Phil doesn't stop to wonder when they became a Monster-of-the-Week-fighting organization largely because he doesn't have time to stop and consider the series of events that have lead up to it all, due to being busy fighting the Monster of the Week. Today it's been something that more closely resembles either a gigantic, angry slug with a maw full of daggers, or a particularly viciously fanged, gigantic wad of phlegm. Either description fits. It had gone as close to 'swimmingly' as possible until a combined strike from Iron Man and Thor had pierced the creature's skin. At that point, it was almost like watching a balloon deflate, but instead of air, it was slowly releasing some sort of noxious, yellowish gas.
Uncertain what the gas was or what it might do, Steve called for an evacuation, which Phil coordinated from the Helicarrier. It would have gone just fine if Steve hadn't done what Steve does best, namely putting himself in harm's way for someone else's sake. Phil hadn't allowed himself to react outwardly as he watched the gelatinous creature essentially absorb the captain, just had issued a slightly terser than usual request to Tony to retrieve the man.
Thor seemed ready to charge in and assist, but Phil quickly put a stop to that, ordering them all back to the Helicarrier on the grounds that they didn't need anyone else contaminated and Tony's suit protects him from that. Thor doesn't seem pleased in the slightest, but meets Phil about half-way; he doesn't return to the Helicarrier, but remains on the perimeter, calling down tremendous bolts of lightning from above to provide support.
Eventually, Tony emerges from the creature—although, 'explodes outward' is more fitting—pulling Steve along with him. It's plain to see it had done the captain no good, and the gas seems to be making a bad situation worse. A final strike from Thor puts the creature down for good.
From there, Phil keeps his focus on the task in front of him, which is now to establish a quarantine, send in a hazmat team to deal with the clean-up and open a line of communication with MIB to see if they have any idea why a thirty ton alien slug suddenly appeared in the middle of the city. His temper steadily rising as he speaks with Agent K means he's too distracted to notice Jasper come up behind him.
"Agent K, enough already," he barks, pinching the bridge of his nose.
"I'm just sayin', son, maybe you oughtta be checkin' in on that boyfriend of yours instead of hootin' and hollerin' in my ear."
"Could you remain focused for five minutes please?" Phil sighs. He leans forward in his seat, the worry which had been eating at him for the past twenty minutes suddenly intensifying. "Why, what do you know?"
"I don't know how a super soldier might handle it, but the last time a human came into contact with one of these puppies, they didn't last long."
"Alright, is there anything we should know about how to decontaminate and treat anyone in that came into contact with it?" Phil prompts.
"Things is, Glorchii tend not to hang around; our atmosphere's toxic to them, so we've never had a chance to study them long enough to develop a guideline on how to react to an attack. I'm guessin' yours was just lookin' for a place to die."
Jasper taps him on the shoulder, making a 'gimme' motion towards the phone. Phil tries not to let his relief show.
"I'm putting you on with Agent Sitwell," he says quickly, rising from his seat and transferring the call to Jasper's headset.
He nods his head in silent thanks as his fellow agent waves him off. It's no secret that he and Agent K do not exactly get on—or perhaps that he doesn't get on with Agent K—and the excuse to cool his heels and go check on Steve is sorely needed.
Steve has felt better, he's not going to lie. Lying in a quarantined chamber in S.H.I.E.L.D. medical, he knows he's in for some bad news. Not that he can't guess based on how he's feeling. His throat and chest burn constantly, forcing him to cough and only aggravating it further. It's hard to breath; he remembers what an asthma attack feels like and this is pretty damn close to it, he has to admit. His skin itches and stings, and running his hand over his forearms tells him that there are a series of blisters along his forearms and his face and likely the rest of him as well. His skin is probably red and irritated, going by the feel of it.
He'd confirm all this by looking if not for the simple fact that he can't see. Well… nothing beyond vague shapes and a few colors, anyway.
But he can still hear. He hears the hiss of the quarantine chamber door opening and someone walking inside. He hears the individual tread closer and sit without a word. The feeling of a gloved hand gently patting his tells him everything he needs to know.
"You have work to do, agent," he says, his voice a thin rasp.
"Agent Sitwell is taking over for the moment. I received Director Fury's permission to check in on you," Phil answers.
The agent doesn't sound worried, his voice as smooth and even as ever, but Steve knows he is. Because they're both professionals and professionalism dictates that they get the job done first, even when one of them is injured in the line of duty. The fact that Phil has done what essentially equates to dropping everything and running to his side means there's something to worry about.
"I'm glad you're here," Steve says.
"I just wish I didn't have to wear this hazmat suit," Phil answers, his words muffled by the suit.
"We're not running the risk of contaminating you, too," Steve says, clearing his throat and wincing at the sharp stabs of pain.
"I contacted MIB, and they're doing everything they can to assist us," Phil tells him. "Agent K informed me that this is a life form they're less familiar with, so it may take time to figure out how best to treat you."
"You talked to your dad?"
"It was a brief conversation. Sitwell's on with him now."
While Phil is civil, his interactions—when he can't avoid them— with Agent K tend to run on the cold side. If Phil had directly called his father, then Steve knows it's not good news.
"Can you relax for me?" Steve asks hoarsely.
"I am relaxed."
"I'll be okay."
"I know you will."
"You don't have to worry."
"I'm not worrying."
To Steve's ears, each reassurance just solidifies Phil's transparent—transparent to him, anyway—concern. But really, they're both just lying to each other, aren't they? He doesn't know if he'll be okay and neither does Phil, but they're not about to admit that.
He gropes blindly for the other man's hand and squeezes it tightly, as much as it hurts him to do so. Because he wants Phil close and it hurts not to be able to have him closer, but he'd never dream of doing anything that might compromise his partner's safety so he settles for this. He wishes he could see, but knows what the sight that would greet him if he could; that perfect poker face and blue-grey eyes he can read like a book.
"How long can you stay?" Steve asks him, barely able to force his words above a whisper.
"I'm not leaving," Phil answers, squeezing his hand back. The subtle shift in tone doesn't escape him; the one that tells him he's not talking to Agent Coulson anymore. Just Phil. It's just Phil and Steve now, and somehow that's better and so much worse than Agent Coulson and Captain America. Professional distance evaporates and suddenly everything seems too real, too big, too much to handle. "They can manage the rest without me. I'm staying right here, Steve."
Everything hurts and it doesn't seem to be letting up. He closes his eyes and tries to focus on something else, but the pain is persistent. He slides in and out of consciousness, never knowing for what period of time, but always knowing that he does for the feeling of waking. He knows that Phil doesn't leave him. He doesn't know how he knows that, but he's certain of it.
And Phil isn't going to leave.
He's certain of that, too.
Eventually they determine that, although he had worsened the first night, the serum was naturally combatting whatever toxins were in his system and that given time, he'd pull through. It's nearly a week later that he regains his sight, though it's the middle of the night, so the room they'd moved him to is empty save for he and Phil. The agent is asleep in the chair beside the bed, but wakes when Steve moves to sit up. Phil smiles as he discovers Steve is not only looking at him but can actually see what he's looking at.
"That's a sight for sore eyes," Steve says.
Phil moves from his seat and leans over Steve, pressing a kiss to his forehead before pulling back to get a good look at him.
"How are you feeling?" he asks quietly.
"Better. Good enough to leave, anyway," Steve answers, looking up at him.
"Another day or two and we'll see," Phil says. He takes a seat on the side of the bed. "You gave everyone a bit of a scare."
"Everyone?" Steve prods.
"Yes," Phil answers, slowly. "Everyone."
It's as close as he'll get to hearing those words from Phil: I was scared. Because Phil would never admit that he'd had doubts. But Steve knows the truth of it because, plain and simple, he'd been scared, too. So he tugs on the agent's hand until they're lying together in a bed that is certainly not built for two. His head is pillowed on Phil's chest and between the slow, steady thump of the agent's heartbeat and the fingers running through his hair, Steve's on the steady road back to sleep.
"You have no idea," Phil says quietly, as though it's a secret, "how thankful I am that you're going to be alright."
"Did I scare you?" Steve murmurs drowsily.
"More than anything," Phil replies. "I'd ask you not to do it again, but…"
"That'd be a hollow promise."
"It would be."
"But I'm alright now, Phil."
"Yes, you are. And for now, that's all I need."
Steve knows there will be more scares in the future, for both of them. But for now, the fear's passed and dwelling on the could be's and the maybe's will do neither of them any good. For now, they're fine. And for now, that's all either of them need.