Author's notes: Wow…even I didn't think I would go six months without an update. I apologize to the wonderful people who've been following this story, which include the following reviewers: Rehabilitated Sith, pleasepleasepl (yes, I've continued), Laurie-Ylalen, magicshadow1, violetbrock, ShadowWriter33, Dragon91, Lil'fuj13, AustralianRanger012, angelofjoy(love ya, R!), Jackie, Elysynn, Melissa, various guests, Rose, Featheredschist, TheNaggingCube, Delphy, HarmMarie (and her 'liked this'), Autumnights, weemcg33, penguincrazy, kimbee, Dsgdiva, tpt player 5701, Aurora Abbot, dasserk, thababes, silvershadowrebel, Kiiimberly, GreenLoki (please review, I miss you!), Qweb, FourHorses and countless others. I live for reviews. I love feedback. You are AWESOME.
To JRBarton, CyanB, Alpha Flyer, Aggie2011 and nonyvole – THANK YOU from the bottom of my heart. Without you, I wouldn't be here.
The next chapter is started, and will likely be the final one. I hope to have the story finished in the next month. Thank you all for your patience. It's been … well, a Clint-like personal journey lately.
Clint, eyes blurring with exertion, chest burning with lack of air, saw everything.
He saw his gun – and then the asshole's hand close around it.
Even as he tried to react to Coulson's shout – secure the weapon, and God, how had it gotten out of his hand – he saw the weapon come up. He didn't hear the shots, though. He just saw Coulson's eyes fly open wide just before two bullets slammed home slightly left of center mass – the perfect double tap.
Coulson's eyes rolled back into his head, and he fell to the ground bonelessly, his head grazing the boulder as he fell.
The world around him suddenly devoid of air, Clint pushed his feet underneath him. It didn't matter that he couldn't breathe – nothing mattered anymore. He'd gotten Coulson killed. And he'd sworn he wouldn't do that.
If he's dead, I'm dead. And this bastard is going with us. Hissing what little air was left in his lungs out in a keening growl, he drove low and hard, aiming for the knees. He connected with a brutal tackle, collapsing his 160 pounds of muscle into the man's joints. He heard two absurd, impossibly loud snap-crackle-pop noises, and then the knees buckled.
Clint didn't wait for him to fall, barely heard the scream issued out of the man's mouth. Instead, he got an arm up and around the bastard's neck as his full weight landed squarely on Clint's chest. As they both fell, he tightened his grip, whipped his other hand up and around – and jammed one hand up and the other to the side, vertebrae first cracking and then giving way completely under the pressure.
Clint had no control over what happened next. The full weight of the man's body collapsed against him, driving him backward. Overtaxed, his legs buckled beneath him, and they both went careening to the ground. The weight on top of him and the ground beneath him drove the last little bit of air out of his chest, and his whole body exploded with pain and fire.
It was over. Nothing else mattered. His vision quickly greying, he closed his eyes, sucking in less and less air and waiting for it to end.
"You need to find a way, Barton."
Clint could have sworn he'd just heard Coulson speaking again. Those damned words that had made him get up and get this far. The words that had gotten him to fight, dammitall, and get this far.
Shouldn't have. Coulson had been wrong. Clint hadn't had a future then, and he didn't now. He would die here, and he'd be taking the agent with him. Anger suddenly swelled up in his stomach, sending a fresh round of adrenaline into his system. His nerves again on end, he gasped in air – and gasped out words, wanting to look over at Coulson as he cursed but unable to move.
"Fuck…fuck you. Should've…been over." Involuntarily, Clint's hands dug into the sand and rocks as another wave of pain rocketed through his body. Then a small gust of wind caught the sheen of sweat on his skin.
"D'dn't…wanna take you with me." Clint closed his eyes, even as his muscles spasmed with pain. He heard the distant sound of rocks skittering in the sand. Then he caught another low moan, realized it was probably his own.
Not fair…not fair, and Coulson didn't deserve to…
The weight on Clint's chest vanished. Vaguely, he wondered why, but it didn't matter. Nothing did anymore. He could let go. He'd just sit here and breathe, and wait for the grey to turn back, floating along – alone.
Then a hand connected solidly with the side of his face. His eyes flew open with the stinging pain, and instead of seeing bright light and endless sky, he saw a face.
Coulson. Blinking at him in bright, undisguised anger.
"Dammitall, Barton!"
Coulson. And even as his vision blurred again, hyperawareness of everything around him flooded in.
The blood streaming down the side of the man's face.
The wheezing note to the agent's breathing.
And the sheer level of exasperation on Coulson's face as he scowled down at him.
"I told you to find a way. You need to keep up your end of the bargain."
Phil Coulson figured he had about 10 minutes before he face-planted into the sand and began whimpering like a child – or before the dizziness from his likely concussion sent him spiraling back into unconsciousness.
He did a quick once-over on Barton, noting the way the sniper was breathing – with too much damned difficulty, again – and slid his hand over to where he'd placed the makeshift chest tube. Unsurprisingly, he didn't find it, just the bandage on the knife wound now hanging by a strip of tape and fresh blood bubbling out of it.
So, priorities had to be set – priorities as in needing to get help. NOW. Right. With Barton's eyes – still clouded, hazy, but mercifully aware – now locked on him, Phil unceremoniously ripped open the medic pack, and dumped everything out onto the ground in front of him. As gently as he could manage, he pulled Clint about a foot off the ground and jammed the now-empty pack under the younger man's head. Then he rapidly ran his fingers through the supplies, looking for three things he needed that he knew were in there.
Vision blurred as his fingers latched around the first item.
"Thought…y'were…dead." Phil could feel the sniper's eyes on him, even as he focused his concentration on the occlusive dressing and ripped it open. A second later, he had the dressing anchored in place.
"Bulletproof vests, Barton. They work wonders when people try to put bullets in you." Phil went to turn his head, wanting to dig out the next two items on his agenda: his GPS and the radio. But as he moved, his whole plane of vision seemed to flip 180 degrees. Down became up, up became down, and Phil found himself retching as vertigo switched rapidly to nausea. He closed his eyes, trying desperately to stay upright.
He had to keep it together. Barton needed –
Fingers clawed weakly at his left hand before latching onto his wrist.
"C'lsn. Please…don't..don..go." Barton gasped out the words, and the grip on his wrist tightened. Phil swallowed hard, and forced his eyes back open.
Barton's eyes were wide open and panicked.
"Don't…don't leave…leave me." Barton's words were somewhere between a whisper and a groan, his breathing growing more labored by the second. "God…please. Not…n'another…"
Priorities. Right. Phil didn't dare try to nod – it would have pitched him over on the ground in a heartbeat. But another deep breath, another swallow, and he had enough balance to turn to the side and start digging through the supplies he'd scattered.
"Not going anywhere, Bar…Clint." They were well past code names – hell, past the common practice of last names being used to keep a measured sense of space between emotion and logic. He needed that anchor right now, and Clint needed it, too.
"Clint, listen to me. Just keep listening to my voice. I'm getting us out of here." The dizziness returned with a vengeance, but the sniper's hand tightened a fraction around his wrist. Even as it did, Phil's fingers closed around the molded plastic antenna of the radio.
He snatched it up, and thumbed the "transmit" button.
"Agent Phil Coulson to friendlies in the area. Do you copy?" He'd left it tuned to the frequency he knew Barton's unit had been on earlier, for this very purpose. Another wave of vertigo threatened to overwhelm him, but Phil kept his grip on the radio. "I repeat, this is Agent Phil Co–"
"We copy you, Agent Coulson. Been waiting to hear from you. Your medevac is here and waiting on your coordinates."
Phil sagged with relief, and looked over the hand unit to see the slightest hint of a smile – or maybe just a grimace – on Clint's face.
"They're coming. So you need to hang on. You got me?" Clint's eyes had sagged shut, but he managed a small nod. All of the sniper's efforts, though, were going toward breathing. Even now, Phil could see the effort increasing – and the results decreasing.
Phil pulled the GPS unit from under the rubber band he'd used to attach it to the radio.
"Coordinates are…" He rattled off the series of numbers, praying he was seeing them clearly. "And make it quick. We're in pretty dire shape here."
"Copy that. We're half a click out, actually." There was a sound on the other end that sounded suspiciously like a chuckle. "Tell Barton the cavalry's coming."
Phil tossed the radio back to the ground, and slouched forward, resting his head in his free hand and closing his eyes.
"Two minutes, Clint." Probably less, if the radio man was right and they really were only half a click out. He could last that long, and so could Clint. Phil squeezed the hand he was still clinching, wanting a response.
Instead, the grip on it loosened. Phil's eyes flew open again, locking in on the sniper's chest. What had been labored breathing had softened into gasps, a wheezing note lessening as the motion grew smaller and smaller.
"Dammitall!" Phil forced himself into motion, reaching out with his hand, balling it into a fist. He then pushed his knuckles into Clint's sternum, trying to garner any response at all, bone grinding against bone.
"Clint!" No response. Nothing at all, not if you didn't count the way the gasps were growing tighter and tighter with each breath. Frustration, fear and anger stirred in Phil's stomach, and he opened his hand, leaning forward to slap the sniper's face.
As he did, the vertigo returned full force. Phil pitched forward, his head and his body deciding he needed to be horizontal, NOW. And he would've been, if not for a pair of hands locking on his shoulder and turning him around.
"Agent Coulson? Can you hear me?" Phil didn't dare nod or even open his eyes. He just rasped out the first thing that crossed his mind.
"Yes…help…Barton."
"Easy, sir, my partner's got Barton. I've got you, and you're going to go down gently for me here so I can check you over, OK?" Phil tried to turn away from the voice. He had to help Clint, had to make sure that –
A hand locked onto his jaw, arresting the motion mid-movement.
"I said he's covered, sir. Now, lie down before you fall down." The grip on his jaw released suddenly, and both hands pushed him backward. Too dizzy by far, Phil went back without any further protest, but kept talking.
"Barton…collapsed lung. T-two liters fluids, put in…" Phil gasped for air. "Chest tube, but it got…got pulled…out." Phil kept his eyes closed and focused on giving the report, hoping the still-unseen "partner" was actually listening. "Infection, chest and …" Phil jumped as hands began moving over him, feeling for injuries. It wasn't long until they found the lump on his head.
"Fuck!" Phil hissed out the word, both in pain and in annoyance at getting interrupted.
"Sorry, guess that hurts, huh?" The hands kept shifting downward, and in short order, found the straps on his Kevlar and loosened them. Phil tried to help, reaching to pull the vest away, but a hand swatted at his.
"Let me do the work." A note of empathy had worked its way into the medic's voice. "You've at least got a concussion, and now that I'm looking at it, a helluva a chest contusion. Erik, you get his report on Barton?"
Another voice floated back over to Phil.
"Yeah, wish I could say I was surprised. This is bad, Ben. Like 'I want him in Kandahar yesterday' bad." Phil tried to turn his head to look, but another wave of nausea forced him to groan instead. A hand tightened on his upper arm demandingly.
"Quit trying to move. Not gonna help you or him, sir." Phil tried opening his eyes, wanting to argue, wanting to do something to help. Instead, his stomach locked up completely. He felt a rush of warmth at the back of his throat, and then he was retching.
Hands pushed him quickly on his side, but when they did, Phil heard – and felt – something pop in his chest. Dizzily, he tried to bite back the scream, even as he emptied his stomach.
"Well, that was lovely. NOT." A knee braced his back, and a hand closed on Phil's injured right side. Fingers probed – and this time, he couldn't keep a weak scream from escaping.
"Right. Ben, I'm calling in the chopper. I want this guy in Kandahar, too."
"Looks like the right call. But my guy gets priority. BP's 70 palp, heartrate 120 and thready. Gonna start a second IV and…"
Phil quit trying to listen, the comprehension of the medical terminology all too clear. He tried to turn, tried to grab for Barton, tried to get up and get to the sniper's side.
"Not…not on my…" Phil managed to lever himself up on his elbows about three inches before his muscles locked up. He tried to push himself forward, opened his eyes in an attempt to keep his eyes on the target.
Instead, his vision swum sickeningly, going first from bright, blinding sunshine to gray, and then to a heavier darkness pulling him back down.
And as everything faded into the background, Phil heard a voice swear softly, and the low whine of a radio.
"Yeah, copy that, Kandahar. Two for the…"
And then the rest drifted away, Phil's body pulling him away from consciousness and into the deep.
In the sea of darkness that roared around him, a voice worked its way to his ears.
"Coulson."
Phil wanted to ignore it. He knew that voice, knew it would demand his attention and force him toward consciousness. He preferred the soft background roar – whatever it was. It would let him drift back off into blessed unawareness.
"Agent Coulson, can you hear me?" Phil wanted to drift, dammit, not follow another damned voice. This one was softer, though, less jarring – and female.
A nurse? Phil screwed his eyes shut, tried turning his head away. He didn't need this yet, not when pain would follow in short order.
A hand closed on his chin, and turned it roughly back the other direction.
"Dammit, Phil, quit being a stubborn ass and wake the fuck up already."
Phil fought the urge to sigh, and creaked open an eye. To his surprise, his head didn't explode with pain, though it ached with a steady throb. The nausea seemed under control, too.
He didn't even jump when he realized the director of SHIELD was about a foot away from his face. He blinked, and took in his surroundings, mildly amused at the slight haze that seemed to blur the curtains surrounding the bed, the chair behind the director, even Nick Fury.
"Huh. How many drugs do they have me on?"
Fury rolled his one good eye, then reached back and grabbed something from a light-haired woman in scrubs. She let out a startled yelp as Fury pulled a clipboard into view.
"Sir, that's private medical –"
"It's my agent's medical information, and trust me, when he became my agent, he signed away ANY rights he had to keep me from reading this." Fury looked down at the papers pinned to the board, squinted, then flipped one up and scanned that.
After another moment, Fury shook his head.
"Someone needs to get you people computers to use for this shit." Without looking, Fury held the clipboard up to the nurse, who, Phil saw, smirked slightly.
"Yes, well, someone needs to keep you civilian types from sticking your noses into our charts." The nurse's smirk softened into a smile when she looked over at Phil, and he noticed the blue eyes and blonde hair for the first time. Damn, she was cute. "You're on anti-emetics, a prophylactic dose of antibiotics, and blood thinners to prevent any clots from forming where that bullet impacted with your vest. Morphine PRN. Want me to go find you some before you move the wrong way and start everything hurting like hell?"
Phil started to shake his head, but the nurse tsked, then reached out of his sight. A fraction of a second later, a hand tapped softly on his ribs, and Phil's side awoke viciously in pain. He hissed out a breath, and glared at the nurse, but she stared right back, unrepetent.
"I barely touched them, Agent Coulson. No points around here for being a hero with pain meds, OK?" The smile brightened her face again. "Look, I won't give you enough to knock you out, but let me go get you something so you don't go moving around and getting massively uncomfortable."
Phil gave an annoyed sigh, then winced again as his ribs jarred. He gave up and nodded.
"Fine." The nurse winked at him, and turned to move away, but Fury grabbed her arm as she went past.
"While you're at it, get us an update on Barton." Phil just watched, amusement building in his stomach, as the nurse looked at Fury's hand on her arm, then back up at the Director of SHIELD. She kept the pointed glare on him until he tilted his head to the side and returned the look, with more than a hint of mocking humor behind it.
After a moment, the nurse rolled her eyes.
"Would it kill you to ask, maybe like you know I'm going to be doing you a favor and violating about 10 rules to do it?" The nurse snorted softly. "And yes, I know you've been given an all-access pass to our wonderful facility here, but you could act like the rules apply to you. As a courtesy."
Before Fury could answer, she turned and left the room, the door swishing shut behind her. The director's gaze followed her progress before turning back to Phil.
"This, Phil? THIS is why I told you not to get hurt. Too much damned paperwork and nurses with attitudes." Fury sighed, and ran a hand across his face. "Not to mention this plays holy hell with the idea of 'operating under the radar.' Council's going apeshit at the moment about an unsanctioned rescue mission."
"Not…not a rescue." No, it hadn't been a rescue, not in the end, not for the people he'd gone in to pull out. His head starting to ache furiously, Phil just wanted to close his eyes until the nurse returned. But if he did, he'd see Barrett and Callahan's bodies.
It was a vision he knew he'd be adding to his list of nightmares soon enough.
"Want to give me a clue of what's going through that damned fool head of yours, Phil?" The director's voice cut across his thoughts, and Phil snapped back to look at him. He shook his head, then winced.
"Not a rescue. Recruiting trip."
Fury raised an eyebrow sardonically.
"That the story you're going with, Phil?" Fury shook his head even as Phil nodded. "Yeah, well, it's only a recruiting trip if we actually get an agent out of the trip. Right now, doc's not sure that's gonna happen."
Phil felt a cold sliver slide through his stomach, fear and apprehension overriding his exhaustion and pain. He winced and closed his eyes, fighting against the sudden surge of adrenaline.
"How bad?"
He heard Fury hiss out a sigh, and Phil cracked open an eye to see the SHIELD director lean back in the chair.
"Be forewarned, Phil: I've been up for about 24 hours straight, and I've been forced to look at your sorry unconscious ass for the better part of the last two. Sugarcoating shit's well beyond my capacity right now."
Which meant the simple answer was 'pretty damned bad.' Hell. Not that Phil hadn't guessed it when he'd found Barton, but …
"Just tell me, Director." Winding himself up in knots over what he couldn't change right now wouldn't help him, his pain level, or Barton for that matter. Phil closed his eyes and rested back against the pillow, and waited for Fury to explain.
When the director started talking, it felt like Phil was being given a report by one of his agents.
"Well, first, I'd like to know how anyone survived the mess you made of that compound, but we'll talk about that later." Fury sighed. "Barton's Ranger unit is running surveillance on the area to make sure no one else made it out."
Phil nodded.
"I'm pretty sure we got them all in the end. I think." He tried to do a quick count, and then remembered he'd blown the compound without knowing who had actually still been in the building. From there, it got kind of blurry.
Across from him, Fury snorted.
"Think?" Fury made a face. "From what I've heard of the destruction you left behind, I'm guessing that cell's one less worry on our radar, but I'd rather let Barton's unit make sure."
Phil thought for a moment.
"Please tell me Maxwell's not running that mission."
Fury snorted again.
"You too? I thought it was just me. Sadly, he is, but maybe a stray bullet will find its way into the man's head." Fury sighed. "I'm gathering the change in command has a lot to do with the problems Barton's had?"
Phil nodded, and felt a chill in his stomach again. They were skirting the main subject.
"You were talking about Barton."
Fury looked at him for a long moment, then sighed.
"Yeah, I was. Damned kid's lucky to be alive, and from what I gathered talking to the medics, you're the only reason he made it that far." Phil closed his eyes, trying to keep a rein on his emotions. "There were a few comments about making you an honorary medic, but I told them they couldn't have my best agent."
A hand swatted at Phil's head lightly, and he opened his eyes to find Fury leaning forward with his elbows on his knees and his chin in one hand.
"Eyes open. I'm only doing this once." Fury smirked, and then continued.
"They rattled off some numbers for me, enough to know Barton's temp is sky-high and he's sicker than shit. But his blood pressure steadied out a little once they ran more fluids. They placed another chest tube on the flight back, apparently, and took him straight into surgery when they got here. Wouldn't give me much in the way of odds, except to say he'd made it this far and that the docs here know their way around chest trauma." The director paused, looked like he wanted to add something, then shook his head.
"I looked in on him before I came to sit with you. You know I've seen my share of combat, and more than my share of injuries." For a moment, Fury's left hand drifted toward his eyepatch before the director stopped the motion short. "I've seen corpses look better than he does, and frankly, you don't look much better. Just what the hell happened out there?"
Phil contemplated the question for a moment, his aching head struggling to put the details in some sort of coherent order. His thoughts drifted toward Barrett and Callahan before he slammed that mental door shut, and he thought about the attack on the compound, Barton's stunning accuracy with his sniper rifle, blowing the compound to hell … and turning around once he'd reached the evac zone to head back for a soldier that sounded like he'd be dead before Phil got halfway there.
How to explain what he'd found in Barton – and why he'd fought so hard to save it? Phil fought for the words, fought to tell the director what he'd seen and his reaction, and came up empty. He needed some time to process all of this, probably a debriefing with psych and at least a few nights of nightmare-laden sleep before he'd even come close to describing this in words.
And for what? Given what Fury had told him – granted, no one looked good in emergency surgery, but the director wasn't prone to exaggeration – he might have done this for nothing. Absolute, total nothing. Barrett, Callahan…maybe Barton as well.
Just how the fuck did you put failure to that extent into words?
"This wasn't your fault." Fury's words snapped Phil out of his reverie, and he brought his head around too fast. A wave of dizziness swum over him, and Phil gripped the sheets hard trying to steady himself. The nausea passed, and gave Fury a baleful glare.
"What? I know you have a penchant for blaming yourself when your people get killed, and I'm telling you – you didn't make this happen." Phil opened his mouth to say something, anything – a weak excuse of a denial if nothing else – but Fury shook his head before Phil uttered a syllable.
"Knock off the bullshit, Phil." Phil inwardly cringed as Fury's face grew darker. "You and I both know the chances of you getting there in time to do anything useful fell somewhere between shit and hell, no. You said it yourself when you called in for help. They were dead well before you and Barton ever got close. Absolutely nothing you could've done would've changed that."
"But-"
"And then you went and pulled Barton's ass out of the fire in spite of the fact he told you not to come the hell back!" Fury's volume level rose as he continued to rant. "You know damned well protocol says not to take the risk if an asset calls off help, but you went the hell back anyhow."
"I couldn't live with myself if I hadn't." Phil forced himself to stay calm, to force logic through the increasing muddiness of pain and exhaustion. "I couldn't bring out Barrett and Callahan. Even if all I brought out was a body, I was bringing out Barton."
Fury stared at him for a long, immeasurable moment, his one eye piercing Phil with as scrutinizing a stare as he'd ever felt under the man.
Then, amazingly, the director leaned back in the chair, shook his head – and amazingly, began to chuckle.
"And THAT, Phil Coulson, is why your call sign is the best moniker I've ever seen assigned to an agent." Fury's chuckling trailed off, and the smile that had crept in faded slightly. "We'll save a full debrief for later, but I thought you probably needed your head pulled out of your ass before it went any further up."
Phil felt the corners of his mouth quirk up in spite of himself.
"Thanks for the consideration, sir."
Fury rolled his eye.
"You know just where you can shove that 'sir,' Phil."
Phil relaxed back against the pillow, the tension slowly seeping out of his body. This wasn't over, and it wouldn't be, not for a long time. But Fury had a way of cutting past the emotional bullshit of a blown mission, he always had. It was why most agents in SHIELD would curse him in one breath, and then praise him in the next.
Somehow, Fury had found just enough of the right buttons to push in Phil that some of the guilt that had been hanging over him pushed off a little. Not much, and he'd have to deal with it later and likely with more than a few sessions in the psych department. Those guys tended to sink their teeth into this kind of crazy, and get to the issues underneath. Phil knew he'd go willingly, because somehow, it always seemed to work – at least on some level.
Phil sucked in a shaky breath, and let it out again, trying to chase away the mental images still flickering in his head. No, he couldn't let go of this, not quite yet.
"Director, Agent Barrett…his wife just had a little girl about a month ago. I'm going to want to speak to her, and we should cut through the red tape on his benefits. Callahan didn't have any close family, but I'll still want to write the letter." Phil closed his eyes, already working on the words he would write and say. He hated this duty, but he had to be the one to do it. It could be no one else – not even the director, even if he had chosen to get involved.
"I figured as much. You always take care of your own, Phil. So does SHIELD." For the first time, Phil could hear the weariness in the director's tone, and he opened his eyes to find Fury rubbing his forehead slowly and deliberately, like he was trying to knead a steady ache out with his fingers.
Phil felt the same ache, working its way from the lump on his head through to his own temples. Would what they did ever be enough? Just when would this shit ever end – agents dying on foreign soil, no bodies to bring home for funerals, money and sincere words trying to take the place of a father, or in some cases, a mother? A husband? A wife?
He had his doubts. Everyone in SHIELD did. Phil sucked in a shaky breath, wondering just how he'd feel about this job if Barton didn't survive. What he'd seen out in the desert, it spoke of so much. Dedication, determination – the fight Phil had apparently awoken in just trying to keep the sniper alive so he didn't have to drag out a body, so he didn't have one more soul to keep track of in a ledger with too many names.
Phil shook his head slightly. The damned kid had the ability to be one of the best assets he'd ever brought in. He didn't want to lose him.
"Director…Barton. If he makes it through this, we need to find him a place. He's –"
"Relax, Phil. I'm already three steps ahead of you." Fury reached out with a hand, and Phil followed it to the folder lying on the bedside table. Even at the angle, Phil could see the familiar "Top Secret" and "Eyes Only" tags the U.S. intelligence community was so fond of.
Fury contemplated the folder for a moment, then picked it up and tossed it onto Phil's lap.
"We did a little more digging on your 'recruit,' Phil. Chasing after this kid might have been more right than you know." Fury's face slid into a familiar, almost feral grin, the one Phil would always associate with one of the director's secrets, knowing something the rest of the world didn't, but soon would.
"Need you to take a look at that for me. Tell me what you think." More than a little intrigued, Phil pushed aside the increasing exhaustion and opened the file in front of him. He blinked as the type blurred in front of him, trying to get his eyes to focus.
When they did – and he started to read – Phil's eyes opened wide. He looked up to see Fury's smile widen, and a wicked gleam settle into the director of SHIELD's one good eye.
"Yeah, had a feeling that might get your attention. Now. Keep reading."