The Hulk is not generally considered a precision strike kind of creature. Except when Natasha got hit, and Tony got upset, it apparently decided that that was enough to consider her close to whatever it seemed to think of Tony, personally punching the Ice Giant attacking her out of existence, and picking her up, going on a bit of a rampage, Natasha held with complete gentleness in his arm.

So, in the end, the assault on the compound itself, aided by a small group of guerrilla refugees, is conducted pretty much exclusively by Natasha and the Hulk. Thor backed them up, but he was passing out every few minutes from the radiation exposure he had received earlier, which didn't help much on storming a prisoner camp.

Couson sits, on the bloody riverbed. Tony is sitting, hand on Steve's sleeve, but the soldier not paying much attention, trying to staunch the bleeding on his wounds. Clint has a broken leg, Bruce won't be able to stand when he comes back, and it's a damned good thing that Loki is resilient, god or alien, whichever he is, because Coulosn was really expecting him not to wake up again.

But, awake he is, lying flat, Bruce's torn shirt tucked under his head, by someone, Coulson wonders a little who it was. It wasn't Bruce, it wasn't Tony.

Tony sits up, pushes on Steve's shoulder, "are you okay?"

Steve answers without looking up, "I'll live. When we get back, I'm officially taking a vacation, though."

Steve hasn't noticed, yet, then, how badly Tony is injured. He might be kind of...dense...but he wouldn't be that flippant if he knew how close his friend had come to dying, and might still come, without proper medical attention.

Tony seems torn, for a moment, between saying something, and letting him be. He turns his head, and Coulson guesses which he's chosen, goes over, "hey. Come with me?"

He's just too tired to bother with an excuse, and Steve isn't paying attention, and Clint is poking at Loki, and it really just doesn't even matter in the first place. Tony holds on to him, his steps are markedly unsteady, and he buries his face in Coulson's arm, when they stop, swaying where they stand.

"I need to look."

Tony's descent to the ground is not the least abrupt in the history of mankind. Sitting, he leans forward, letting Coulson crouch behind him, checking the wound. His scalp is split open, the bone beneath it visibly cracked, but not displaced. His hair is sticky and stiff with blood, and more has run down his neck, soaking his shirt, drying on his skin.

"It ih...itches."

Coulson snorts, gingerly pulling clumps of hair from the wound, "can you see?"

"Yes."

"Well?"

"No."

"How bad?"

"...I'll get by. It's probably just from swelling."

"Like your head could get any better."

Tony laughs, quietly, reaches back, searching for Coulson's hand, as he straightens. Coulson takes it, and is a little surprised when his arm is used as a guide rail for Tony to thump against his chest, "I don't want to tell him. I don't want him t-to know I'm hurt, and I even luh...less want him to know I'm scared."

"On the plus side, you're not stuttering very much."

"Mister fucking sunshine, right here."

"What else should I have said?"

"Nothing. I'm whining, that d-doesn't have almost any correlation to what I actually think. It's like chicken suh...soup for the...emotionally retarded p-person."

Coulson slides his arm around Tony's waist, supporting his weight, as he closes his eyes, "rest, okay?"

"Yeah."

And he does, pretty much the moment he finishes speaking.

Coulson looks up to see Steve Rogers standing over him, hand pressed to the big hole in his side. It occurs to Coulson, right there, that a year ago, this really would have been a strange, possibly rather shitless moment in his life. Right now, it's hardly a blip on his radar of shitty moments.

"We're really bad at this, aren't we?"

Coulson nods, shifting Tony's weight, to rest better against his shoulder, instead of so much on his arm, "yes. You are."

Steve laughs, at the blunt answer, and sits down, checking Tony's head himself. He pales visibly, at the sight, "what...fuck."

And now Captain America is swearing.

"We can reconfigure the circuit. Use the power from the arc reactor, you don't have to..."

"That will take too long. You pathetic mortals need medical attention."

Coulson sits, a now lightly snoring Tony literally in his lap, having continually shifted, seeking the warmth of Coulson's body, eventually settling in the current configuration, his butt in the diamond formed by Coulson's crossed legs, his own legs off over Coulson's left knee, his arms around Coulson's shoulders, his face in the curve of Coulson's neck and shoulder.

Steve is holding Bruce sitting, while he argues with Loki, held up by Clint. Both of them are getting agitated, neither of them can take getting upset, are too seriously injured, so Clint and Steve just stop holding them, leaving them to lay, wheezing and too weak to sit back up, on the muddy stones.

Clint scoots back, towards Natasha, but stops, abruptly as a glow starts, "stop, you aren't–"

It's snowing, outside the hospital room. It's December. They were fighting for three months.

He leans forward, resting his chin on his folded arms, already resting on the plastic rail. Sighing, he pulls his arm out, and reaches over, his hand cut to pieces from trying to break the glassy ice, but Tony's bruised and two fingers splinted.

He squeezes, then gets stiffly to his feet, shuffling out to get on a plane and give his report to Fury.

That return to regularity, to procedure, to chain of command and the job he actually gets paid for, is possibly the most bizarre thing he can imagine, right now.

Natasha and Clint are waiting for him, Clint on crutches, Natasha's arm in a sling, using her free hand to steady Clint. Nobody addressees Steve, sitting, fully healed because of the serum, outside Tony's room, having still not gone inside.

The air is cold, and crisp, and the slight wind stings against his cheeks. He pulls his coat tighter, and thinks about investing in a ridiculously thick parka. Or five Or maybe eight.

That, and one of those dogs with the hot whiskey barrels.

When he is told upon arrival that he has be evaluated for a week, and will then be reassigned, he walks straight out of SHIELD headquarters, and gets in the car with Clint and Natasha, already waiting for him, taking over driving with a glare, met with a smirk from Natasha, and whining from Clint, as he hobbles around to the passenger side, sans crutches.

Clint and Natasha go to drag Steve out of the hallway, either into or away from Tony's room, whichever proves possible. They pick up Thor, who is just coming back from the vending machines to Loki and Bruce's room, and drag him along on their noble mission. Coulson goes into the double room.

Bruce has a gash in his leg, and had some internal bleeding, but it stopped on its own, saving him from sugery. Loki still has not woken up, is lying still on the bed, an oxygen cannula around his face, IVs and wires connected.

Bruce looks up, when Coulson comes in, "oh, hey. I didn't expect to see you back so soon."

"They're transferring us. Clint, Natasha, and I"

Bruce's face falls, but he looks away, and then back, with a small, supportive smile, "where are you going to be assigned?"

"Nowhere. We left."

Bruce doesn't even try to hide the shock, "you quit?"

"Not exactly. We just...kind of walked out and drove back here without saying anything."

Bruce gets a weird look on his face. Coulson doesn't know what to make of it, until, slowly, it morphs into a grin, and then a laugh.

"I'm just picturing Fury's face."

Coulson smiles, and sits on the edge of Bruce's bed. Bruce grins, but it falters momentarily as he looks past, at Loki.

"Why hasn't he healed? He can, Thor said he could."

Standing in the doorway to Tony's room, Coulson knocks on the doorframe. Tony groans, quietly, lying on his side, and raises his head a little off the pillow, squinting at Coulson. After kind of longer than it should have taken, he mumbles, "Agent," and puts his head back down.

Coulson snorts, and comes in, standing beside the bed, "do you actually not remember my name, or are you just being–"

"Phil."

Tony sits up a little, looking kind of agitated, "it's Phil. I didn't forget your name."

"Yeah...are you okay?"

"Yes. Sorry."

"What was that about?" he's worried that maybe the head injury is worse than he thought. He knows Tony's a little out of it, overly emotional, and easily upset, but that was just weird.

Tony hesitates, but he looks more reluctant than confused, and finally does answer, "when we thought you were dead...it's a long story. We made it pretty clear to Loki that he killed the wrong agent, but... well, I did. But it was the first time I actually called you by your name, and it was after you were dead, and I was telling the guy who killed you that he'd done something unforgivable, killed a friend, but I'd never called you by..."

Tony groans, taking in a breath. His monitor is beeping in complaint.

Coulson puts down the plastic rail, reaches over, and puts a hand on Tony's chest, "calm down. it's okay."

Tony nods, and draws his knees up, folding his arms over his chest, pinning Coulson's hand against the arc reactor. .

"I'm going to step out, because they're going to yell at me for upsetting you if I don't, but I'll be back in like ten minutes, okay?"

Tony nods, letting go, and Coulson leaves, making a mental note to point out that Tony didn't stutter once that whole rant.

"I don't know if this helps, but I think you can do it. The guy you stabbed through the chest would like to see you succeed, and thinks you can. You've shown conviction. You can change. You deserve peace. So get your head out of your ass and wake the hell up."