Phil Coulson stands in the center of a long, deserted corridor. It seems familiar to him in some ways. The walls are painted green with a floral border and the wood floor is lined with a long burgundy rug. It's the hallway in the second story apartment where he'd spent most of his childhood, he knows, but it's not as he remembers it. The paint is faded and cracked, the border peeling away from the wall in places where it hasn't already been torn away. The carpet is frayed and dingy, sending dust into the air whenever he moves, and the smell of mold and decay is strong enough to nearly make him gag. The light bulbs which aren't extinguished or broken flicker down the length of the hall, casting strange shadows and doing little to illuminate his path.
There are doors lining each side, far more doors than he remembers, and the hall seems to stretch on infinitely in either direction. He begins walking slowly, trying to make sense of where he is. Floorboards creak beneath his feet with each step he takes and as he wanders, he can't help but shake the feeling that he knows each of these doors, has seen them before, but can't place where. He hears a door slam, followed by another, interspersed with the patter of feet.
Phil freezes, already on high alert. His body is tense with anticipation as he reaches for a weapon he doesn't have. The door just behind and to his left suddenly swing open and he turns on a dime, pulling back his arm for a punch in one, smooth motion. But he stops. His pursuer is not the height he had anticipated.
A little boy stands in the doorway, staring up at him with his own blue-grey eyes. The child doesn't seem afraid, but meets his gaze from beneath a mop of brown hair with a sense of urgency. It's surreal, staring at himself as a child—he would be, what, eight? Ten at the most? Young enough that he would have still gone by "PJ" in any case—but even more so when the child holds a hand out to him.
"Come on, we gotta go!" his younger self whispers hurriedly.
"Go where?" he asks quietly.
"It's coming," PJ says. The child grabs his hand for emphasis, eyes wide and fearful. "We can't let it find you. You gotta come with me before It gets here."
Both of their heads whip around as they hear a door slam far down the corridor. There is the sound of something being dragged and a series of quiet, rapid clicks. Another door slams. And another. And another. It's getting closer. PJ tugs on his hand, trying to drag him through the open doorway.
"Please, please, we have to go, you have to come with me," the child pleads.
Phil nods and allows himself be pulled into the room. PJ closes the door behind them and pushes at Phil's legs insistently.
"Come on! Lock it!" the boy shouts.
"I don't have a key," Phil replies, hearing the slammed doors getting closer.
"It doesn't matter, you can still lock it," PJ says quickly. "Just touch the door and think of it like it's locked and it'll be that way."
Phil doesn't bother with hesitation, just reaches out and lays a hand flat on the door as instructed. He's surprised to hear a click, as though a key's been turned. He hears a sigh of relief from the boy at his side and as he turns, he realizes he's in his room. Unlike the hallway, his childhood bedroom remains untouched even down to his brother's unmade bed and Phil's own Captain America posters plastered on the wall over his. He shakes his head in disbelief at the sight of a stuffed bear sitting propped against the pillows and picks it up, tracing the white star that his mother had sewn into its chest.
"We have to keep moving," PJ says, tugging on his sleeve. "It's not safe to stay put."
"Where are we going exactly?" Phil asks.
PJ opens the room's closet door and leads him through. Phil is surprised to see he's emerged from the basement door of his high school sweetheart's home. At PJ's insistence, he does the same with the basement door as he'd done with the one in his bedroom; a simple touch and the lock clicks.
"You have to lock all the doors. You have to keep It out," PJ says as they walk through the empty home. It's still and silent, like a doll house, the only noises those being made by the two of them. "You know where you are, don't you?"
"A very strange representation of my mind," Phil ventures a guess as he's lead through the front door.
Instead of finding himself on the front step, however, he's stepping onto a train. It's the Orange Line on The T, he knows. The display on the ceiling tells him he's at the Sullivan Square stop in Charlestown. He'd ridden this line so often in his youth and now realizes, since he'd moved to New York, that it has to have been at least five years since he's been back.
The door closes behind them and Phil touches it without needing prompting. There's a chime in response and PJ takes a seat, holding onto the bar beside him as his feet dangle a few inches above the floor. Phil takes a seat beside him. He folds his hands in his lap and studies the boy sitting beside him. PJ sits very still, staring straight ahead of him and not kicking his legs or fidgeting as children of that age are wont to do. There are band-aids on his left knee and elbow, one over the bridge of his nose and bruises in various stages of healing along his shins.
He really had been an accident prone kid, Phil reflects. This would have been about the age he'd decided he'd had enough with bullies and letting them get away with harassing other kids. Not that it had always worked out for him, but he never once regretted standing up for himself or for someone else. But had he always been such a serious child? Or is it simply his adult temperament reflected back onto this mental representation?
"You said you didn't have a key, but this is your mind," PJ tells him. "You are the key."
"And I need to lock these doors because it will keep my memories safe," Phil concludes.
"It'll help," PJ admits. He frowns deeply and Phil considers how strange that looks on his younger self's face. "You're good. And you're strong. And you can fight It for a long time, I think… but I don't know if you can stop it."
"There are things I can't allow It to get to," Phil says. "Important things."
"Important people."
"Yes. Which is why failure isn't an option," Phil answers.
PJ looks worried by that as he bites on his bottom lip and wrings his hands. "It's already got some important things."
Phil feels a shiver travel down his spine. "What important things, PJ?"
"I'm not sure," PJ answers. "It had you under for a long time. I'm just a part of you, so anything I'm telling you now is just something you've figured out for yourself, delivered in a way that's more comfortable for you. Anything you dunno, I dunno. The two of us sitting here, all this stuff around us… it's just a projection."
"Alright," Phil sighs, looking down at his hands in his lap. "Then I need to do everything I can to keep It out of the places I need to protect the most. I need to distract it, keep it running in the wrong direction so It doesn't find the things I need to keep safe."
PJ nods in agreement just as the door chimes and hops out of his seat, beckoning for Phil to follow. The agent does so, stepping out of the doors. They're in the old convenience store around the corner from his childhood home. The door closes behind them, the bell jingling to announce the arrival of customers to an empty store. Phil touches the door, hears the click and moves on.
They take off at a run, exiting through the door in the back. They run through door after door, visiting memory after memory, locking doors behind them all the while. He tries to leave a trail as far away from his vital memories as possible, but he knows that the symbiote can break some of his locks. Not all of them, but some of them. As time wears on and he wears down, he knows that it will become easier for the symbiote to break those locks, but for now he's doing everything he can while he has the strength to do it. They must have gone through hundreds of doors before Phil begins to feel any differently. He pauses for a breather in the bathroom of a diner in Puente Antiguo.
"It's stressful, guarding your mind," PJ tells him. "It's wearing you out."
"It's fine," Phil says, waving him off. "We can keep going."
"I dunno know if we can," PJ says.
"Why not?" Phil asks, straightening up.
"Because you've been so focused on keeping your mind safe that it's been allowed to go crazy with your body," PJ answers, tugging on the hem of his shirt with both hands. "You gotta learn to even it out if you wanna keep it from winning as long as possible."
"You say that like it's going to win, regardless," Phil says.
PJ bites on his lower lip, the gap from his missing tooth displayed more prominently due to the action. Phil knows without asking, mostly because he knows that's how he'd looked as a boy when he hadn't wanted to tell the truth about something. The symbiote will win eventually. It's impossible to hold out forever. He supposes there's just some part of him that believes he can hold out long enough for someone to stop him—whether that means being rescued or being stopped permanently, he's not quite sure.
Rescue. They'd tried to help him. Parker and his team. Steve and Clint. And he'd attacked them. He's going to attack them again, he knows, which is why it's absolutely vital that he get some sort of foothold in all of this. Because the consequences of being unable to do so are unacceptable. The more he thinks, the more he remembers, the clearer the memories become. He hadn't been in control, no, but he'd witnessed it all.
And Steve.
'Hesitant' is not a word he would ascribe to the super soldier. And yet Steve had hesitated. For him. Because of him. Steve had hesitated, Phil knows, because he was afraid of hurting him. They had all held back, but Steve more-so because Steve had more to lose in this, didn't he? The look in his eyes, the sound of his voice when he'd screamed for the Hulk to stop—
"Stop!"
PJ's voice cuts through his musings. He starts when he looks up and finds that they're no longer in that restroom, but rather, back in the storage facility where the incident he'd just been thinking of had occurred.
"Stop thinking about it, It'll know where we are!" PJ pleads, eyes wide and frightened once more.
Phil hears a sudden shrieking, a loud piercing noise like metal scraping. He grabs PJ's hand and they dash to the door at the far wall. Just as they pull the door open, the door at the other end of the facility is blown in.
He hears a shrill, angry cry.
He sees a flash of teeth in the darkness.
Panic is coming.
Ava Ayala is an interesting young woman; intelligent, considerate and a brilliant addition to the team Fury had gathered. Phil's praise for Ava has never been short, Steve remembers as they take a walk through the halls of the Tri-Carrier. He wills himself not to be tense, not to let on how worried this whole thing has him, but he has a feeling the young woman can sense it off of him regardless.
"Must be hard," Ava says suddenly.
Steve hums curiously.
"Dating someone who isn't a superhero," she clarifies.
He smiles at that. "Not all heroes are super."
"Okay, point taken," Ava says.
"Sometimes it is hard," Steve says after a moment. "You're right about that. It's hard right now, being unable to help him. It's hard trying to leave my personal feelings out of the matter when I know he's in pain and being used like this."
"It's not easy for any of us to remain neutral," Ava admits with a frown. "I guess it's probably even harder for you."
Steve takes a deep breath.
"That's the unfortunate part of leading this life. I have no doubt that it's something Peter and Luke struggle with and if you should ever find a partner yourself, it's something you'll have to face, too," Steve explains. "Relationships require a great deal of trust. In a situation like this, I trust Phil to do everything he can to fight back and I know he trusts me to do everything I can to get him back. I'm putting a lot of faith in you kids because I know what you're capable of when you work together and because Phil's put his faith in you, too."
"He has?" Ava inquires.
"Of course," Steve answers. "I get the rundown of what's going on with all of you every week."
"So you really think he trusts us with something like this?" Ava asks, rounding a corner. "We're basically dealing with his life, here."
"You deal with people's lives on a daily basis. His is no different," Steve tells her.
Ava watches the super soldier carefully. He can say that Phil's life is no different than anyone else's, but that's hardly the truth of the matter, is it? When it comes straight down to it, the agent is always going to be his top priority. No matter how unbiased he hopes to remain, she can see in the hard set of his eyes that complete neutrality isn't going to be possible.
A question prods at her mind, one she wants to ask but isn't so sure she wants answered. Ava toys with the thought for a time, as she and Steve walk silently side-by-side through the corridors. The captain is clearly lost in his own thoughts as well and she wonders if it's something she should just keep to herself. In the end, though, she has to know.
"What if we can't get Agent Coulson back?" Ava asks.
"I'd prefer not to consider that possibility until we have to," Steve says firmly. "We'll get him back."
"But how do we do it without hurting him?" she presses.
"At this point, I'm not so sure that we can," Steve admits. "Phil is difficult enough to handle on his own, but with what the symbiote's done to him, engaging offensively without harming him is nearly impossible. Electricity seems to have some effect, so Hawkeye and I have discussed using arrows with electro-shock heads to stun him enough to at least get him back to the Tri-Carrier."
"We could call Thor," Ava suggests.
"I said stun him, not fry him," Steve answers.
"Oh. Yeah. Thor can be pretty…" Ava says trailing off. "…enthusiastic."
"I think that's a good word for it," Steve agrees. "In any case, the longer that thing has control over him, the fewer our options. So we have to get a location on him as soon as possible and we have to be ready… which means you have to be prepared to stop holding back, if I ask you to."
Ava doesn't answer. She mulls the idea over. If Captain America asks her not to hold back against Agent Coulson, is she willing to follow that order? From what they've learned today, she knows there's far more to the seemingly bland, and often grumpy agent who'd been tasked as their minder. She's always respected him enough to listen to his advice and follow his orders—well, usually—and knows that as an agent, he's fully capable of handling himself.
But this situation is different. No matter how competent he is, no matter how impressive his skill set, he's still Acting Principal Phil Coulson in her mind and she just can't make herself comfortable with the idea of hurting him in any way. Not that she thinks he would blame any of them. In fact, she's entirely certain he'd rather they hurt him quite terribly if it means stopping the symbiote from endangering anyone else's lives. That doesn't mean she has to be okay with the very real possibility of it coming to that.
"I think I'll go check on Luke and Peter," she announces. "See how they're doing."
"I think that's a good idea," Steve agrees. "I have some things to discuss with Director Fury anyway and I'd like to speak to Clint about what our plan from here on out is. Make sure you get a bit of a rest yourself."
Ava agrees, but as they part ways, she's certain that finding rest at a time like this isn't going to be easy.
"Clint, you don't have to stay," Bruce murmurs.
He makes himself comfortable in the bunk that the archer had lead him to, thankful that no one else seems to be around and that Clint had the presence of mind to lock the door behind them. Clint shrugs from where he's seated, twirling an arrow between his fingers.
"I don't have anywhere I need to be," Clint tells him, his knee bouncing
"You're worried," Bruce says, lying on his stomach.
"So're you," Clint points out.
"Mm. I'm worried we may have hurt him," Bruce says. "The Other Guy gave him a good squeeze, but the funny thing is that there was resistance. I don't know what this thing is, but it was pushing back. So I'm hoping the damage wasn't too… extensive."
Clint merely nods, watching the scientist continue the futile struggle to keep his eyes open. He knows Bruce is feeling guilty and he can't blame him. They'd all heard bones breaking, so at the very least they know Phil hadn't walked away from the encounter without a scratch but Bruce hardly needs to be carrying that around with him. Rising from his own bunk, Clint crosses the space between them and sits on the edge of Bruce's. The scientist's eyes flutter open briefly, but drift shut once again as Clint settles.
"It wasn't your fault," Clint reminds him. "Steve said—"
"Steve didn't want to talk about it," Bruce interrupts.
"Come on, he doesn't blame you," Clint says.
"Maybe not directly," Bruce answers.
"Hey, no. Not directly or indirectly, okay?" Clint reprimands him. "It was a mistake and nobody blames you. So stop blaming yourself because you know Phil's gonna be pissed if he finds out you have been."
Bruce buries his face in his pillow and snorts. He pauses, just long enough to let Clint believe he's fallen asleep, before he turns the tables on the other man.
"How're you?" Bruce mumbles.
"Good, thanks, and you?"
"Clint."
The archer shifts in his seat in some agitation before he rises and takes to pacing restlessly. Bruce keeps his eyes closed—not that he has the energy to open them—but he can hear the other man's footsteps rapidly approaching and retreating time and again.
"I don't know what you want me to say, Bruce. We're sitting here doing nothing because there's nothing we can do right now. I think I'd feel better if I were out combing the city for him myself, but that wouldn't really get us anywhere, would it? I'm angry. I'm fucking worried as hell. I want to do something."
"And?"
"And what?"
"There's something else that's bothering you," Bruce deduces easily.
"Nothing aside from the obvious," Clint answers. He presses the heels of his palms to his eyes and resists the urge to climb the walls. "I mean… fuck."
"I'd tell you not to worry, but I think we can both agree that it would be stupid advice," Bruce tells him. "And hypocritical."
He makes a sleepy humming noise and Clint watches him give one, last attempt to pry his eyes open. It's with limited success of course and, shaking his head, Clint leans down and places his hand on the back of the scientist's curly head. He shoves Bruce's face further into the pillow before pulling his hand away, earning him a sleepy chuckle.
"Hey, I know what you're doing. Go to sleep already, would ya?" Clint says.
Bruce only makes a groggy noise of agreement and once Clint stops talking, he finds he doesn't have to wait long until the other man drops off. The only problem with that is that he's now alone with his thoughts and he's not quite certain that's something he wants. Thankfully, he doesn't have to sit in silence for long, because not ten minutes after Bruce has fallen asleep, the door beeps and slides open with a soft whoosh of air to reveal Steve on the other side, looking every bit as tense as he feels.
The super soldier enters the room quietly and makes sure to lock the door behind him. He nods to Clint in greeting before taking a seat beside him on the bunk opposite Bruce's.
"How long has he been asleep?" Steve asks quietly, mindful of the sleeping scientist.
"Not long. Maybe ten minutes before you got here," Clint answers. He glances sidelong at Steve. "He thinks you blame him."
Clint expects an immediate response from Steve, one expressing obvious incredulity at Bruce's erroneous assumption. But he doesn't. Instead, Steve sits in silence and stares at his hands, clasped too tightly between his knees. So Clint stares, not quite sure how to name whatever emotion is bubbling up in response to Steve's silence. Steve catches him staring after a moment or two and apparently whatever Clint's feeling, he wears it on his face because he sees the super soldier's shoulders droop considerably.
"No, no, of course I don't blame Bruce," Steve assures him, shaking his head. "That wasn't his fault. I just wish I'd been able to prevent it, that's all."
"You couldn't have prevented it. None of us knew it was coming," Clint tells him, relaxing at the answer he'd gotten. "The question is: where do we go from here?"
"Well, we need to get a sample of the symbiote for Bruce and Peter to work with," Steve says. "As far as getting Phil back… doing so without harming him is no longer an option. From my understanding, the longer this thing has to bond with him, the stronger it'll be. We were struggling during the last encounter, which means we can't afford to hold back this time."
"We're still gonna try the electro-shock tipped arrows, then," Clint says for clarification.
"Yeah. I know you don't like it. I don't like it either, but I figure this is probably our best bet to get him stunned enough to transport back to the Tri-Carrier with the least possible injury," Steve says, running a hand through his hair. "We can do this, we just have to be smart about it."
"By which you mean not to let our emotions get in the way," Clint says. "Do you really think that's possible, Steve? It's Phil. And us. And the kids and Fury and Bruce. There's no option to remain uncompromised here. You have to know that."
Clint is surprised when Steve looks angry that he's pointed that out. It's easy to forget sometimes, under all that politeness and caring and leadership, Steve is a pretty angry guy.
"Of course I know that," Steve hisses, blue eyes alight with something that might be anger or might be sorrow or just might be something in-between that neither of them have a name for. "But we have to try. The more we allow ourselves to be swayed by our personal feelings, the more danger that puts others in, not to mention Phil. If we give in to our emotions, then we lose. And I will not lose him, Clint, do you understand me?"
"What, you think I don't want him back just as much as you do?" Clint counters, feeling his temper flare. "You're not the only one who cares here, Steve, so stop acting like it. You want us to keep a level head? Then I suggest removing yours from your ass, Captain. Lead by fucking example, why don't you?"
"I'm not suggesting I care for him any more than you or anyone else does!" Steve fumes, rising from his seat and holding his arms out at his sides. Clint follows. "But we can't go your way and just accept the fact that we're emotionally compromised by this mission!"
"We can't deny it either!"
"Can you two be a little quieter please?" Bruce mumbles, lifting his head to gaze at them blearily. "And knock it off. You're not doing anyone any good."
The two men watch as Bruce rolls on his side, his back facing them, and snuffles quietly before returning to sleep. Steve and Clint stand in awkward silence, knowing the scientist is right. Clint clears his throat.
"Sorry. I think we're all just a little high strung right now," he says.
Steve nods slowly, staring at the floor.
"Sorry."
Clint scratches the back of his neck. "Listen, I didn't mean… Look. I know this is different for you than it is for us. All I'm asking is that you don't shut us out or forget that he means something to the rest of us, too."
"I know he does and I shouldn't have snapped at you," Steve responds, taking a deep breath. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't be taking my anger out on you."
"You're right. You shouldn't," Clint answers, taking a seat again. "You should be saving it for the Goblin. So let's go over what our plans are for when we see him again."
Steve nods and reclaims his seat as they delve into their plans. But as they talk, Steve can't help but let his thoughts wander to the reason they'd blown up at each other in the first place. This situation requires a certain level of neutrality to work. Given that they're already feeling the heat, is there any chance that they can achieve that state? With that thought in mind, a far more painful question arises. He squashes it down, not sure he wants to know the answer, and focuses entirely on their plan of attack.
Because they can't afford to fail. So they won't.