The floor was cold. He could feel it seeping into his bones. He was cold. After the rush of icy water, he hadn't been able to get warm. There was a towel draped over him and he wrapped it tighter around him, rubbing his cheek against it. he closed his eyes and let himself drift.
He pretended he wasn't in the cage. He wasn't in some maniacs basement. He wasn't alone in the cold. He pretended he was wrapped up in his blanket, and Phil was rubbing his back. He pretended he'd just got in from a mission in the snow and Phil was wrapped around him, trying to get him warm again.
Then he opened his eyes and it was worse. He felt colder and more alone than ever. He ached.
The towel was rough on his skin, and the little warmth he offered was worthless. He pulled himself into a ball as tight as he could. Curled up like that, the towel covered almost all of him. He screwed his eyes shut. He wasn't going to cry. He wasn't. Because Coulson was coming for him and he was going to take him home. They would put the fire on, wrap up in the blanket, and Clint would cook his comfort food (beef stew). They would eat it together while Phil caught up on Supernanny, and everything would be okay.
It had to be okay. Coulson was coming for him. He was. Clint wouldn't be alone for long. Coulson had come back from the dead for him. A little kidnapping and torture wouldn't stop Coulson from coming for him and getting him back. Phil was too good for that; he was Phil Fucking Coulson, he'd once followed a maniac across the desert and over the mountains to rescue the dog he was abusing (also to arrest him for trafficking a new psychoactive drug that caused people to become temporarily psychic, but mainly to save the puppy). And that was just for a dog. Phil loved him. He was coming. He had to be.