Fic: Psyche
Title: Psyche
Summary: A number of SHIELD agents are killed under mysterious circumstances. Clint appears to be next. But is everything exactly as it seems?
Fandom: Avengers/DCU
Word Count: 5297
Rating/Contents: PG-13. I am choosing not to use warnings on this story, other than that there is canon-typical violence. More information on request.
Pairing: Phil/Clint
Policies: Read my archiving, feedback, and warnings policies here.
A/N: So this started as an absolutely ridiculous idea that stuck in my head like gum. And then when I finally got it out,
dizmo brought it up again, so here we are. It's not necessary to know any DCU canon, because everything is explained, so.
It's been a few months now since Loki's attack, long enough that everyone's gotten used to the idea that aliens or superhumans might be coming to kill them. They've gotten just complacent enough that Fury is contemplating a drill; he has, of course, told no one, and he won't until the drill is long over.
He stands at his podium on the bridge, and Natasha leans back against the railing behind him, watching him watch the sky, the crew, the whole world on his computers. It's not particularly interesting right now, and Natasha is just starting to consider if she wants some breakfast when an alarm goes off.
"Urgent call from the unit in Esperanza," Sitwell says, one hand on his earphones. "Level Four emergency," he says, and that's something to be interested in.
"Put it through," Fury tells him. "Guinto, this better be good."
"We have a man down," the panicked voice says. "We have contact with an unidentified entity, sir, repeat, unidentified non-human entity, and we have a man down."
"What?" Fury snaps. "What the hell is it?"
"I don't have a clue, sir," she says breathlessly. "Humanoid, gray skin, green shorts, green boots, green cape, maybe ten feet high. It- it did something to Yost, then it fucking flew away."
"With what?" he demands.
"Tell you if I knew, sir," she says. "Didn't look Asgardian or Chitauri, sir. No armor at all, hardly even any clothes."
"Mark your position, then get the hell out of there and get back to base," he orders.
"Gladly, sir," she says. "Guinto, out."
Fury proceeds to bark out instructions, calling on surveillance, containment, half a dozen other teams with only half a chance of finding anything. Natasha crosses her arms, pursing her lips. She doesn't say what everyone knows and almost everyone hates: every day they need Phase Two more and more. Every day the world gets a little stranger; every day humanity gets a little bit more important. It's certainly something, being important, but on the whole she preferred it when they kept to themselves.
She leaves the bridge, frustrated by the mystery, frustrated at being useless in this situation- Esperanza, unfortunately, is a place where she is definitely persona non grata- but she doesn't stay useless for long.
--
The target is in Vancouver; it's a little bit of a ride, but it's a good day for it, as long as the weather holds out. Pang shifts in his seat, leaning back as much as you can in the copilot seat of a quinjet- which is to say, not at all. It could be more comfortable, but God knows SHIELD's put him in worse positions.
He's resisting shutting his eyes when it happens. A humanish figure appears from outside, right in the middle of their flight path, like that's something that human things can just do. Weller evades at the last moment, passing it narrowly and turning back to face it.
Pang's on the radio in an instant. "This is Unit Three-Two-Alpha," he says. "We have a repeat of the Level Four incident."
It's Fury's voice that answers. "Tell me what you have."
"You," the thing says, swallowing up Pang's reply. "You will answer."
"So you have a flying gray man threatening you," Fury says.
"Affirmative, sir," Pang says.
"I need you to find out what you can," Fury says, the calm in his voice that Pang has heard before, the kind that he hoped he'd never hear directed towards him.
Pang has the very clear sensation, the knowledge that he is going to die. Working for SHIELD, it's not the first time he's felt this way, but he knows somehow that it's going to be the last.
"Opening fire," he says, letting fly with the biggest he's got, because there's no point in fucking around in this situation, nothing to do but go at it with everything. Best case scenario, he can bring it down with them.
The creature seems to absorb everything he throws at it, shrugging it off like they've just thrown a handful of sand. "Nothing," he tells Fury. "Conventional weapons are useless, sir."
"Get out of there," Fury says, but that's when the thing reaches out with one enormous ghostly hand.
"Negative, sir," Pang says, his body jolting as it wraps its fingers around the jet. "It's been an honor."
He knows just enough about Fury to know that he's still speaking, urging him not to give up, but the radio has gone out. The monster just takes the jet like it's a toy and throws it, and suddenly the ground is coming at them very quickly.
And then there's nothing.
--
It's not surprising, Fury calling the Avengers in on this one. Around the time Agent Greenberg is crushed to death by a volley of trucks wielded by a sixty-foot man in a cape, it's inevitable that they'll be gathered together, sicced on another improbable threat.
Tony, Steve, and Natasha are sitting around the same table on the bridge that's been the site of so many unfortunate occurrences. Bruce is late, and Barton, well, there's no telling if Barton will even come at all.
"So you've got a giant gray guy running around in his manties wreaking havoc?" Tony says, tossing his briefing packet onto the table. "I feel like Cirque du Soleil did that once."
"In one week, it's taken out six of my agents in ways that I don't particularly like," Fury says angrily, "and I would like some fucking answers."
"I have one for you," Bruce says, appearing in the doorway. "Loki."
"Oh for the love of God," Tony says. "Go away, we don't want any."
Bruce ignores him. "Every one of the agents who were killed was connected to the attack on the Helicarrier," he says. "There's no one left but Bradley and Barton."
"Bradley's undercover," Fury says.
"When was the last time he checked in?" Bruce asks, and Fury doesn't look happy.
"How would this thing even know?" Steve asks. "Unless we've been infiltrated again."
"Not like it's hard," Tony says, ignoring Fury's glare.
"Barton," a voice suddenly booms, loud enough to shake the glasses on the table, seemingly coming from everywhere. Something about it is so familiar, something they've all heard before. There's a thing outside with that same too-familiar gray skin; it's massive, big enough that not all of it fits even in the giant windows of the bridge. It floats there, cape swirling around it, not in a fighting stance, not yet, but somehow promising violence.
Fury walks to his podium, standing and surveying whatever the thing is. He engages the PA system outside the carrier, speaking into his comm. "Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to leave," he says. "Agent Barton is only available by appointment, and you don't have one."
"I have an appointment with anyone who committed the greatest sin against the one who bears me," the thing says, and it's getting more evident what the thing looks like, despite the fact that it makes no sense.
"If he's looking for sinners around here, he's gonna be here a while," Tony says.
"Face me, Barton," it says. "It is your fate to face me. You will answer for your crime."
Suddenly the light goes out of the thing's eyes. No, another voice says, not as loud, but clearer, just as strong. Not here. Not yet.
The creature seems to struggle against itself for a moment. "I will return for you," it says, and then it just disappears, winks out in an instant.
Steve looks at the rest of them with concern in his eyes; moments later, Clint comes tearing into the room. "Phil," he says. "That thing has Phil."
No one can say otherwise.
--
"I called Stephen Strange," Bruce says, once they can all be convinced to sit down and talk rationally. "And he hung up on me."
"This story was too ridiculous for a guy who dresses like Bela Lugosi?" Steve asks incredulously.
"He called back," Bruce explains. "He said he'd never seen it before, but there were writings about it from before he was working." He flicks the image from his tablet onto a monitor, an old painting; he flips to the next one, a blurry photo from an old newspaper.
"That's him," Natasha says. "That's the guy."
"He called it the Spectre," Bruce says. "And it, ah." He takes his glasses off. "It sounds like bad news."
The room goes silent.
When a guy who turns into a nine-foot green monster tells you something is 'bad news', you fucking listen.
"It's, well, sort of an avenging angel," Bruce says. "It's this sort of rampant force, and sometimes it bonds with a human host. As the stories go, these hosts are murder victims, and the first thing the Spectre does is come after the people who killed-" He stops short, and a silence falls sharply.
Clint stands up from the table and leaves, and Natasha is close on his heels.
Bruce presses his fingertips to his forehead. "You know how sometimes, you don't realize what you're saying until you actually hear it out loud, and by then it's too late?"
"Wouldn't know anything about it," Tony says.
There's a huge crashing noise from somewhere outside, and they look up, confused. "Get eyes on it," Steve says, and Bruce is already flipping through his tablet for the security feeds. But before he can even find the right one, there is very distinctive, very loud talking in the hallway, and just like that, there's Thor, hammer in hand, cape billowing behind him.
"Who called the cavalry?" Steve asks, confused.
"My long distance is spotty," Tony replies, just as stunned.
"Where is the one who wears the face of the Son of Coul?" he says, his voice filled with rage. "I would have words with him."
"Thor," Fury says, walking in. "Can I ask why you just left a hole in the deck of my ship?"
"I will have no more delays," he says, gripping Mjolnir's handle tightly. "I will see the being who has possessed Coul's Son, and it will be now."
"Calm down," Fury orders, looking Thor in the eye. "We don't know where it is."
"Then I will find it, and it will answer for what it has done," Thor promises.
"What's got you so angry, Pop Tart?" Tony asks.
"That thing killed my brother," Thor says, through clenched teeth, and the smile drops off Tony's face.
"I need you to be absolutely sure about this," Fury says, his voice dangerous and low. "I need to know that this isn't a trick or a game."
"This is no trick," Thor says. "It tore down the walls of his prison and shore him of his power, and then it killed him. No healer could revive him, and no magic could save him. My brother lies dead, and this creature has killed him. It will face justice."
Fury looks at him hard for a moment, then raises his hand to his earpiece. "Hill, sound the alert. We are at Level Six."
--
The door is locked when Natasha gets there; Natasha has been pretending she doesn't know Clint's new passcode, but it's not the time for that right now. She steps inside, locking the door behind her, before anyone can see.
There's a dent in the door of one of the lockers on the wall; the door swings open, warped from the force of a well-placed kick. It could be worse. He's not punching things yet, still in control of himself enough to not risk his hands.
Clint's sitting on the bed now, his foot tapping uncontrollably, the way it does when it's really bad. Natasha knows him well enough not to go to him, to stay on the other side of the room. He doesn't need or want comfort right now; he wants a punching bag, and Natasha's not it.
"You didn't do it," Natasha says, absolute certainty in her voice. "You had no choice. Loki fucked up your mind. He made you do things you didn't want, but you didn't do this one. Whatever this monster is, if it wants vengeance, it's got the wrong person."
"What if it's right?" Clint says, looking up at her, and his eyes are hard. "I helped Loki attack. I told him what to do and how to do it. If I hadn't, Phil would be alive. Phil's dead, and it's my fault. Not sure why I should fight the thing at all. It seems to have things figured out."
"Stop it, Barton," Natasha snaps. "I don't have time for your poor-me bullshit right now. There's a giant shapeshifter outside who looks like Phil and wants to kill you. Do you want to live, or do you want to cry about it some more? Because you can cry on your own. I have places to be."
Clint lets out a shuddering breath. "I needed that."
"I know," Natasha says, sitting down beside him and putting a hand on his back.
"If it has Phil, we have to save him," he says. "We have to find a way. I don't care what it takes. Natasha, if- if there's any chance at all that Phil could-" He trails off, but there's no need to say any more. "Even if I'm responsible, it doesn't matter. Phil still deserves to live. I owe him that much."
Natasha sighs. "So now we're fighting the personification of vengeance, and we don't even have any idea what it can do."
"Nothing we were ever trained for," Clint says.
"Starting to think we need more training," she tells him.
"Don't know if we'll ever stop needing it," Clint tells her, standing up. "Grab your gear and let's roll."
She lifts an eyebrow at him. "If you plan to follow it, I think we're too late."
"I'm not gonna go to it," he says. "It's gonna come to me."
--
Phil's not quite clear on where they are; Phil's never quite clear on where they are, unless they're in a city, and sometimes even then the best he can get is "seems Asian." But they're somewhere in a forest, temperate, western hemisphere, probably North America. He doesn't know what the Spectre is doing here, what the plan is; they've been going non-stop since Phil ever got tangled up with him, since the crash of light and sound that came after he died. It seems to be plotting its next move, to be considering something, and Phil's trying to gather everything he can about it, despite the fact that he can't read the thing's mind.
All of that goes out the window with a crack of lightning and a peal of thunder; Phil suddenly knows they're back at it again.
Thor lands hard in front of them, and Phil is swallowed up again, lost inside the force, the overwhelming tide of it, the one that he's been struggling so hard against.
"You," Thor says, pointing his hammer at the Spectre. "You will face me now. You will be accountable."
"I have done no wrong," it says impassively.
"You killed my brother," Thor says. "He was immured and powerless, and you stabbed him while his back was turned. He never had a chance."
"Is this not vengeance?" the Spectre says. "Is this not what he deserved?"
"It is not justice," Thor replies coldly.
"Justice is not my concern," it replies.
"The Son of Coul believed in justice," Thor tells him.
"My host has many weaknesses," it says. "I am here to make up for them." It turns its back. "Go. I have no quarrel with you."
"I have quarrel with you," Thor says. "You will not escape me. I will bring you to justice. That is my oath as Prince of Asgard."
"So be it," the Spectre tells him. Without further waiting, Thor hurls his hammer at it. It makes no move to defend itself, and it staggers when Mjolnir actually makes contact. "You have powerful magic, Asgardian."
"So did my brother," he says, the hammer slapping back into his hand. He launches another attack, but the Spectre deflects it, even though it appears to struggle for a moment. The Spectre reaches out to grab Thor in one of his massive hands, but Thor swings his hammer, and it flinches back. It's like it doesn't know what it's doing, like it didn't ever expect for someone to actually be able to fight against it- hell, from Phil's seen so far, maybe nothing's been able to, not the same way Thor and Mjolnir can.
Phil can feel it; the Spectre isn't paying all the attention it could be to him, not while he has to devote his energy to the fight. He managed to get his voice back before; he goes bigger this time, pulling back as hard as he can, and he can feel them moving, feel it shift. It wrests control from him in moments, but those are moments that Phil has and not it, moments he can use.
Thor, Phil shouts, as loudly as he can. I can hold it off for a few seconds at a time. Do what you have to do. End it.
"No, Son of Coul," Thor tells him. "To kill him would be unjust. It would merely be another crime to pile on top of all the ones already committed." He attacks again, and the Spectre stumbles in evading him, its concentration drawn away by Phil's will.
He'll kill again if you don't stop him, Phil says. You can't-
"Enough," the Spectre says, stumbling back, and it holds up a hand. "I banish you to your own realm," it says, and as Thor disappears in a streak of light, flying up into the heavens, Phil watches his one hope disappear.
The Spectre relinquishes control of Phil's body for a moment, shrinking to an almost human size and standing in front of Phil. Phil rubs his eyes, sitting down on a nearby rock; he feels sick, edgy, wasted adrenaline coursing through him- despite the fact that nothing's exactly coursing these days. I feel like if I tell you to fuck off, it's just not going to help.
"It did not help the other times, Coulson," the Spectre says. "I have heard it said that madness is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results."
You have bad taste in hosts, Phil tells him.
"My choice is not my own," it says.
I'm flattered, Phil says dryly. How about giving me a choice?
"What would you choose?" the Spectre says, looking at him curiously.
Let me choose how I'm avenged, Phil says. You killed Loki, that was fine by me. But we were done then and we're past done now. Loki is the only person responsible for what happened, and Loki is dead. Let- He stops, swallowing. Let Barton live. It wasn't his fault.
"Barton showed Loki the way," the Spectre says calmly. "Barton created the chaos that led to your attempt on Loki's life. Because of Barton, you are dead."
That's not true, Phil says, his jaw clenching. The only thing Clint's guilty of is being attacked and having his mind taken over. That's not a sin. That doesn't deserve vengeance. Clint is innocent.
"That is not your decision to make," it tells him. "Neither is it mine. We serve a higher power, you and I. Our destiny is bigger than one man and his lover."
Phil sighs, letting his head hang, his elbows resting on his knees. Then why me? If there's something controlling this, then there's a reason. He smiles wryly. I'm told there's a reason for everything.
"Because you are worthy, Phillip Coulson," the Spectre says, and Phil looks up at it. "Because you were valiant in life. Because you were brave and strong. Because you stared down a demigod and did not blink. Because there was no one to aid you in your hour of need. Because there is no human being who can make those guilty for your death pay."
My people brought down half a city fighting the guy who killed me, Phil says. I call that pretty good vengeance.
It merely shrugs. "You say tomato."
Jesus God, Phil says, burying his face in his hands. Can we at least take a break from the retaliation for a while? I'm tired.
"Asking for the Spirit of Vengeance to stop is a fruitless enterprise," the Spectre says, raising an eyebrow. "And the dead do not tire."
Phil gives him a look. I'm tired of you.
It doesn't seem offended. "You are not the first, Coulson, but destiny makes for strange accomplices." It gives him a curious sort of look, a contemplative one. "We will rest a while," it says. "If you want to pretend to sleep, that is your business."
Phil resists the urge to flip it off, but he picks out a tree and lays down beneath it; the Spectre is not gone, only maybe twenty yards away, but every foot is an improvement. Phil shuts his eyes for the first time in days, relaxing. He's dead, he's pretty sure he hasn't actually been tense, but tell that to his aching muscles, his tired feet. He has the awful suspicion that he'll get used to it; he'd like to feel better, sure, but he hopes he'll never have enough time to learn how to deal with it.
He lays there and lays there, and the Spectre was right- he can't sleep. All he can do is lay there and think, and he finds he doesn't particularly want to. When he thinks, he thinks about everything, but the recurring theme is Clint, all Clint. A lot of things have threatened to take them apart over the years, and this is the one that's done it. This is the one he can never come back from. He knows this, the certainty of it like a lead weight; he also knows that he's going to keep fighting it until he can't anymore, whether victory is inevitable or not, possible or impossible.
He's got to quit thinking like that. That kind of nobility is what got him chosen in the first place.
He stays on the ground, keeping his eyes shut, even though it hurts, because every single moment that he wastes is one more moment Clint can have.
"What is it that the Asgardian carries?" the Spectre asks.
The hammer of the gods, Phil says, without opening his eyes. To drive our ships to new lands. The Spectre has no response; it really has had lousy hosts. Mjolnir is a weapon that can only be wielded by someone who's worthy and righteous enough to carry it. He opens his eyes, looking hard at it. That's fairness and consideration, letting someone choose whether to be worthy or not.
"Fate is not fair," it says. "Destiny is not considerate."
I'm aware of that, Phil says.
"Then why are you still fighting it?" the Spectre asks.
What you think is me being brave and strong is just me being a stubborn son of a bitch, Phil tells him.
"There is nothing ignoble about that," it says. "Are you tired of sleeping?"
No, Phil says, turning away, trying to steal a few more minutes out of fate's hands.
--
Natasha is, all things considered, extremely polite about disabling the crew of the quinjet that they need; she even leaves them somewhere where they might be discovered in the next two or three hours.
"Sure you're sure about this?" Natasha says, slipping into the copilot's seat.
"As sure as I ever am," Clint replies, going through preflight.
"Sure this is a good idea?"
He lets out a sigh. "That's not a fair question."
"There's a lot that's not fair about this situation," Steve says, stepping on board, suit on and shield in hand. "You didn't think you were gonna leave without me."
"Yeah, we're going out to meet the angel of the Lord, you better take somebody he actually likes," Tony says, flipping down the faceplate on his suit. "Go on, I'll catch up."
"This isn't a group outing," Natasha says angrily. "We don't need help."
"If two master assassins can't make it off a busy ship without getting caught, then they definitely need help," Bruce says, sitting down in the back and strapping in, and Natasha doesn't have an answer for that.
"Fuck it," Clint mutters, raising the hatch. "You wanna come, then come. But this is my fight."
"Didn't say it wasn't," Steve says. "But we're-"
"Captain Rogers," Natasha says, as the jet lifts off, "if you say anything about us all being in this together, I'm going to personally throw you out of this plane."
"Yes, ma'am," Steve responds, smiling.
The ride isn't long, just out to upstate New York, up to a place with no sign, no road, just a clearing in the woods. Clint sets the jet down at the tree line, opening the hatch and stepping out. "This is a little theatrical," Tony says as he touches down, and he's met with a wall of skeptical glances. "When did I ever say theatrical meant bad?"
Clint takes a look around the graveyard. "You may be right," he says. "But if it'll come anywhere, it'll be here. This way."
The graves of the fallen SHIELD agents are only marked with numbers- not even their ID numbers, just order of interment. No one says a word when Clint walks directly to a specific grave, one underneath a shade tree, one with a revolver propped up against the headstone.
"What's the plan?" Steve asks.
"The plan is to wait until it shows up," Clint says.
"And?" Bruce says.
"And then we make a plan," Clint replies. "You're probably going to regret not staying home."
The Spectre doesn't keep them waiting long; all at once it just walks out from the forest, growing as it approaches them, until it's towering over all of them. "You have come to accept your fate," it says. "This is noble, but you will still die."
"I didn't come to die," Clint says. "I came for Coulson."
Barton, go, Phil snaps. You're not ready for this one. I need you to go.
Clint's face goes blank, hard. "Can't do that, sir," Clint tells him. "I'm not leaving without you."
You need new weapons, Phil insists. Find something like Mjolnir. Don't sit here and try to reason or argue with it. I'm ordering you to get the hell out of here, Barton.
"You're not my handler anymore, sir," Clint says, smirking a little. "You can't give me orders." He takes a step closer. "It's just me, you, and Phil, buddy," he tells the Spectre. "Nobody else is left. You wanna kill me, fine. But you're letting him go."
"That is not in his plan," the Spectre tells him. "You are brave. In another situation, we might-"
"Do not even give me a 'we could be allies' speech," Clint says. "Do what you came to do. Do it and let Phil go."
The Spectre produces a giant bow, nocking an ethereal arrow, one almost as big as Clint, and pointing it at him. "I will do as I have always intended," he says, "but Coulson and I are one. Fate has parted you, but it will not separate us."
"I can't move," Clint says quickly. "I want everyone to know this isn't a noble sacrifice. It won't let me move."
"Your crime has been recorded," the Spectre says. "And now you will pay for it."
It draws back the bowstring, and time seems to slow as he looses it. The arrow takes flight, headed for Clint, and Clint keeps his eyes open, determined to look death in the face without flinching, one final 'fuck you.'
Then the arrow hits the tree behind him, and Clint only just gets his hand up in time to protect his face from the shrapnel as it explodes.
But he lives.
No, Phil says, his voice loud and clear; as the dust settles, there are two of them, the Spectre and Phil. You're not killing an innocent man and using me as an excuse. That is not happening.
The Spectre doesn't respond, just stands there like the rest of them, staring, lost.
"What just happened?" Steve says finally.
"I think Phil just fought the law, and Phil won," Tony says.
"I cannot stop here, Coulson," the Spectre says. "You know this. You are delaying the inevitable."
I'm good at delay, Phil tells him. I will wrap you up in so many obstacles you won't even remember what you were trying to do in the first place.
"You would do all this for the sake of one person?" the Spectre asks.
Phil smiles sadly. When you only have one thing left, you get attached.
The Spectre shakes its head. "What you choose to do is irrelevant. Perhaps not now, perhaps not soon, but he will die."
And if I'm very lucky, it won't be my fault, Phil says.
"We are leaving to regroup, you and I," the Spectre says, reaching out to him.
YOU WILL WAIT, a Voice says from the heavens, and the Spectre stops.
"What is your command?" it asks patiently.
LEAVE THIS MAN, the Voice says. HE WILL NOT SUBMIT TO THE WILL OF THE PRESENCE.
"It is his fate to submit," the Spectre says. "He is bound under the order of the Presence."
IF HE CAN RESIST EVEN YOU, SPECTRE, the Voice says, THEN NOTHING CAN BIND HIM.
"It is my duty to serve the Presence," the Spectre says calmly, seemingly indifferent.
IT IS, it tells him. NOW OBEY.
There's no more sound, just a sense of finality that settles over them. "You have been released from your duties as my host, Phillip Coulson," the Spectre says.
Are you sure? Phil says dryly. I remember you being pretty emphatic about destiny and fate.
"Our fates are no longer intertwined," the Spectre tells him. "I do not know what your destiny is now, but it is not my concern." He withdraws, moving farther away from Phil, and the pallor leaves Phil's face. The Spectre's form becomes hazier, less distinct, and then it's gone entirely.
Phil looks unsure for a moment, holding his arms out as if to steady himself. He waits a moment before speaking. "I really wasn't sure whether I was going to die just then or not."
Clint doesn't say a word, just walks over, taking Phil's face in his hands and kissing him hard, desperately. Phil wraps his arms around him, holding him fast, refusing to let go. "I said I wasn't leaving without you," Clint says.
"You almost didn't leave at all," Phil tells him. "Next time I tell you to go, you go."
"Next time you're possessed by an evil angel that wants to kill me, I'll listen," he promises.
Phil smiles softly. "I missed you," he says, and Clint doesn't even respond, just kisses him again.
It's another few long moments before they seem to remember that anyone else is there, but no one says a word, not even Tony, even though he looks like he's about to burst.
"Good to have you back, agent," Steve says, when they finally pull away from each other, and Bruce waves. Natasha just gives him a nod, one that makes the corner of Phil's mouth tick up.
"So, back from the dead," Tony says. "What do you want first? Cheeseburger? Mini golf? Group sex? Name it, I'll make it happen."
Phil lets out a long sigh. "I want to go to sleep."
Tony gives him a disapproving look. "You can sleep when you're dead."
"You'd think so," Phil says. "But you'd be wrong."
This entry was automagically crossposted from http://sabinetzin.dreamwidth.org/434057.html.
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Summary: A number of SHIELD agents are killed under mysterious circumstances. Clint appears to be next. But is everything exactly as it seems?
Fandom: Avengers/DCU
Word Count: 5297
Rating/Contents: PG-13. I am choosing not to use warnings on this story, other than that there is canon-typical violence. More information on request.
Pairing: Phil/Clint
Policies: Read my archiving, feedback, and warnings policies here.
A/N: So this started as an absolutely ridiculous idea that stuck in my head like gum. And then when I finally got it out,
dizmo brought it up again, so here we are. It's not necessary to know any DCU canon, because everything is explained, so.
It's been a few months now since Loki's attack, long enough that everyone's gotten used to the idea that aliens or superhumans might be coming to kill them. They've gotten just complacent enough that Fury is contemplating a drill; he has, of course, told no one, and he won't until the drill is long over.
He stands at his podium on the bridge, and Natasha leans back against the railing behind him, watching him watch the sky, the crew, the whole world on his computers. It's not particularly interesting right now, and Natasha is just starting to consider if she wants some breakfast when an alarm goes off.
"Urgent call from the unit in Esperanza," Sitwell says, one hand on his earphones. "Level Four emergency," he says, and that's something to be interested in.
"Put it through," Fury tells him. "Guinto, this better be good."
"We have a man down," the panicked voice says. "We have contact with an unidentified entity, sir, repeat, unidentified non-human entity, and we have a man down."
"What?" Fury snaps. "What the hell is it?"
"I don't have a clue, sir," she says breathlessly. "Humanoid, gray skin, green shorts, green boots, green cape, maybe ten feet high. It- it did something to Yost, then it fucking flew away."
"With what?" he demands.
"Tell you if I knew, sir," she says. "Didn't look Asgardian or Chitauri, sir. No armor at all, hardly even any clothes."
"Mark your position, then get the hell out of there and get back to base," he orders.
"Gladly, sir," she says. "Guinto, out."
Fury proceeds to bark out instructions, calling on surveillance, containment, half a dozen other teams with only half a chance of finding anything. Natasha crosses her arms, pursing her lips. She doesn't say what everyone knows and almost everyone hates: every day they need Phase Two more and more. Every day the world gets a little stranger; every day humanity gets a little bit more important. It's certainly something, being important, but on the whole she preferred it when they kept to themselves.
She leaves the bridge, frustrated by the mystery, frustrated at being useless in this situation- Esperanza, unfortunately, is a place where she is definitely persona non grata- but she doesn't stay useless for long.
--
The target is in Vancouver; it's a little bit of a ride, but it's a good day for it, as long as the weather holds out. Pang shifts in his seat, leaning back as much as you can in the copilot seat of a quinjet- which is to say, not at all. It could be more comfortable, but God knows SHIELD's put him in worse positions.
He's resisting shutting his eyes when it happens. A humanish figure appears from outside, right in the middle of their flight path, like that's something that human things can just do. Weller evades at the last moment, passing it narrowly and turning back to face it.
Pang's on the radio in an instant. "This is Unit Three-Two-Alpha," he says. "We have a repeat of the Level Four incident."
It's Fury's voice that answers. "Tell me what you have."
"You," the thing says, swallowing up Pang's reply. "You will answer."
"So you have a flying gray man threatening you," Fury says.
"Affirmative, sir," Pang says.
"I need you to find out what you can," Fury says, the calm in his voice that Pang has heard before, the kind that he hoped he'd never hear directed towards him.
Pang has the very clear sensation, the knowledge that he is going to die. Working for SHIELD, it's not the first time he's felt this way, but he knows somehow that it's going to be the last.
"Opening fire," he says, letting fly with the biggest he's got, because there's no point in fucking around in this situation, nothing to do but go at it with everything. Best case scenario, he can bring it down with them.
The creature seems to absorb everything he throws at it, shrugging it off like they've just thrown a handful of sand. "Nothing," he tells Fury. "Conventional weapons are useless, sir."
"Get out of there," Fury says, but that's when the thing reaches out with one enormous ghostly hand.
"Negative, sir," Pang says, his body jolting as it wraps its fingers around the jet. "It's been an honor."
He knows just enough about Fury to know that he's still speaking, urging him not to give up, but the radio has gone out. The monster just takes the jet like it's a toy and throws it, and suddenly the ground is coming at them very quickly.
And then there's nothing.
--
It's not surprising, Fury calling the Avengers in on this one. Around the time Agent Greenberg is crushed to death by a volley of trucks wielded by a sixty-foot man in a cape, it's inevitable that they'll be gathered together, sicced on another improbable threat.
Tony, Steve, and Natasha are sitting around the same table on the bridge that's been the site of so many unfortunate occurrences. Bruce is late, and Barton, well, there's no telling if Barton will even come at all.
"So you've got a giant gray guy running around in his manties wreaking havoc?" Tony says, tossing his briefing packet onto the table. "I feel like Cirque du Soleil did that once."
"In one week, it's taken out six of my agents in ways that I don't particularly like," Fury says angrily, "and I would like some fucking answers."
"I have one for you," Bruce says, appearing in the doorway. "Loki."
"Oh for the love of God," Tony says. "Go away, we don't want any."
Bruce ignores him. "Every one of the agents who were killed was connected to the attack on the Helicarrier," he says. "There's no one left but Bradley and Barton."
"Bradley's undercover," Fury says.
"When was the last time he checked in?" Bruce asks, and Fury doesn't look happy.
"How would this thing even know?" Steve asks. "Unless we've been infiltrated again."
"Not like it's hard," Tony says, ignoring Fury's glare.
"Barton," a voice suddenly booms, loud enough to shake the glasses on the table, seemingly coming from everywhere. Something about it is so familiar, something they've all heard before. There's a thing outside with that same too-familiar gray skin; it's massive, big enough that not all of it fits even in the giant windows of the bridge. It floats there, cape swirling around it, not in a fighting stance, not yet, but somehow promising violence.
Fury walks to his podium, standing and surveying whatever the thing is. He engages the PA system outside the carrier, speaking into his comm. "Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to leave," he says. "Agent Barton is only available by appointment, and you don't have one."
"I have an appointment with anyone who committed the greatest sin against the one who bears me," the thing says, and it's getting more evident what the thing looks like, despite the fact that it makes no sense.
"If he's looking for sinners around here, he's gonna be here a while," Tony says.
"Face me, Barton," it says. "It is your fate to face me. You will answer for your crime."
Suddenly the light goes out of the thing's eyes. No, another voice says, not as loud, but clearer, just as strong. Not here. Not yet.
The creature seems to struggle against itself for a moment. "I will return for you," it says, and then it just disappears, winks out in an instant.
Steve looks at the rest of them with concern in his eyes; moments later, Clint comes tearing into the room. "Phil," he says. "That thing has Phil."
No one can say otherwise.
--
"I called Stephen Strange," Bruce says, once they can all be convinced to sit down and talk rationally. "And he hung up on me."
"This story was too ridiculous for a guy who dresses like Bela Lugosi?" Steve asks incredulously.
"He called back," Bruce explains. "He said he'd never seen it before, but there were writings about it from before he was working." He flicks the image from his tablet onto a monitor, an old painting; he flips to the next one, a blurry photo from an old newspaper.
"That's him," Natasha says. "That's the guy."
"He called it the Spectre," Bruce says. "And it, ah." He takes his glasses off. "It sounds like bad news."
The room goes silent.
When a guy who turns into a nine-foot green monster tells you something is 'bad news', you fucking listen.
"It's, well, sort of an avenging angel," Bruce says. "It's this sort of rampant force, and sometimes it bonds with a human host. As the stories go, these hosts are murder victims, and the first thing the Spectre does is come after the people who killed-" He stops short, and a silence falls sharply.
Clint stands up from the table and leaves, and Natasha is close on his heels.
Bruce presses his fingertips to his forehead. "You know how sometimes, you don't realize what you're saying until you actually hear it out loud, and by then it's too late?"
"Wouldn't know anything about it," Tony says.
There's a huge crashing noise from somewhere outside, and they look up, confused. "Get eyes on it," Steve says, and Bruce is already flipping through his tablet for the security feeds. But before he can even find the right one, there is very distinctive, very loud talking in the hallway, and just like that, there's Thor, hammer in hand, cape billowing behind him.
"Who called the cavalry?" Steve asks, confused.
"My long distance is spotty," Tony replies, just as stunned.
"Where is the one who wears the face of the Son of Coul?" he says, his voice filled with rage. "I would have words with him."
"Thor," Fury says, walking in. "Can I ask why you just left a hole in the deck of my ship?"
"I will have no more delays," he says, gripping Mjolnir's handle tightly. "I will see the being who has possessed Coul's Son, and it will be now."
"Calm down," Fury orders, looking Thor in the eye. "We don't know where it is."
"Then I will find it, and it will answer for what it has done," Thor promises.
"What's got you so angry, Pop Tart?" Tony asks.
"That thing killed my brother," Thor says, through clenched teeth, and the smile drops off Tony's face.
"I need you to be absolutely sure about this," Fury says, his voice dangerous and low. "I need to know that this isn't a trick or a game."
"This is no trick," Thor says. "It tore down the walls of his prison and shore him of his power, and then it killed him. No healer could revive him, and no magic could save him. My brother lies dead, and this creature has killed him. It will face justice."
Fury looks at him hard for a moment, then raises his hand to his earpiece. "Hill, sound the alert. We are at Level Six."
--
The door is locked when Natasha gets there; Natasha has been pretending she doesn't know Clint's new passcode, but it's not the time for that right now. She steps inside, locking the door behind her, before anyone can see.
There's a dent in the door of one of the lockers on the wall; the door swings open, warped from the force of a well-placed kick. It could be worse. He's not punching things yet, still in control of himself enough to not risk his hands.
Clint's sitting on the bed now, his foot tapping uncontrollably, the way it does when it's really bad. Natasha knows him well enough not to go to him, to stay on the other side of the room. He doesn't need or want comfort right now; he wants a punching bag, and Natasha's not it.
"You didn't do it," Natasha says, absolute certainty in her voice. "You had no choice. Loki fucked up your mind. He made you do things you didn't want, but you didn't do this one. Whatever this monster is, if it wants vengeance, it's got the wrong person."
"What if it's right?" Clint says, looking up at her, and his eyes are hard. "I helped Loki attack. I told him what to do and how to do it. If I hadn't, Phil would be alive. Phil's dead, and it's my fault. Not sure why I should fight the thing at all. It seems to have things figured out."
"Stop it, Barton," Natasha snaps. "I don't have time for your poor-me bullshit right now. There's a giant shapeshifter outside who looks like Phil and wants to kill you. Do you want to live, or do you want to cry about it some more? Because you can cry on your own. I have places to be."
Clint lets out a shuddering breath. "I needed that."
"I know," Natasha says, sitting down beside him and putting a hand on his back.
"If it has Phil, we have to save him," he says. "We have to find a way. I don't care what it takes. Natasha, if- if there's any chance at all that Phil could-" He trails off, but there's no need to say any more. "Even if I'm responsible, it doesn't matter. Phil still deserves to live. I owe him that much."
Natasha sighs. "So now we're fighting the personification of vengeance, and we don't even have any idea what it can do."
"Nothing we were ever trained for," Clint says.
"Starting to think we need more training," she tells him.
"Don't know if we'll ever stop needing it," Clint tells her, standing up. "Grab your gear and let's roll."
She lifts an eyebrow at him. "If you plan to follow it, I think we're too late."
"I'm not gonna go to it," he says. "It's gonna come to me."
--
Phil's not quite clear on where they are; Phil's never quite clear on where they are, unless they're in a city, and sometimes even then the best he can get is "seems Asian." But they're somewhere in a forest, temperate, western hemisphere, probably North America. He doesn't know what the Spectre is doing here, what the plan is; they've been going non-stop since Phil ever got tangled up with him, since the crash of light and sound that came after he died. It seems to be plotting its next move, to be considering something, and Phil's trying to gather everything he can about it, despite the fact that he can't read the thing's mind.
All of that goes out the window with a crack of lightning and a peal of thunder; Phil suddenly knows they're back at it again.
Thor lands hard in front of them, and Phil is swallowed up again, lost inside the force, the overwhelming tide of it, the one that he's been struggling so hard against.
"You," Thor says, pointing his hammer at the Spectre. "You will face me now. You will be accountable."
"I have done no wrong," it says impassively.
"You killed my brother," Thor says. "He was immured and powerless, and you stabbed him while his back was turned. He never had a chance."
"Is this not vengeance?" the Spectre says. "Is this not what he deserved?"
"It is not justice," Thor replies coldly.
"Justice is not my concern," it replies.
"The Son of Coul believed in justice," Thor tells him.
"My host has many weaknesses," it says. "I am here to make up for them." It turns its back. "Go. I have no quarrel with you."
"I have quarrel with you," Thor says. "You will not escape me. I will bring you to justice. That is my oath as Prince of Asgard."
"So be it," the Spectre tells him. Without further waiting, Thor hurls his hammer at it. It makes no move to defend itself, and it staggers when Mjolnir actually makes contact. "You have powerful magic, Asgardian."
"So did my brother," he says, the hammer slapping back into his hand. He launches another attack, but the Spectre deflects it, even though it appears to struggle for a moment. The Spectre reaches out to grab Thor in one of his massive hands, but Thor swings his hammer, and it flinches back. It's like it doesn't know what it's doing, like it didn't ever expect for someone to actually be able to fight against it- hell, from Phil's seen so far, maybe nothing's been able to, not the same way Thor and Mjolnir can.
Phil can feel it; the Spectre isn't paying all the attention it could be to him, not while he has to devote his energy to the fight. He managed to get his voice back before; he goes bigger this time, pulling back as hard as he can, and he can feel them moving, feel it shift. It wrests control from him in moments, but those are moments that Phil has and not it, moments he can use.
Thor, Phil shouts, as loudly as he can. I can hold it off for a few seconds at a time. Do what you have to do. End it.
"No, Son of Coul," Thor tells him. "To kill him would be unjust. It would merely be another crime to pile on top of all the ones already committed." He attacks again, and the Spectre stumbles in evading him, its concentration drawn away by Phil's will.
He'll kill again if you don't stop him, Phil says. You can't-
"Enough," the Spectre says, stumbling back, and it holds up a hand. "I banish you to your own realm," it says, and as Thor disappears in a streak of light, flying up into the heavens, Phil watches his one hope disappear.
The Spectre relinquishes control of Phil's body for a moment, shrinking to an almost human size and standing in front of Phil. Phil rubs his eyes, sitting down on a nearby rock; he feels sick, edgy, wasted adrenaline coursing through him- despite the fact that nothing's exactly coursing these days. I feel like if I tell you to fuck off, it's just not going to help.
"It did not help the other times, Coulson," the Spectre says. "I have heard it said that madness is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results."
You have bad taste in hosts, Phil tells him.
"My choice is not my own," it says.
I'm flattered, Phil says dryly. How about giving me a choice?
"What would you choose?" the Spectre says, looking at him curiously.
Let me choose how I'm avenged, Phil says. You killed Loki, that was fine by me. But we were done then and we're past done now. Loki is the only person responsible for what happened, and Loki is dead. Let- He stops, swallowing. Let Barton live. It wasn't his fault.
"Barton showed Loki the way," the Spectre says calmly. "Barton created the chaos that led to your attempt on Loki's life. Because of Barton, you are dead."
That's not true, Phil says, his jaw clenching. The only thing Clint's guilty of is being attacked and having his mind taken over. That's not a sin. That doesn't deserve vengeance. Clint is innocent.
"That is not your decision to make," it tells him. "Neither is it mine. We serve a higher power, you and I. Our destiny is bigger than one man and his lover."
Phil sighs, letting his head hang, his elbows resting on his knees. Then why me? If there's something controlling this, then there's a reason. He smiles wryly. I'm told there's a reason for everything.
"Because you are worthy, Phillip Coulson," the Spectre says, and Phil looks up at it. "Because you were valiant in life. Because you were brave and strong. Because you stared down a demigod and did not blink. Because there was no one to aid you in your hour of need. Because there is no human being who can make those guilty for your death pay."
My people brought down half a city fighting the guy who killed me, Phil says. I call that pretty good vengeance.
It merely shrugs. "You say tomato."
Jesus God, Phil says, burying his face in his hands. Can we at least take a break from the retaliation for a while? I'm tired.
"Asking for the Spirit of Vengeance to stop is a fruitless enterprise," the Spectre says, raising an eyebrow. "And the dead do not tire."
Phil gives him a look. I'm tired of you.
It doesn't seem offended. "You are not the first, Coulson, but destiny makes for strange accomplices." It gives him a curious sort of look, a contemplative one. "We will rest a while," it says. "If you want to pretend to sleep, that is your business."
Phil resists the urge to flip it off, but he picks out a tree and lays down beneath it; the Spectre is not gone, only maybe twenty yards away, but every foot is an improvement. Phil shuts his eyes for the first time in days, relaxing. He's dead, he's pretty sure he hasn't actually been tense, but tell that to his aching muscles, his tired feet. He has the awful suspicion that he'll get used to it; he'd like to feel better, sure, but he hopes he'll never have enough time to learn how to deal with it.
He lays there and lays there, and the Spectre was right- he can't sleep. All he can do is lay there and think, and he finds he doesn't particularly want to. When he thinks, he thinks about everything, but the recurring theme is Clint, all Clint. A lot of things have threatened to take them apart over the years, and this is the one that's done it. This is the one he can never come back from. He knows this, the certainty of it like a lead weight; he also knows that he's going to keep fighting it until he can't anymore, whether victory is inevitable or not, possible or impossible.
He's got to quit thinking like that. That kind of nobility is what got him chosen in the first place.
He stays on the ground, keeping his eyes shut, even though it hurts, because every single moment that he wastes is one more moment Clint can have.
"What is it that the Asgardian carries?" the Spectre asks.
The hammer of the gods, Phil says, without opening his eyes. To drive our ships to new lands. The Spectre has no response; it really has had lousy hosts. Mjolnir is a weapon that can only be wielded by someone who's worthy and righteous enough to carry it. He opens his eyes, looking hard at it. That's fairness and consideration, letting someone choose whether to be worthy or not.
"Fate is not fair," it says. "Destiny is not considerate."
I'm aware of that, Phil says.
"Then why are you still fighting it?" the Spectre asks.
What you think is me being brave and strong is just me being a stubborn son of a bitch, Phil tells him.
"There is nothing ignoble about that," it says. "Are you tired of sleeping?"
No, Phil says, turning away, trying to steal a few more minutes out of fate's hands.
--
Natasha is, all things considered, extremely polite about disabling the crew of the quinjet that they need; she even leaves them somewhere where they might be discovered in the next two or three hours.
"Sure you're sure about this?" Natasha says, slipping into the copilot's seat.
"As sure as I ever am," Clint replies, going through preflight.
"Sure this is a good idea?"
He lets out a sigh. "That's not a fair question."
"There's a lot that's not fair about this situation," Steve says, stepping on board, suit on and shield in hand. "You didn't think you were gonna leave without me."
"Yeah, we're going out to meet the angel of the Lord, you better take somebody he actually likes," Tony says, flipping down the faceplate on his suit. "Go on, I'll catch up."
"This isn't a group outing," Natasha says angrily. "We don't need help."
"If two master assassins can't make it off a busy ship without getting caught, then they definitely need help," Bruce says, sitting down in the back and strapping in, and Natasha doesn't have an answer for that.
"Fuck it," Clint mutters, raising the hatch. "You wanna come, then come. But this is my fight."
"Didn't say it wasn't," Steve says. "But we're-"
"Captain Rogers," Natasha says, as the jet lifts off, "if you say anything about us all being in this together, I'm going to personally throw you out of this plane."
"Yes, ma'am," Steve responds, smiling.
The ride isn't long, just out to upstate New York, up to a place with no sign, no road, just a clearing in the woods. Clint sets the jet down at the tree line, opening the hatch and stepping out. "This is a little theatrical," Tony says as he touches down, and he's met with a wall of skeptical glances. "When did I ever say theatrical meant bad?"
Clint takes a look around the graveyard. "You may be right," he says. "But if it'll come anywhere, it'll be here. This way."
The graves of the fallen SHIELD agents are only marked with numbers- not even their ID numbers, just order of interment. No one says a word when Clint walks directly to a specific grave, one underneath a shade tree, one with a revolver propped up against the headstone.
"What's the plan?" Steve asks.
"The plan is to wait until it shows up," Clint says.
"And?" Bruce says.
"And then we make a plan," Clint replies. "You're probably going to regret not staying home."
The Spectre doesn't keep them waiting long; all at once it just walks out from the forest, growing as it approaches them, until it's towering over all of them. "You have come to accept your fate," it says. "This is noble, but you will still die."
"I didn't come to die," Clint says. "I came for Coulson."
Barton, go, Phil snaps. You're not ready for this one. I need you to go.
Clint's face goes blank, hard. "Can't do that, sir," Clint tells him. "I'm not leaving without you."
You need new weapons, Phil insists. Find something like Mjolnir. Don't sit here and try to reason or argue with it. I'm ordering you to get the hell out of here, Barton.
"You're not my handler anymore, sir," Clint says, smirking a little. "You can't give me orders." He takes a step closer. "It's just me, you, and Phil, buddy," he tells the Spectre. "Nobody else is left. You wanna kill me, fine. But you're letting him go."
"That is not in his plan," the Spectre tells him. "You are brave. In another situation, we might-"
"Do not even give me a 'we could be allies' speech," Clint says. "Do what you came to do. Do it and let Phil go."
The Spectre produces a giant bow, nocking an ethereal arrow, one almost as big as Clint, and pointing it at him. "I will do as I have always intended," he says, "but Coulson and I are one. Fate has parted you, but it will not separate us."
"I can't move," Clint says quickly. "I want everyone to know this isn't a noble sacrifice. It won't let me move."
"Your crime has been recorded," the Spectre says. "And now you will pay for it."
It draws back the bowstring, and time seems to slow as he looses it. The arrow takes flight, headed for Clint, and Clint keeps his eyes open, determined to look death in the face without flinching, one final 'fuck you.'
Then the arrow hits the tree behind him, and Clint only just gets his hand up in time to protect his face from the shrapnel as it explodes.
But he lives.
No, Phil says, his voice loud and clear; as the dust settles, there are two of them, the Spectre and Phil. You're not killing an innocent man and using me as an excuse. That is not happening.
The Spectre doesn't respond, just stands there like the rest of them, staring, lost.
"What just happened?" Steve says finally.
"I think Phil just fought the law, and Phil won," Tony says.
"I cannot stop here, Coulson," the Spectre says. "You know this. You are delaying the inevitable."
I'm good at delay, Phil tells him. I will wrap you up in so many obstacles you won't even remember what you were trying to do in the first place.
"You would do all this for the sake of one person?" the Spectre asks.
Phil smiles sadly. When you only have one thing left, you get attached.
The Spectre shakes its head. "What you choose to do is irrelevant. Perhaps not now, perhaps not soon, but he will die."
And if I'm very lucky, it won't be my fault, Phil says.
"We are leaving to regroup, you and I," the Spectre says, reaching out to him.
YOU WILL WAIT, a Voice says from the heavens, and the Spectre stops.
"What is your command?" it asks patiently.
LEAVE THIS MAN, the Voice says. HE WILL NOT SUBMIT TO THE WILL OF THE PRESENCE.
"It is his fate to submit," the Spectre says. "He is bound under the order of the Presence."
IF HE CAN RESIST EVEN YOU, SPECTRE, the Voice says, THEN NOTHING CAN BIND HIM.
"It is my duty to serve the Presence," the Spectre says calmly, seemingly indifferent.
IT IS, it tells him. NOW OBEY.
There's no more sound, just a sense of finality that settles over them. "You have been released from your duties as my host, Phillip Coulson," the Spectre says.
Are you sure? Phil says dryly. I remember you being pretty emphatic about destiny and fate.
"Our fates are no longer intertwined," the Spectre tells him. "I do not know what your destiny is now, but it is not my concern." He withdraws, moving farther away from Phil, and the pallor leaves Phil's face. The Spectre's form becomes hazier, less distinct, and then it's gone entirely.
Phil looks unsure for a moment, holding his arms out as if to steady himself. He waits a moment before speaking. "I really wasn't sure whether I was going to die just then or not."
Clint doesn't say a word, just walks over, taking Phil's face in his hands and kissing him hard, desperately. Phil wraps his arms around him, holding him fast, refusing to let go. "I said I wasn't leaving without you," Clint says.
"You almost didn't leave at all," Phil tells him. "Next time I tell you to go, you go."
"Next time you're possessed by an evil angel that wants to kill me, I'll listen," he promises.
Phil smiles softly. "I missed you," he says, and Clint doesn't even respond, just kisses him again.
It's another few long moments before they seem to remember that anyone else is there, but no one says a word, not even Tony, even though he looks like he's about to burst.
"Good to have you back, agent," Steve says, when they finally pull away from each other, and Bruce waves. Natasha just gives him a nod, one that makes the corner of Phil's mouth tick up.
"So, back from the dead," Tony says. "What do you want first? Cheeseburger? Mini golf? Group sex? Name it, I'll make it happen."
Phil lets out a long sigh. "I want to go to sleep."
Tony gives him a disapproving look. "You can sleep when you're dead."
"You'd think so," Phil says. "But you'd be wrong."
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