle fingers brushed against the apple of his right cheek.

"Quite the bruise, Philip," Harry said softly, his posh British accent giving way to a deeper, rougher brogue.

"Not as impressive as yours," Phil replied, slowly regaining his mental equilibrium. But the moment broke when he started coughing, his already bloody hand over his lips. He didn't see the other man frown. "Shit..." Blood stained the corners of his mouth. "Hey! What are you-?"

Harry pressed a hand against Phil's aching side. "I will heal the worst of it," he said. "But I am no medic. You'll need normal healing time after this. Now hold still."

The junior agent gasped as a slow, low burn infused his injured insides. "Holy Moses..." he gasped as Harry pulled away. "What are you?"

The white-haired man laughed. "Not yet, Philip," he answered in a vague voice. He did the same trick he used on his glasses with the ring and cloth. The ring, a white metal circle with a black stone set in it, settled onto his right ring finger. He then caught the fabric and swirled it around to let it settle onto his shoulders. It was a cloak of some kind, a shimmering black. There was a strange, golden pin that held it on his left shoulder. "Want to see me defeat these idiots with a pen and myself?" Harry asked. He held up a pen he had dug out from the inside of his cloak.

Phil raised an eyebrow. "Wow me," he deadpanned. He didn't visibly shudder at the shark grin that crossed Harry's face.

"You'll do," Harry replied to the other's challenge. "I was never here. But it's best that you take notes, Philip. And never let them see you flinch."

Philip J. Coulson would take those words to heart for the rest of his life.

000/000

END

Aww, their very first interaction. NewbieAgent!Phil is fun to write. This universe is fun to write in. Maybe I'll crank out the hamster incident but no promises.