Most people are under the impression that Phil would sooner bite his own tongue off than take a day off. It's true he loves his job and yes, maybe he devotes a little too much of his life to it, but that's all the more reason to value his downtime. Tonight is the first night in as long as he can remember that he'd returned to his apartment at a reasonable hour and hadn't taken any work home with him.
So he indulges in a long, hot shower before changing into his favorite pair of pajamas. It's an old set of soft, grey plaid that he frequently couples with a navy robe that he can't seem to part with and a pair of slippers of the same color. He settles into his favorite armchair with a cup of tea and a book he'd put down a month ago and hadn't found time to pick up again and finally feels like he's beginning to relax.
An hour into this—after his tea has grown cold and he's read the same paragraph three times and his chin has touched his chest an equal number of times—it becomes apparent that perhaps turning in for the night is the better plan. So he washes out his mug, marks his place in his book and shuffles towards his bedroom.
Sitting on the side of his bed, Phil winds his alarm block with some agitation. Why does it seem like whenever he finally has time to relax, he's too exhausted to actually do it? Well, no matter now. As he places his reading glasses on the night table, he reflects that, at the very least, he has the prospect of a full eight hours of sleep to look forward to.
It's still dark when he wakes, his mind still fuzzy from sleep but his body tense. He sits up in bed, blinking the sleep from his eyes and trying to get a grasp of the situation. The apartment is still and he doesn't hear anything apart from the ticking of his alarm clock, but still he knows something's wrong. He's not sure what, but there is something definitely amiss.
Just as he pulls the covers away and swings his legs over the side of the bed, he finds out just what. He counts five of them, he thinks, it's really too dark to tell. All he knows is that they're fast, they know what they're doing and he doesn't have much time to react; a hurried, ineffectual struggle finds him on his stomach with a hand over his mouth and his hands pinned behind him.
"Just relax, Agent Coulson," one of them says in his ear. "This will all be over soon."
In the sliver of moonlight that shines through the blinds, he sees the flash of a syringe in the man's hand. He's exhausted, he has work in the morning and damn it all if he can't have one quiet evening at home. They'd gotten the jump on him, he'll give them that much, but that's all they're going to get.
He bucks suddenly and feels the back of his head connect with one of his captor's faces. There's a snarl, the tell-tale crack of a nose being broken and suddenly the hands keeping his pinned are loosened enough for him to reclaim them. They react quickly, but he's quicker; he grabs the wrist of the hand over his mouth. He pivots until he can feel the man's elbow resting against his shoulder and then pulls sharply on his wrist.
The joint gives way easily, and he releases the man's wrist. He hears the body drop to the floor along with loud cries of agony as he reaches for his alarm clock. Just as he rises to get his bearings, he's tackled off his bed and to the floor. His head hits the wall with a sharp crack and stars erupt behind his eyelids. The heavy weight of one of his captors pushes him into the carpet as the man straddles him, wrapping his hands around Phil's throat and squeezing.
The guy has at least fifty pounds and a foot on him and throwing him off isn't easy with his air supply being cut off.
"Get the syringe you imbecile!" the man on top of him shouts.
"Hold him still this time!" another grouses.
But Phil doesn't want to be held still. Still grappling with the man on top of him with one hand, he gropes blindly around him with the other. Just as spots start joining the stars in his vision, his fingers brush against cool metal. Gripping his alarm clock tightly, he swings it in a heavy arc. The glass face shatters against his assailant's temple, but he doesn't let up, just reaches back and swings it again and again and again until the man on top of him is dead weight.
He sucks in a deep lungful of air as he shoves the man off of him, letting his limp body fall to the side. As he gets to his feet, the man with the syringe rushes him, which is really the biggest mistake he could have made. Phil blocks the man's swing with his raised arm and catches the punch he throws with the other; from there a quick sweep takes the man's feet out from underneath him. Thankfully, his alarm clock as retained most of its shape and knocking the man upside the head with it quickly does the trick.
Phil hears a shout as the final intruder comes at him, a knife raised above his head. Hoping that his battered but trusty alarm clock still has one good shot left in it, he hurls it at the man's head and can't help but feel a degree of satisfaction as his intruder's head snaps back and he crumples to the ground.
Panting, a little light headed and sure that he will need to buy a new alarm clock, he surveys the room. Unconscious or otherwise groaning men are lying on his floor and something needs to be done about that. With a put upon sigh, he walks around his bed, steps into his slippers and dons his robe once again. So much for a full eight hours.
Phil has just finished tying up the last of his would-be assailants when his bad night gets worse. There comes the sound of shattering glass and splintering wood and then quite suddenly he has three Avengers in his living room, all shouting his name.
"I'm right here, for God's sake," he snaps.
Steve, Clint and Tony freeze, all suited up and all looking very, very confused. Phil reaches beneath his glasses and rubs his tired eyes with a slow sigh. His door is destroyed and from the sound of it, at least one window is going to need replacing.
"Hey, nice pajamas," Tony says.
"What are you doing in my apartment?" Phil grumbles.
"We, uh…" Steve begins. He makes a vague hand gesture towards the men lying bound at Phil's feet. "Well, the alarm system that Tony installed here went off and we figured it was something to do with those Hydra operatives we'd been tracking. So we came to check on you."
"You came to check on me. Fully suited up. You broke down my door and one of my windows—"
"Two of your windows," Clint interrupts.
"…two of my windows, to check on me," Phil says coolly, tucking his hands into the pockets of his robe. He stares the three of them down, but his gaze lands on Tony. "You installed an alarm system in my apartment without my consent or my knowledge?"
"Yeah, well… you know," Tony says from within the Iron Man suit. "Just in case? Hey, I was worried. Isn't that a good thing? Thinking about other people? Huh?"
"No," Phil says bluntly. "Now please get out."
"But—" Tony starts.
"And makes yourselves useful by dropping these five off at HQ," Phil adds.
"Look, Phil, we came as quickly as we could, but you don't need to get so—"
"Stark? Shut your goddamn mouth. One night, that's all I was asking. One night without all of this and all of you where I could have just a little bit of privacy and a full eight hours of sleep," Phil says. "I don't need you to come to the rescue, I need you to get out so I can get some sleep."
"I told you he's grumpy when you wake him up," Clint says to the other two.
"Barton," Phil growls.
"Okay," Steve says, holding up his hands peaceably. "You want to go back to sleep and we're going to let you. But one of us is staying here; there's no telling if these five are the end of it and I'm not willing to leave you here unguarded. Deal?"
Phil sighs wearily. If it were any other time—or, let's be honest, any other person—he would fight tooth and nail until he was alone. But right now, he just desperately wants to go back to sleep. He can barely keep his eyes open as it is.
"Fine. Do what you want. I'm going back to bed," he declares.
When he walks back out of his bedroom under a minute later, pillow tucked under one arm and a blanket dragging along as he clutches it by its corner, the three Avengers are standing in the middle of his living room in much the same position as he'd left them. He shuffles over to his sofa, tosses the pillow down and sits heavily. He drops his face into his hands.
"There's broken glass and blood in my bed," Phil mumbles. "And a tear in the mattress."
Across the room, his alarm clock goes off, ringing weakly, and one of his captives groans. He resists the urge to scream.
"I'll just call Fury and tell him you're not coming in today," Steve says, managing to sound at least slightly apologetic.
"Please," Phil answers drowsily, already falling asleep where he sits.
There is a great deal of shuffling and quiet talking and then the lights are being doused and someone is pulling his glasses off his face and pushing him to lie down. He hugs his pillow close, mumbling something that might be thanks when the blanket is pulled over him and a hand pats his shoulder.
"G'night, boss," Clint says.
"G'night, Barton," Phil mumbles.
And damn it all if it isn't the best sleep he's had in months.