Rather than reclaiming it himself, Phil finds that, this time, he's being forced back into consciousness. And this time, he rather wishes he'd been left well enough alone. Where pain had been on the outer edge of his awareness previously, it now comes slamming into him full force, stealing his breath and forcing bile up his throat. He shivers, broken out in a cold sweat as he finds himself under the harsh glare of lights, strapped down to a table once again. For a change, his arms are now strapped to the sides of the table, rather than over his head.

His tactical uniform has been unzipped and peeled down to his waist, leaving his torso exposed. He tries to remain as still as possible, as even drawing breath makes his head swim with agony. The entire left side of his torso radiates with pain, no longer just from the lacerations beneath his ribs, but from the site of his old wound as well. There is an intense burn piercing straight through him and he knows, just knows, that his ribs are broken. A quick glance through his peripheral vision confirms his other sneaking suspicion as he sees his clavicle protruding from his skin.

Given that he'd just been manhandled by the Hulk, he supposes he should count himself lucky that the damage isn't worse. With the amount of pressure Hulk had applied, he should have popped like a tube of toothpaste. Had the Venom symbiote been strong enough to absorb that much? The thought does little to comfort him and nothing to stop him from feeling like he's inhaling fire with every breath.

"Did you know, Agent, that the Venom symbiote has the ability to keep its host in a state of near suspended animation?" the Goblin says, moving into his line of sight. "While it cannot heal injury or illness, it can prevent them from progressing or worsening. Fascinating, isn't it?"

"Riveting," Phil answers, his voice strained.

"Although, I should mention that this only applies to the original strain," the Goblin goes on to say. He's preparing an IV, looking for a good vein on Phil's right arm. "The strain I injected you with is one I've been working on for some time. Venom was powerful enough on its own, but if it could heal the damage being deal to its host rather than just keep it from getting worse, I knew it could become nearly invincible."

The slight prick of the IV is nothing compared to the anguish caused by his other injuries and so he hardly notices it's even in before the Goblin circles around him like a hungry shark. His mind goes blank when a clawed finger traces the jagged scar that runs over his heart and he has to resist the urge to thrash against his restraints. It doesn't hurt and the simple touch shouldn't bother him, but frankly, it disturbs him more than almost anything the Goblin's done yet. It's a point of embarrassment for him, his shameful secret; he can't stand to be touched where Loki's blade had pierced.

"I wasn't aware that I had received damaged goods," his captor notes curiously. "Such a grievous wound… I would imagine, based on the scarring, that you're likely to still be healing, yes? At the very least, you're not at 100%."

Phil keeps silent, unwilling to speak on the matter. The Goblin leers at him.

"Then think of this as a gift. My strain of the venom symbiote will restore you to a point that traditional healing methods could never hope to," the Goblin says. "The process will not be immediate, of course, and it will be painful, but that is the price one must pay for perfection. In return for my gracious offering, you will be my kept pet. You've done a marvelous job so far."

Phil does nothing but stare the creature down. He's not going to feed into his ego or play his game. He's infamous for his ability to keep a level head in even the direst of situations and this is no different. He has nothing to gain by engaging in a verbal tennis match.

"Nothing to say? No threats to my person? No claims that I won't get away with it? I'm almost disappointed," the Goblin says.

Again Phil says nothing. He knows these tactics, he's employed them himself during certain interrogations. The key is finding something to make your captive rise to the bait. The Goblin has said and done several things which have poked at his pride, and he knows full well that there will be worse. Worse things will come. He will be humiliated, degraded, tortured and used. He knows these things, has been here before. But what the Goblin doesn't know is that he won't break. No one's found a way to break him yet and Phil doesn't intend to give his captor the satisfaction.

"You're a curious man," the Goblin notes. "I'll be interested to see just how long you can hold out."

Phil's body jerks when the collar around his neck delivers another jolt of electricity. But it's not a form of punishment or simply something to make him squirm, he realizes; it's a signal to… it. That thing living inside him, nestled in his veins, his unwelcomed visitor. He tenses, expecting it to emerge from the still-open wounds in his side, but that moment never comes. Instead, he feels a piercing sensation along his collarbone.

"Before we can begin healing these fractures, the bones must be set," the Goblin announces. "Now, I have anesthesia at the ready. If you wish it, you will be unconscious for the duration and free of pain. On one condition: beg for it."

Out of the corner of his eye, Phil can see the black gooey tendrils curling over the exposed end of his clavicle. It hurts plenty right now and he knows from his many years of experience winding up in S.H.I.E.L.D. medical that healing an injury is often just as or more painful than its infliction. However, in this case, he knows he won't have the luxury of a tender bedside manner at his disposal. It's unfortunate, but the fact of the matter is Phil doesn't beg. Which means it seems he'll be doing this the hard way.

Mouth shut tight, he turns his face away from the Goblin, his indication that he won't be taking the monster up on his offer. If the chuckle that reaches his ears is any indication, he has to say that's likely what the desired response was.

Phil waits, staring into the darkness, knowing that this is part of the game. He's being strung along, gearing him up for the shock that might come at any second—

The shock comes. He's aware of several things at once: the sound of bones snapping, setting, shifting; blinding pain that makes his vision go dark and his ears ring; the slick, coppery slide of blood in his mouth; the breath he can't seem to draw; the cry that's worked its way out of his lungs and up his throat, but which can't breach the final barrier his lips create as he keeps them pressed shut in a thin line. The agent pulls against his restraints, lifting off the metal slab which is no longer cold, rendered slippery with blood and sweat.

He reminds himself to think of something else, to put himself in a place that isn't here as he finds his breath and draws it in short, hiccupping bursts.

Phil looks up as he hears the door to his apartment open and close. He himself had only just arrived home—or so he thought. A quick glance at the clock tells him that his arrival had been nearly three hours prior, a sure sign that sitting down for 'just a minute' on the sofa had been a bad idea.

Steve enters the room and trudges over to him, looking dead on his feet. Without so much as a word in greeting, the super soldier drops onto the opposite end of the sofa and promptly tips over. Phil feels a smile tug at his lips as Steve all but sprawls on top of him. The captain sighs deeply with his face pressed to the agent's chest and one arm looped around his waist. Phil shifts to a slightly more reclined position, making it easier on the both of them. From there, he lays a hand flat on the blonde's back and begins kneading gently, working a satisfied groan out of his partner.

"I'm surprised you even made it back," Phil hums. "I thought for sure you'd be too tired."

"Wanted to see you," Steve mumbles. "Jasper drove me."

Well, at the very least he hadn't been driving around half-dead on his motorcycle. Phil makes a note to thank Jasper accordingly when next he sees him.

"How're the kids?" Steve asks, his question muffled by Phil's shirt.

"Good," Phil says with a sigh, letting his eyes slip shut. "They did well today. Really coming along."

He feels himself nodding off again as he listens to Steve's breaths grow gradually deeper and softer, but starts awake when he realizes something.

"You must be starving," he says.

Steve makes a noncommittal noise and doesn't bother to look up. "We can order Chinese or something."

Phil tries to sit up. "No, I can make something—"

Steve sits up with him, but for the express purpose of grabbing Phil's wrist. The agent catches a flash of sleepy blue eyes before Steve presses his forehead to Phil's temple, nuzzling his cheek.

"Stay a minute," Steve says quietly in his ear.

Phil can't exactly argue and, figuring food can wait for just another minute longer, relaxes against the sofa. Steve takes that as his cue and drops his head, pressing his face to the agent's neck. There is no kissing, no biting, no leaving of marks; merely the tickle of the captain's slow exhales against his skin. He hears Steve inhale deeply before he feels one of the man's large hands slide across his stomach. Phil closes his eyes, mentally following the trail of his partner's touch. Steve reaches his side and travels downward. He lingers at Phil's hip before dragging his hand upward and coming to rest a few inches below the agent's arm.

Phil feels the brush of Steve's thumb as it traces his ribs, hears each deep breath the other man takes. Phil reaches up, curling his hand around the back of the soldier's neck and sliding his other hand between his partner and the sofa. Steve seems to collapse at his touch, his shoulders sagging as though they've been freed of a great weight.

It isn't about sex, tonight. Right now, the need to hold and be held far outweighs anything else Steve may have had on his agenda, Phil knows. It's the signal that the day has been long and hard, that Steve has pushed himself to his absolute limit, as he always does. Because if you're not giving it your all, you may as well not be giving anything, in Steve's book.

Phil huffs in amusement when he feels hands gripping his thighs, sliding up as they gently push his legs apart. Well, so much for thinking Steve wasn't in the mood.

"Not tonight," he murmurs. "Too tired."

But Steve is insistent, his grip tightening to the extent that it's nearly painful. Phil's eyes fly open.

"Steve—"

But it's not Steve. The symbiote screams in his face, its cry loud and shrill, as its clawed hands move from his thighs to his wrists, pinning them above his head. He's caught, struggling against the creature's weight as it presses against him, it's long, horrid tongue licking a stripe along his throat and jawline as it clicks possessively and—

Phil tears himself from his own thoughts, pushing himself back into awareness, gasping for air and feeling like his heart is going to jump out of his chest. His body shakes uncontrollably, though whether it's from pain or what he's just experienced, he's not sure. It had been there. In his head. The thing isn't just inside his body… it's trying to breach his mind as well. He shouldn't be able to feel it, but he does; its explorations are soft and intimate, like a lover's touch, but it's sick. Perverse. Twisted. It's touching places—private places, deep, dark, hidden places—that weren't meant to be touched. As it is, it's all he can do to keep it at bay and refuse it entry.

"Thought you could escape?"

The Goblin's voice reaches his ears. He tries to ignore his captor and mostly succeeds until a clawed hand closes around his throat and he finds himself face to face with the Goblins wicked, toothy sneer.

"You will be taken apart, piece by precious piece. Consumed, body and mind until there's nothing left of you. It was all over the second I injected you, and do you know why? Unlike Octavius's original creation, this symbiote's goal is to become its host, not merely to feed off of it like a parasite."

The Goblin squeezes and the added pressure on his windpipe forced him to draw breath in thin, whining gasps. Phil's vision grows spotty first before black begins to creep in from the edges. The Goblin's face is mere inches from his own, his voice a threatening hiss. Fighting for air, fighting the pain, fighting the symbiote, all of it at once is rapidly taking its toll on him.

"It will ravage your body and your mind until it breaks you. There is no memory, no thought safe from its reach. You will lose yourself, Agent, and the icing on the cake will be watching your friends and colleagues continue to try to save you long after there is nothing left to save. I will own every piece of you until you're nothing more than an empty husk, a vessel, and then I will own that as well."

Phil has no intention of allowing that to happen. There are parts of him that the symbiote simply can't be allowed to have. Letting it know what he knows… secret identities, secure S.H.I.E.L.D. locations, access codes, personnel files; people's lives are at stake. Breaking won't just cost him his own life, it's liable to cost many others theirs as well.

He can't break.

He can't.

Peter's first impression of the man sitting across the table in a borrowed pair of S.H.I.E.L.D. issue sweats is that the guy needs a good nap. Bruce Banner rubs a hand across his stubbled face before pressing the heels of his palms to his eyes as though he could somehow make the whole situation go away. Unfortunately, clicking his heels and reminding himself that there's no place like home isn't going to cut it.

"That was Phil? Phil Coulson," he says, his voice surprisingly soft, the complete opposite of the Hulk.

"Afraid so," Peter answers him.

The man looks up at him curiously. "Oh. You. The Other Guy's, uh… fond of you. I think we shared a body once."

Peter's eyebrows rise nearly to his hairline. He and the Hulk had accidentally switched bodies a few weeks ago, but…

"Wait, were you that little voice in the back of my head?" he asks. "I thought that was my conscience!"

Bruce's lips twitch. "Does your conscience usually speak in a different voice?"

"Well, no," Peter admits. He scratches the back of his neck before slowly removing his mask. "I guess we didn't get a proper introduction. I'm Spider-Man-slash-Peter-Parker."

He holds his hand out and the scientist accepts it readily.

"Bruce Banner," he says, stifling a yawn with his free hand.

"So how come I've only ever seen the Hulk?" Peter can't help but ask.

"Bruce doesn't do well in crowds."

The two look up at the voice and find its owner standing in the doorway. Clint comes striding toward them, followed closely by Steve, Fury and the rest of Peter's team. Clint takes a seat beside the scientist, passing him a steaming cup of what Peter guesses is tea.

"I broke Harlem once," Bruce admits, nodding gratefully at Clint.

"Hey, I remember that!" Sam pipes up. "That was pretty wicked."

Bruce offers the teen an expression that's something between a grin and a cringe which leads Peter to believe that the man thinks it was anything but. The scientist turns his attention to Fury.

"Any sign of them?" he asks.

"Not yet. We've got eyes making a manual sweep of the city, but at this junction it looks like we're going to have to wait for him to announce himself," Fury reports, looking intensely displeased by the fact.

"Something tells me that's not going to be a problem," Steve says, a frown on his face.

"Steve, about what happened—"

The super soldier raises a hand, cutting off whatever Bruce had been about to say.

"Neither of you knew. Hulk was responding to a threat," Steve says. "Let's move on and figure out where to go from here. Bruce, we were hoping you might be able to work with Peter here to create a new antidote, seeing as the last one had no effect."

"I'm ready to do whatever I can, but I'm going to need a sample to work with first," Bruce says. He looks to Peter. "I'm assuming you're the in-house expert on this thing?"

"Something like that," Peter says. "But hang on just a minute. Before we get down to brass tacks, I think we all need to have a little discussion."

"About?" Fury prompts.

"About whatever it is you're all hiding from us," Ava answers, her arms crossed over her chest. "We put it on the back burner because confronting the Goblin and retrieving Agent Coulson were more important; but right now? We need answers."

Fury shares a look with Steve and Clint while Bruce ducks his head.

"And could you stop doing that?" Peter says, pointing wildly at them.

"Parker, just calm down," Fury barks at him.

"We'll be glad to answer any questions you have," Steve says. "You're right: there shouldn't be any secrets between us if we want this all to work out."

"Rogers," Fury says, his tone warning. "We agreed they couldn't know, that it was better kept secret."

"I've been thinking about that," Steve says. "And it just made me remember that the last time you kept secrets from a team of superheroes, it didn't end well. These kids are no different."

"Is now really the best time for this?" Fury sighs.

"Not like we can do anything else," Clint offers with a shrug. "Coulson seemed to think they were ready. I say we go with it."

Fury crosses his arms over his chest and pinches the bridge of his nose, sighing heavily. He leans back in his seat at the head of the conference table. Peter watches him intently. He has to give in. When you've got Captain America and Hawkeye telling you to give in, well… you give in.

"Alright, fine," Fury agrees. "We're coming clean. I'm going to check on the trackers' progress."

Steve nods, first to Fury as he rises and exits the room, then to the group of kids. "Okay, what do you want to know?"

"Maybe you could start by telling us what we need to know and we could go from there?" Luke suggests.

"Fair enough," Steve agrees. "Where to start…"

"Well, to begin with we can break down just why they shouldn't be underestimating Coulson in this scenario," Clint offers. "Start with the Avengers Initiative."

"Mm, that's a good a place as any," Steve hums. He looks to the team of teens, his expression serious. "How much do you know about the events surrounding the Battle of New York?"

"Loki comes to Earth for the Tesseract, steals it, gets taken prisoner, has his guys start an attack the Helicarrier, escapes, opens a portal on top of Stark Tower, Chitauri come flooding through, Avengers Assemble, portal closed, Loki hauled off to Asgard," Sam recites, ticking each item off on his fingers. "That everything?"

"Not quite," Bruce says, sipping his tea.

"The part where the Avengers Assemble was a bit more complicated," Steve informs them. "The Avengers haven't always been the smoothly functioning unit that you know us as today. We were first brought together for that assignment, to hunt down Loki. We were all very different people, thrown together suddenly and expected to act as a team. In the end, Loki managed to attack the Helicarrier because we were too wrapped up in our differences to be that team."

Steve leans forward in his seat.

"We were split up, each running off to confront a separate threat, all while Loki was escaping. So, Phil did what none of us were around to do and confronted Loki himself."

"It didn't end well," Danny guesses.

"No. It didn't," Clint answers. "But it did provide the motivation necessary to get the Primadonna Parade in gear."

"So… what happened?" Ava asks.

"Loki stabbed him in the back with his scepter. The blade pierced the left side of his back and exited his chest, nicking his lung and heart in the process. He bled out against the wall and the medics called it. That was the last we heard when we went into battle; so far as we knew, he was dead."

"Obviously not," Sam says.

"No, he wasn't. Well… I should say it was only a partial lie on Director Fury's part. Phil was clinically dead for eight minutes and he chose not to reveal that fact."

"So that's what that scar is?" Peter questions. He looks to Ava. "Remember we saw it? When Taskmaster took over the school and had him strung up like a piñata in his office?"

"Yeah, and he wouldn't tell us what it was from when you kept pestering him about it," Ava says, rolling her eyes. She focuses on Steve. "So how come he didn't stay dead?"

"No little thanks to S.H.I.E.L.D. medical and a little super soldier blood in his veins," Clint answers for him.

"Steve has the benefit of accelerated healing, thanks to the super soldier serum," Bruce tells them. "A transfusion of some of his blood that they had collected for testing gave Phil just enough leverage to keep him holding on. And after a period of two months in a coma, he regained consciousness."

"Which is where things get a bit tricky," Steve says. "Phil's original assignment was the S.H.I.E.L.D. Liaison to the Avengers. But the length of his recovery made it impossible for him to assume that role. So, knowing that Phil had up to two years until he would be fully recovered—or as close to fully recovered as he could get—and that your team would need a firm hand to guide it, Director Fury reassigned him."

"So, what, we're the sorry-I'm-demoting-you assignment?" Sam asks.

"I'll admit, Phil wasn't very happy about it at first, but no, you're not," Steve says. "And he knew that. Whether he shows it or not, he's very proud of what you kids have accomplished in the time you've worked together. But you needed a regular agent, one whose dependability you wouldn't question, so we all agreed that this would be kept quiet."

"Wait a minute, wait a minute," Peter says holding his hands up. "Back up a minute. You're telling me he hasn't been functioning at 100%?"

"Right," Clint answers.

"Then when we fought the Beetle… that was him at not-one-hundred-percent?" Peter clarifies.

"Do you see why I told you not to underestimate him?" Clint asks.

Peter frowns. "The symbiote enhances everything. But if he's still recovering—"

"Then he's being used beyond his means," Luke finishes for him.

"Which means we can't afford to let him get away again," Ava adds.

Peter listens to the general murmur of agreement, but his mind is elsewhere. You don't get to be Fury's right hand for nothing, but it's becoming obvious that Coulson is about the furthest thing away from your average agent as possible. It's a lot to take in. But there's something else gnawing at him, something he's hesitant to bring up. It's a more personal question, but if it could affect them…

"I have another question," Peter says, cutting through their chatter. He looks Steve in the eyes. "You two are more than just friends and co-workers, aren't you?"

A half-smile tugs at Steve's lips as he considers the question, drumming his gloved fingers on the countertop. It's obvious he's trying to figure out how to approach the question, but his silence gives them all the answer they need.

"Yes. Phil and I are… in a relationship," Steve informs them. "That information is not to leave this room."

"I knew it!" Ava declares triumphantly.

"Since when!?" Sam sputters.

"What about Aunt May?" Peter asks coldly.

"Before you get the wrong idea," Steve says firmly, "Phil wasn't leading your aunt on, Peter. She knows what we are to each other and agreed to go out with Phil to get the press and a few nosy agents off both our backs. In fact, she was the one to suggest it. You probably remember a photo that was published in the Daily Bugle a few months ago of me supposedly on a date with another man. Well, that blew up spectacularly and we needed to cool the situation down. So, I allowed myself to be seen on a few 'dates' with Natasha Romanoff. May had managed to figure out that Phil was the one in the photo and offered to help once she understood the situation. She was never in a position to be hurt and we never would have put her there, believe me."

"But she doesn't know Coulson's a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent," Peter fishes.

"She knows that, too," Steve corrects him, shaking his head. "She's a lot shrewder than you give her credit for. A lot shrewder."

Peter's tongue feels numb. If that look Steve is giving him means what he thinks it means…

"How shrewd, exactly?" Danny asks, when none of them seem capable.

"She knows about all of you," Clint says. "Your secret identities? Not so secret."