Fic: Fragments (2/2) (Avengers, Clint/Coulson)
Title: Fragments
Author: whisp
Summary:
The Starbucks just off 7th Ave and 1st St was pretty typical fare. Open 5:30-11pm, 7 days a week, it was packed full of semi-awake, caffeine deprived customers at any given time.
Having worked there almost a year now, Phil was pretty sure he’d seen everything.
He was wrong.
Pairing: Clint Barton/Phil Coulson
Warnings: Violence, Explicit Language
Notes:
The obligatory fix-it. Barista and amnesiac remix. I'm aiming high here people!
N.B. - Retrograde amnesia is rather rare, especially to this extreme and completely unlikely to happen in an injury like the one Phil sustained. Please forgive my indulgence.
Part 1/2
“Hey, look! Creepy staring guy’s back again.” Lemming Two commented as she brushed by Phil on the way to grab the milk from the fridge.
“Aww, don’t make fun of him. I think it’s sweet how he has a massive crush on Phil.“ Lemming One spoke up over the hiss of the espresso machine, “You know, in that creepy, stalkerish kind of way. Although I have to say, I do wish he would blink more often. It is a little unnerving.”
Lemming Two leaned in with a grin, “Do you think we should take his picture and see if he’s on one of those sexual predators lists? Do they even have a predator list for people who go after old guys?”
“Huh, maybe. But I think it‘s called Craigslist.” Lemming One smirked. She peered around the machine, studying the man in the corner. “You’ve got to admit, he is kind of hot. You should totally ask him out, Phil.”
“Hmm?” Phil glanced up from his clipboard, distracted. Both girls were looking at him expectantly so he mentally replayed the last few moments of their conversation. He sighed, “That will certainly not be happening any time soon, so I suggest you don’t get your hopes up. Do I need to find something for you ladies to do? Other than harass clients in voices that you may think are quiet but are sadly the product of too much time spent with earbuds crammed into your ears.”
Lemming Two frowned “Who said we were trying to be quiet?”
Phil pursed his lips, looking pained, “The task list, please. Try to get at least half of it done before wandering off on your next tangent.”
As they grumbled but obediently started on the chores, Phil looked up to the object of their attention. It was London Fog’s Boyfriend/Not-boyfriend sitting in what Phil had come to think of as their corner and sipping on his Venti salted coconut cinnamon dolce latte. While pumping the syrups, Lemming Two had made a face then turned and dared Phil to drink it. Sometimes Phil wondered when his job description had changed to include the phrase ‘glorified babysitter‘.
Phil thought the guy was looking healthier. He’d been there just about every day since Phil had first seen him and had stayed for a couple of hours each time, curled over whatever bizarre latte he’d chosen that day. The circles under his eyes had lessened and there was a much less coiled feeling radiating off him.
Inexplicably, Phil found his eye drawn to him every time he entered the store. He was good-looking, the girls certainly weren’t wrong about that. Also, it had become apparent over the course of the week that he had some sort of vendetta again sleeves. It showed off his very well muscled arms with little left to the imagination and Phil would make a joke here about guns like that being illegal, but he’s not that much of a dork, thank you very much.
At first, Phil had thought he was watching the traffic out in the street. He would spend hours unmoving except to sip his drink, but a few day ago, the light had hit just right and Phil’d caught the reflection of the guy’s eyes in the window, staring back into his own. He wanted to ask, wanted to walk up to the guy and strike up a conversation, but when Phil looked at him, his mind would jump back to the vivid feel of blood and flesh and muscle under his fingers and he stopped before he could approach every time.
The guy watched him often, and Phil would be disturbed except he returned the favour just as frequently, wondering what it was that was so intriguing about this man. Why couldn’t he let him go?
Steve had dropped in once when the guy had been here and to Phil’s surprise, had sat himself down at the table in the corner. His sketchbook had been forgotten that night as Steve chatted.
After that, Phil noticed a succession of his regulars dropping by, plunking themselves unceremoniously at Boyfriend/Not-boyfriend’s table, sometimes doing nothing more than sitting.
Phil itched to make sense of it all, to slot this man into his neatly organized world, but night after night he sat, hand poised over his notebook, waiting for words that wouldn’t come.
*
Boyfriend/Not-boyfriend’s name was Clint. Phil found this out by cracking down on their policy to take down names on the cups so they could call them out when the person’s order was ready.
He got the name confirmed a night later while closing. Wednesday night, so Camomile guy was there, highlighter in one hand and pen in the other, sitting across from Stark. Not-boyfriend was there as well, across the room with his hands wrapped around his latte and taking slow sips. Phil tried not to stare when he flicked out the tip of his tongue to lick foam from his top lip.
He thought he was doing a pretty good job at being stealthy until Tony Stark shot up abruptly, his chair clattering out from underneath him and declared, “That’s it. I can’t take it anymore. Watching the two of you is more painful than watching Steve type.” Stark shuddered and stalked to the table in the corner.
He got Clint to stand using a string of sharp words and gestures and then marched him over to where Phil was attempting to casually wipe down the counter, resolutely not watching the exchange.
Stark’s grin reminded Phil uncomfortably of a shark closing in on prey. He pointed at each of them in turn.
“Phil meet Clint. Clint, Phil. He wants you to take him home and sex him up in whatever way you see fit and I‘m willing to bet ridiculously large amounts of money that you feel exactly the same way. There. It‘s been said. Now you kids have at it, though preferably not right on this counter.”
Clint growled. “I’m going to put holes in every car you own, Stark.”
He smirked at Clint. “You’re welcome.”
“Every. Single. Car.”
“It’ll be worth it. You need to get over yourself and all your little hang-ups.” Stark informed Clint, matter-of-fact, “Now you two can run off into the sunset and make biologically impossible babies together. And you can stop emo-ing all the freaking time. It’s win-win. Bruce and I are tired of your bullshit, right Bruce?”
Camomile guy - Bruce - laughed (he laughed!). With a shake of his head, he held his hands up as if that could do anything to stop Stark. When he spoke, it was around the amused curl of his mouth, “Not this time Tony. You‘re on your own.”
“I’m only doing this for his own good.” Stark informed him primly and turned back to the couple. He blatantly ignored the fact that Clint looked fit to murder Stark right then and there, and Phil was glancing between the two like he didn’t know whether to call the cops or the insane asylum, “Phil, he‘s not a crazy stalker, I swear. You can tell your minions to stop trolling America‘s most wanted lists. And Clint? Don‘t say I never did anything for you.”
Phil opened his mouth to protest but Clint shook his head. “He’s like a kidney stone. Just grit your teeth and it’ll be over soon.”
“Just say thank you Barton, and we‘ll be on our way.”
“Fuck you, Stark.”
Stark sniffed and called to Bruce, who was trying (and failing) to hid his grin. “You know, I’m sensing a distinct lack of appreciating here. You see what happens? You work and you work, and you just want what‘s best for everyone, and this is the thanks I get. Now does that seem fair to anyone? Come on Bruce. I know a good place for burritos.”
Bruce mouthed a sorry, whether it was to him or Clint, Phil didn’t know, and started to pack up their papers. Phil thought he looked much too entertained to be genuinely apologetic.
It would be a vast understatement to say Phil was a little flabbergasted. Stark hadn’t said two words to him since the day that they’d first met. Why he was suddenly so deeply invested in his love life, Phil has absolutely no clue.
They stayed silent as the other two finished packing and left; Stark leered as Bruce pushed him out the door. Afterwards, a quiet settled between them, eerily still like the aftermath of a earthquake.
“Awkward…” Phil heard Clint mutter. He agreed wholeheartedly.
Phil racked his brain. Sadly, the employee manual didn’t say anything about what to do in this situation. He offered a hesitant, “Nice to meet you?”
Clint laughed and the tension in the room dropped considerably. Relieved, Phil cracked a smile in return. Clint shrugged, “Sorry. Tony means well, but he’s not the most socially adjusted person ever.”
“Kind of like a freight train, huh?”
Clint grinned, “Less subtle, but yeah.”
Phil hesitated a moment, then mentioned in what he hoped was an offhanded manner, “He’s not entirely off the mark.”
Clint rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, his blush spreading to the tip of his ears. “Yeah, I guess not. Maybe,” Clint suggested, hesitantly, “Maybe we could get to know each other?”
Phil nodded and smiled when he saw the tension leave Clint‘s body, “I’d like that.”
*
Phil had to hand it to Stark, after that night Phil found it a lot easier to be relaxed around Clint. He still came in often. The main difference being now Clint broke into this smile that light up his expression every time he caught sight of Phil.
Privately, Phil thought that Clint must have done some irreparable damage to his taste buds when he was younger, because there was no way anyone should be able to stomach some of the combinations he tried. Melon toffee nut? Chocolate matcha?
After the second week, Phil started to suspect the guy was actively trying to gross him out. There was a hint of amusement every time Phil took his order and Phil refused to raise to the bait. He bit back his reaction and made every combination with the blandest expression he could muster.
But by the second time he made a grande 2 pumps raspberry, 2 pumps pumpkin spice, with cinnamon sprinkled whip, Phil couldn’t hold it back anymore. He gave a small wince as he held out Clint’s drink. “I’m sorry.” Phil said.
“Umm, that’s ok?” Clint replied, confused.
“No.” Phil shot him a crooked grin, “I was pre-emptively apologizing to your taste buds.”
Clint laughed. His fingers brushed warm against Phil as he grabbed his drink. “Not my fault. I knew this guy who was completely obsessed with mixing syrup flavours and he got me hooked on it.”
“I doubt anyone has such horrible tastes.”
“I swear it’s true.“ Clint’s smile grew fond in memory, “He was this stone-cold bastard, too. He used to terrorize the underlings while sipping on the fruitiest drinks known to mankind. It sort of boggled your mind.”
Phil hummed. “He sounds like an interesting guy.”
“That‘s just the tip of the iceberg.” Clint confided and Phil noted how the corners of his eyes crinkled up when he smiled. He snapped the lid on his coffee and raised it in salute before heading off to his usual table.
*
The next time Clint came in, coffee blasphemy on the tip of his tongue, Phil just rolled his eyes.
On a whim, Phil tossed in an extra shot of maple and a dash of nutmeg on top, which you’re never suppose to do, because if there’s one thing they teach you in training, it was to never, ever fuck around with someone’s coffee order.
But Clint’s surprised look when he tasted it and the startled but genuine smile he threw in Phil’s direction made it completely worth it.
*
At night, Phil slept on the left side of the bed. Sometimes in the middle of the night, groggy and half-asleep, he would reach a hand to the other side, only to startle awake when he found the sheets cold and empty.
*
Eventually it became routine, Clint chatting as Phil worked, a background running commentary on anything and everything. Phil listened with half an ear, letting the words wash over him while he was pulling shots on the espresso machine. Every once in a while it acted up and those times, Phil was the only one who could work it properly.
Lemming One was working the till and she must have been studying medicine, because Phil couldn’t read a single notation she’d made on the cups. After the third set of illegible scribbles, he called her name to clarify it, but she was too busy ogling Steve who was oblivious in the corner.
He snapped his fingers, “Miranda! Talk to me.”
After getting the right notations, Phil turned to Clint to share an eye roll, only to notice that Clint had stopped dead, looking like someone had struck him.
He frowned, “Clint? What’s wrong?”
Clint came back with a small shake of his head. He shrugged off Phil concern, “Nothing. Sorry, nothing. Got a little lost in my head there.”
Phil twitched an eyebrow, “Scary place?”
Clint laughed but it had a slight forced edge to it, “Like you wouldn’t believe.”
*
Phil was disappointed when it reached eleven-o-clock. It had been a slow night. Clint had stopped by about an hour ago and they’d been chatting ever since. It was an easy conversation, flowing from topic to topic like Phil had never been able to do with anyone. Clint never failed to make him laugh either, lighter than he’d felt since he’d woken.
“I have to close.” Phil jerked a head towards the door. “Sorry.”
“Do you want any help?” Clint offered. “I, uh, used to work in a coffee place, way back when. I don’t mind staying a few minutes to help. I could umm…”
Phil raised an eyebrow. He hadn’t heard Clint this nervous since the first day they talked. It was kind of adorable.
Clint blushed, “I could walk you home after. I mean, cause it’s dark and everything. In case anything happens. I mean, not that I’m saying you can’t take care of yourself, because I know you can, but it’s dark and quiet outside, and uh… yeah. I’m going to shut up now.” Clint turned a furiously red. He returned Phil’s amused smile with a self-depreciation grin.
Phil locked the door with an audible click and graciously ignored Clint‘s stammering. “Well, I won’t say no to a little extra help. Start on the panini grill?”
Five minutes later, Phil came back from counting the cash, and Clint was still staring at the panini prep station, a vaguely confused look on his face.
Phil bit back a laugh and handed him a damp cloth. “Wipe down the tables. I’m sure you’re more than capable of doing that.”
Clint nodded sheepishly and accepted the cloth.
Afterwards, they walked back to Phil’s place, setting a leisurely pace. They walked closely, shoulders almost brushing. Times like these, Phil could feel the steadiness of Clint’s presence beside him and it felt like they’d spent a lifetime together. He wanted nothing more than to be able to reach over and take Clint’s hand. The five blocks were over much too soon for his liking.
“Made it.” Phil couldn’t resist teasing, “Safe and sound.”
“Safe and sound.” Clint echoed with a faint smile.
“Do you want to come in?” Phil asked “I could make some coffee. I’ve been told I’m pretty good at it.”
Clint looked regretful as he shook his head, “I probably shouldn’t.”
Involuntarily, Phil’s eyes darted down to Clint‘s left hand and he cringed, “Right, sorry.”
“No!” Clint injected quickly “I‘m not-, it’s just not the right time. Things are kind of strange and complicated right now.”
Phil back away a step. “I’m sorry. Too fast, wasn‘t it?”
“No, shit, this is coming out wrong. What I mean is, I want to, I really do, but it‘s-”
“Complicated?” Phil finished gently. He brushed his fingertips lightly over the back of Clint‘s hand, “Don’t worry, I get it.”
Clint scrubbed a hand across his face, sighing heavily, “Christ, this is seriously weird.” He looked so miserable that Phil’s chest ached in response, but he can’t think of anything to say.
“I’m sor-” He started.
The apology was halfway out, when Clint muttered “fuck it” and flung out a hand.
He pressed his palm briefly to Phil chest, solid and heavy, then fisted it tightly into the fabric of his shirt and dragged him in for a kiss. It was a startling sensation of warm and dry, Clint’s lips were cracked where he worried at them endlessly.
There was a moment‘s hesitation, then Phil responded, parting his lips and kissing Clint back. He tilted his head to the right and deepened the contact as Clint surged up to meet him.
Heart jumping in his chest, Phil lost himself, swept up in an overwhelming sense of rightness. Of how this man, whom he’d known for less than two weeks felt more familiar to him than anything else in this life he’d managed to cobbled together.
Clint’s arms slid around him, locking behind the groove of Phil’s lower back and aligning their bodies together. He shifted a leg in between Phil‘s thighs, leaning him against the door and Phil’s arms come up automatically in response, hands threading through the wiry hair on the back of Clint’s head and tightening his grip.
He lost time, slowly exploring Clint’s kiss. It was slow and easy and so perfectly in sync. When Phil inevitably ran out of air, he pulled back barely an inch, panting shallow breaths into the narrow space between them.
Reluctantly, Clint stopped as well, whimpering softly against Phil‘s lips. And there was an odd hint of desperation in the hesitation with which Clint pulled away, in the slow and shuddering breath he drew.
From the low light of the streetlamp, Clint’s skin caught under its glow and Phil was surprised to see tear tracks running down his face. Catching his cheek, Phil swiped a thumb through the tears and Clint pulled back in surprise, scrubbing a hand over his cheeks, like he hadn’t realized they’d been there in the first place.
Phil knew something was else going on and wished he could read the myriad of thoughts sliding across Clint‘s face so he could figure out why he suddenly looked so lost. Nevertheless he whispered out a soft apology.
Clint choked out a laugh that Phil suspected was actually a sob, “No.. No, that was…” He trailed off, thumb unconsciously rubbing at the empty space on his fourth finger, and he swallowed hard. “It’s not you. I shouldn’t have-” He pulled away and swore under his breath, “Everything’s such a mess.”
“It’s okay.” Phil said, heart aching for him and not knowing why.
Clint smiled, tinged with sadness, “It’s really not, but I appreciate that.”
“Do you want to talk about it? You could come in for coffee. Actual coffee.”
This time Clint’s laugh sounded a little more natural. “I think I’ve embarrassed myself enough for a night. I should probably go.” His hand made an aborted movement to reach up as if to cup Phil‘s cheek, before he clenched it tightly at his side. With a tight nod, Clint gathered himself. He wished him goodnight and started down the street.
Not sure whether he should follow, Phil stood unsettled in the doorway, watching his retreat. As he walked, Clint pulled up the collar of his coat around him like a shield and swiped the back of his hand across his eyes.
Long after Clint disappeared around the corner, Phil stayed outside, hand rested lightly over his chest to the place where Clint had briefly pressed his palm and where underneath, he could feel the ragged edges of scar tissue rising sharply under the material of his shirt.
*
He didn’t see Clint for another week, through that doesn’t stop him from glancing up every time the door opened. His friends are in and they must known something was up. Steve couldn’t stop shooting him sympathetic looks, and Natasha was more talkative than usual, but Phil didn’t ask after Clint. He’s too afraid of what the answer might be.
When Clint finally did appear, it was when Phil least expected it. He finished locking up for the night and when he turned around, Clint was there, no sound of footsteps proceeding him and a sheepish expression on his face, like he wasn’t sure of his welcome.
“Came to walk me home?” Phil said, voice deceptively calm against the rapid beat of his pulse.
“Yeah, if you don’t mind. I should probably explain.” The part of Phil that wasn’t currently panicking registered that Clint looked just as nervous.
Phil shrugged, sliding his keys away into his pocket then pulling up the zipper of his jacket. “You don‘t owe me anything.”
“Yes, I do.” Clint said forcefully. “I was being stupid the other night; I need to explain.”
“Clint -”
“I shouldn’t have kissed you.”
Phil pulled back hurt and immediately struggled to remove the emotion from his face.
Clint grimaced “That came out wrong.”
“Sounded pretty clear to me.” Phil said.
“I’m fucking this up, aren‘t I?” Clint reached out and caught Phil before he could walk away. For a moment he paused, worrying at his lip as he tried to come up with the right words. “What I meant is, it was wrong of me to jump you like that and then run away.”
“Then why?”
“I don’t know. Because… because I like you? Because I wanted to?” Clint stared down at the place where his hand was still grasped lightly around Phil’s bicep. The warmth from his hand seeped into Phil’s skin as he clung on. Clint sighed. “Because I still want to, but I can’t. It’s -”
“Complicated. I get it.” Phil interrupted, a flare of frustration rising at the excuse. Suddenly more irritated then he’d been all week, he pulled away and started down the street, not waiting to see if Clint followed.
Clint caught up fast, walking to his left and just behind his shoulder, footfalls falling into sync with Phil’s. “I know I probably should have told you earlier, but things are really, really weird right now for reasons I can’t really talk about and I didn’t want to ruin how well we were getting along. I get that you’re mad-“
“I’m not mad.”
Clint snorted. “Well, you’re doing a really good impression of it.”
Phil sighed “Clint. I think we could start something really great between us. But you’re not over him. Whoever he was to you. And I would prefer not to be caught in the middle; I can’t compete with a ghost.”
Clint winced. “I’m sorry. I just need to explain.”
Abruptly, Phil stopped, arms crossed over his chest, the glow from the streetlamp casting sharp shadows across his face. “Then explain.”
Clint took in a shaky breath and when he spoke, it was quiet enough that Phil almost had to lean in to hear. “You’re right. I used to be married.”
Phil nodded, suspicion confirmed.
“About ago year ago he died.” Clint looked away from Phil, jaw tightening as he swallowed hard, “Everyone kept saying that it would have happened anyway, that there was nothing I could have done to stop it, but it didn’t change the fact that he was still dead.
“After that, things got kind of fuzzy. I sort of… lost it. Couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t stay here, not when everything reminding me of what I’d lost.”
“Where did you end up?”
Clint shrugged, “Anywhere. Everywhere. I took any job that would get me out of New York. At the time, there was other stuff I had to work through too. It was like everything was crowding in and there was no way to shut it off. The only thing I could do was keep running. So I kept running. Eventually my work stopped giving me assignments, tried to get me back in New York, so I went off grid. Anything to keep me from having to face the truth.
“I finally hit rock bottom in this shit-hole of a city in the middle of nowhere and then Natasha showed up.” Clint laughed faintly, “She broke into the place in the middle of the night, literally bound and gagged me, then flew me back to New York and told me to get over myself. And then she brought me here. And I saw you.
“And you’re everything he was. Funny and smart and sarcastic as hell but-”
Clint trailed off but Phil could fill in the blanks easily enough, “I’m not him.”
“No.” Clint said simply. “No, you’re not.”
He paused and in the silence, Clint studied Phil carefully, eyes glinting under the incandescent light, searching, prying, and Phil felt himself stripped bare under the weight of his gaze. “What is it?”
“I don’t know. I just keep expecting- I don’t know- something to be there, but it’s not.”
Phil felt disappointment wash over him, but as he opened his mouth to respond, Clint stopped him with a hand on his hip; it was a gesture more intimate than Phil had expected and it stopped him before he could speak. “I know it’s not fair to you, and I know there’s a lot of issues I have to get through before this can work, but at the risk of sounding like a 16 year old, I really like you Phil, and I do want this to work.”
Phil didn’t respond to Clint right away. Despite the light tone Clint had used towards the end, he could see how much this admission took out of him. Could see where the scars still lurked behind his eyes. He felt his earlier frustrations calm down though the issue was still there. Clint was clearly not over his late husband and that was not the most conductive start to any relationship.
Part of him wanted to have no part in this; he had enough of his own issues without dealing with someone else’s too. But then he felt the solid presence of Clint’s hand on his hip, the light brush of his fingers against his skin, and suddenly the only thing at the forefront of his mind was the kiss they shared. And as he remembered, he craved it - that feeling of rightness, the familiarity of their touch, how the scent of Clint‘s skin triggering something just beyond his reach. He knew without fail that he would do anything to experience it again.
Lost in memory, he almost missed when Clint asked tentatively, “Did I scare you off?”
Phil‘s mouth twisted to the side, “I thought these types of situations only happened on TV.”
“Welcome to my life.” Clint said ruefully.
Phil huffed a laugh, an imitation at best. He said truthfully, “It’s a lot of information for me to comprehend right now. I don’t really know what to say, but I want this to work too.”
“Thank you.” Clint pressed a chaste kiss to Phil’s cheek. He squeezed his hip lightly before dropping his hand away. “Come on, I come with you the rest of the way home.”
*
“While we’re on the topic of sharing, there’s something you should know. About me.”
Sunday night was usually dead and this one was no exception so Phil had sent everyone home early and finished up the closing list. Clint had come by late, and Phil took the rare opportunity to sit down and share a cup of tea while tallying up the sales.
Clint raised an eyebrow and gestured for him to go on.
Phil took a deep breath and steadied himself before saying, “I know nothing about my life past one year ago.”
“How much is nothing?” Phil was impressed. Clint was taking the revelation in stride surprisingly well. He didn’t even look shocked, which put him a step up from pretty much everyone else he’d ever told.
Shrugging, Phil replied, “Pretty much nothing, nothing. I didn’t even remember my own name. The nurses said the guy who brought me in told them my name was Phil, but he could have made that up for all I remember. He never came back.”
“Some guy brought you in?” Clint asked, eyes narrowing. “Did he have an eye patch?”
Phil looked at him oddly. “Not that they mentioned. Why?”
Clint shook his head, “It’s stupid. Never mind. Go on.”
Phil shrugged. “There’s really not much more to tell. I got out of the hospital. Got a place, got a job. Every once in a while, I get bits and pieces, I think, but none of it makes any sense.”
“What bits?”
Phil opened his mouth to reply, to tell Clint about the robbery, about the comics, about the cereal, about all the little edges he‘d grasped of his old life, but he blinked and there was blood under his fingertips and a flash of blood and terror surging though his mind, as strong as that first night he saw Clint and he stopped short. Instead he shrugged. “Nothing really concrete. It just scattered flashes here and there.”
“Do your memories-, I mean, do you ever...” Clint trailed off. His hands fiddled with the rim of his empty cup as he silently debated with himself. He shook his head and braced and caught Phil’s eye. “Phil, are you happy here?”
That took Phil off guard. It was a loaded question. Phil’d never been unhappy here, but he knew that there was a distinct difference between being settle, being content, and being happy. He liked his job, as frustrating as it was sometimes, was fond of the people he worked with, and liked the people in his life, but was he happy?
“I don’t know.” He answered as honestly as he could. Phil had no tether, no gauge. No barometer to measure it against except what he read about in books. His life consisted of one big question mark. How could he know? Phil struggled to articulate a better answer.
Before he could speak, the squeak of the door opening caught Phil’s attention. Caught up in their conversation, Phil hadn’t noticed when it had passed eleven and he’d forgotten to lock the store door. The two men wandered in slowly, taking in the store’s interior and layout.
Across from him, Clint stiffened almost imperceptibly and Phil’s eyes flickered back and forth, trying to gauge what had caused Clint’s sudden change in demeanour.
When Phil pushed his chair out backwards to get up, Clint stopped him with a his hand over his, shaking his head almost imperceptibly. He moved around Phil so he was standing between him and the men.
“We’re closed.” Clint said, voice not giving an inch.
The taller man shrugged and smirked, “Just as well. Or haven’t you heard coffee stunts your growth?”
The other man started reaching towards the waistband of his pants when Clint lashed out with the chair he was sitting on, catching the first guy square across the body. He shoved Phil towards the back room before he turned to engage the second man. “Run!’ He hissed.
Pretense gone, the two guys started to attack. Within seconds, it was clear they were well trained.
Phil scrambled into the back room, one hand dialling frantically on his cell phone while he scanned the room for anything he could use as a weapon. The crashes from the front room were interspaced with grunts and curses but then a particularly pained cry from Clint drew Phil back into the open, syrup bottles in hand. He spared a quick second to curse corporate’s decision to switch over to the plastic bottles before he launched one at the closest attacker and brandished the other like a weapon.
Clint had gone down with a blow to the head, judging from the way he was struggling to get off the ground. He was failing miserably, hands sliding in the mess of blood and glass surrounding him.
“Stay back.” Phil said, trying to keep everyone in his sights. “Don’t move any closer.”
The guy raised his eyebrow, “Or you’ll give me diabetes?”
His associate snorted with laughter as he crunched through the debris towards Clint. Phil’s makeshift projectile had done little to slow him down, and he watched helplessly as the man knelt on Clint’s back and fisted a hand into his hair. Clint’s teeth pulled back in a snarl as the man pulled his head back and levelled his gun at the back of his head.
“Listen up. We don’t want your boy, we just want you. So come with us quietly, and my associate won’t put a bullet into your friend’s head.”
“What do you want from me?”
Despite Phil’s protests, he took another step forward, and then another, hands spread in front of him, mock innocent, “Just came to pay you a visit, that‘s all. To watch you serving coffee for 12 bucks an hour. It‘s not every day you get a treat like that.”
Phil‘s body stilled. His hands gripped and regripped the bottle neck, fingers twitching. “Who are you?”
“I’m just someone who’s interested in picking through that fascinating brain of yours. I’m sure you’ve got all sort of secrets.” The man‘s grin was feral, “And we have ways of making you share.”
Abruptly, Phil jolted when his back hit the counter and he berated himself for letting the guy back him into a corner. “Stop. I’ve already called the police.”
The man laughed, “The police. Oh how the mighty have fallen. I’m going to count to three. And then I’m going to splatter your friend’s blood all over the wall. It‘s your choice if you want to stop it.”
Phil started to lower the bottle, when two things happened near simultaneously. One - Clint choked out “Run, you idiot” from where he was pinned against the ground and two - Iron Man burst through the front door.
Thinking back, Phil could isolate this as the point when the whole situation took a nosedive straight down the rabbit hole.
*
Phil was pretty sure he’d dreamt about something like this before. Surreal, warped dreams where everyone spoke like they were underwater. He’s not quite sure why he wasn’t waking up this time.
“Steve?” Phil asked dazed as the dust started to settle.
Steve - no, Captain America - slung his shield back across his back and bent over to hoist an only partially conscious Clint up. “Um… Hey. Phil.-” His expression was sheepish, but it looked horrendously out of place against the backdrop of his cowl and uniform.
Natasha crossed in between the two of them, face giving away nothing, and she smoothly pulled Clint away with only a nod to Phil. He watched them head towards the jet that had landed in the middle of an intersection.
As they got closer, Bruce stepped down from the jet entrance to give Natasha a hand and the easy way in which he pulled Clint up belayed a hidden strength. Phil watched how he pushed back the frayed sleeves of his sweater before peeling one of Clint’s eyelid open to check his pupils. He tried to reconcile these people around him with his coffee regulars but his brain was sending back an utter failure to comprehend.
Steve scratched the back of his neck, exposed after he pulled his cowl back, “So, ummm. We owe you an explanation.”
“That‘s been happening a lot lately.” Phil responded. He looked at the door that was barely hanging on its hinges and the glass crunching under Steve’s boots as he shifted. He thought his life was odd before, but today really took the cake. “Though it would be nice.”
Which was how Phil found himself getting strapped into a seat by Captain America in a jet sitting in the middle of an intersection, while Iron Man and the Black Widow took to the controls at the front.
This was definitely one for the notebook.
*
Phil was directed to one of the guest rooms to clean up. Everything he’d ever said about Tony Stark, he took back when he saw the shower. Messaging jets, body spray, high pressure, Phil would have lived in there if he could. He revelled under the pounding spray, hands braced against the opposite wall and let it wash away some of the tension from the day.
Once, he’d caught the end of a show where the main character had had a super computer downloaded into his brain. One of his favourite phrases had been don’t freak out and it had stuck in his mind. Now Phil found himself repeat it like a mantra, struggling to retain the calm he‘d held throughout the whole ordeal, starting from the first day of his hospital stay. Easy enough, he tried to convince himself. Just don’t freak out.
Phil was a practical man, he knew that much of himself. Since the beginning, he had seldom allowed himself to hope, and especially not as the weeks and months had passed, but now his mind was fraught with possibilities. Questions that he‘d lost faith would ever be answered. He ducked his head under the spray, turned the water up until it nearly scalded his skin, trying to quiet the torrent flooding his mind.
He allowed himself another 5 minutes before shutting off the tap. Starbucks as a company was attempting to join the green revolution and there had been many a lectures on their employees towing the company line and living green. Phil would be remiss if some of that hadn’t took.
There was a set of clean clothes laid out on the bed when he exited the bathroom. A pair of sweats and an old Iowa Hawkeyes hoodie, the elastics of the cuff were stretched out and frayed. The clothing fitted well enough and Phil appreciated the extra warmth it provided.
He padded into the hallway towards what he hoped was the living room. He was just short of the entrance when the voices stopped him from making his presence known.
“He’s not staying.”
“Clint, be reasonable. He deserves better. I would have expected you of all people to be one jumping at the chance to get him back.”
“No. He’s not staying.”
Eavesdroppers never heard what they want to hear, A voice chided at the back of Phil’s mind, but he couldn’t move, frozen just beyond the edge of light spilling from the room. He recognized Clint’s voice instantly and the rest were easy enough to match to the faces of his regulars.
He tried to visualize the Avengers in their place. He imagined them sitting full costumed in the living room, a ridiculous caricature of superheroes sipping coffee and airily debating his fate. The absurdity made his head spin.
“Why not? You want him to rot away making coffee for the rest of his life? Look, I can have the best specialist in the country on payroll by tomorrow.”
“You guys don’t get it. Phil doesn’t need fixing. What he needs is to not be dead. And if he continues with us, that’s exactly what’s going to happen.”
A sigh. “Clint, please sit down before you fall down. It’s past time to bring him in. He’d be safer in the tower.”
“With no memories and no training? We can’t lock him in here. What are we going to take turns babysitting him, make sure he stays out of trouble?”
You can’t keep this from him-”
“You think I want to? You think I haven’t thought about this for every single waking moment? It’s been over a year. I know just as well as you guys that if his memory was going to come back, it would have come back by now. Who wants to be the one to say - Hey Phil. Welcome back. By the way, I hope you still remember how to kill someone with a ballpoint pen?“
“Clint, you’re being ridiculous.”
“Am I really? Because I may be concussed, but I’m pretty sure I saw Phil trying to fend off a couple of contract killers with a bottle of syrup.”
“The mind is complicated. There may still be a chance -”
“No, Bruce. I’m not risking his life on a hunch. Tonight was a wake-up call. We led those guys straight to him. If he stays here, we might as well truss him up and put him on HYDRA’s doorstep.”
“You think he would have wanted this?”
“It doesn’t fucking matter what he would have wanted, because he can’t remember shit. Do you guys get that? There is nothing left of Phil.”
“Clint..” That was Natasha’s soft voice.
“Save it, Nat. I know.” Clint sighed. “I know. I just want -“ His voice cracked, “I just want him to be safe and if that means staying away, I‘ll do it. We can’t go there anymore. I can’t go there anymore. And I‘m not changing my mind about this.”
“He might --”
“-- Phil deserves --”
“-- The tower’s perfectly --”
“No. He was my husband.” Clint’s voice rose above the cacophony. There was enough steel underlying his words to silence the room. “He was my husband and that means that I get the final say. Phil is not moving to the tower, he is not staying, and every single one of us is going to stay the fuck out of his life.”
Oh. Phil put a numb hand to the wall. The snippets of conversation rang in the air around him, garbled like he was under water. He should go in there. There were questions he had. Questions he needed answered.
Dots danced into the edge of his vision. The air was suddenly crowding in, pressing until he couldn’t catch his breath.
He was in the elevator before he realized it, blinking at the man staring back at him in the door’s reflection. It was a face he had to relearned, a body and hands he didn’t recognize. There was a stranger staring back at him. A stranger who killed people for a living. A stranger who had a life, a job, a husband.
He didn’t know who this person was.
He needed to go back. Needed to storm the room and shake Clint until all his secrets spilled out. All the facts, the nuances, the quirks, until he was himself again. Until he could wake up in the morning and feel like he fitted into his own skin.
But the elevator dinged on the ground floor and Phil’s feet echoed across the empty expanse of the lobby. The chill of the night creped under the collar of the hoodie. He started shivering and couldn’t stop.
Don’t freak out, he said to himself. And he wasn’t, he wasn’t. He just needed to find the subway entrance. He need to go home, needed to get away, needed to find somewhere quiet enough to sort the riot of thoughts in his head.
Faintly, he heard someone calling his name as he walked down the street, but he didn’t turn and no one followed.
*
Phil dreamt that night.
Standing across Clint, unable to fight down his grin. Sliding through mud and rain in New Mexico. A stray touch on the small of his back. The run of fingers through his hair.
A blade carving through the his chest and drowning words as he choked and pleaded and struggled against the encroaching darkness.
When he woke, Phil remembered nothing.
*
The next morning, Phil got up and he got dressed. He exited out the front door, checked the lock twice, and walked five blocks to work.
The tables hadn’t been cleared, none of the cups had been refilled, and Lemming Three called in sick for the third time this month. He got in a fight with the espresso machine, watched the new kid put an extra shot of syrup in every latte, and listened to Lemming Two enthuse about her reunion with her boyfriend.
The floor had a new finish. The door had lost that tiny squeak upon opening.
It didn’t seem important enough to bring up to anyone else.
*
There was light peaking out from underneath his front door. He didn’t leave any lights on.
Phil entered cautiously, keys slotted in between his fingers as he made a fist. It was a poor defence, but the best he could think of at the last moment. Upon entering, he stopped, stock still in the middle of the doorway, clutching his keyring until it left little red marks in his skin.
“You’re more a five.” Clint remarked conversationally, without looking up from the notebook. “On the Kinsey scale.”
“Oh.” Phil said, because he couldn’t say anything else. He made himself come the rest of the way in, closed the door and leaned up against it. He fought the urge to rub a hand to his sternum. There was a tightness welling up, a feeling he couldn‘t name. It felt like fire ants crawling under his skin until all he wanted to do was scream.
Clint slid his chair back, hands clenched against the rough grain of the desk, but made no move the get up. The desk didn‘t fit him, the thought occurred to Phil vaguely. His entire room clashed with Clint as the sudden focal point; his bow callused hands and dirt tracked in from under his boots. Just above his head, the basement window let through little slivers of light that played across his features, deepening the shadows across his face.
That first day, after Stark, Phil had googled Phil Coulson in every permutation he could think of. Last night, he repeated the search, researching every result until his eyes couldn‘t focus anymore. He shook his head. “Phil Coulson doesn’t exist.”
“No.” Clint said evenly, “Not on paper.”
Phil tested out the name. It felt foreign on his tongue, soured and tainted with each use. He glanced down, trying to regain his composure. There were rough patches on his hands and he worried at them absently, the tender spot where he burnt himself on the espresso machine, the dry area where a trigger callus would lay. He asked softly, “Am I him?”
Clint’s eyes flickered to Phil’s left hand where a rake of thin white scars ran across the back, then to the stretch of skin, where his neck met his shoulder and a starburst of nicks lay. He nodded.
“Am I…” Phil licked his dry lips, struggling to speak through his parched mouth, “Have I killed people?”
“Phil-”
“Answer the question please.”
Clint sighed, “We were part of an agency, even before the Avengers. We were a defence.” His mouth twisted, “A shield, of sorts. You and I, we‘ve both killed.”
And even when part of him was expecting the answer, it still felt like a punch to the gut. The Avengers. Jesus. All those months he spent wondering, wishing, waiting to know have cumulated to this.
He wasn’t ready.
But being ready was a luxury Phil had found seldom afforded to him this past year. He took a breath. “Why didn‘t you tell me?”
The words hung between them, and Clint worried at his lip; it was a tell, freely given. “How could I? That first day, you looked over at me and there was nothing. Not a hint of recognition, like I was some kind of stranger. Like everything we had was just gone.”
He looked down at the lined page, at Phil’s meticulously documented notes. Against the white grain of the pages, his nails were ragged and bitten to the quick, “You’re not the same person, that you were.”
“I wouldn’t know.” Phil had spent an entire year not knowing. That this may change was an idea almost too massive for him to comprehend. That he wasn’t just wandering.. That there was someone out there who knew who he was.
That there was someone who knew that he’d been lost and had left him to drift.
“How could you?” The words tore out unbidden and the ferocity of it startled even him.
“Phil, there are things you don’t understand-”
“You do not get to decide.” Angry, maybe for the first time since he’d woken, Phil nearly spat out the words. He thought about being terrified, about being confused, about being lonely; he thought about every emotion he’d felt this past year and for the first time, he broke through the ennui that had entrapped him and found that he was boiling with rage, “How could you just toy with me, with my life. Make me love you, like it was a game. What --”
“I killed you.” Clint shouted. He stood, sending the chair toppling over with a clatter. “It was my fault. Is that what you wanted to hear? I killed you.”
He spun to face Phil, but stumbled as the lingering effects of the concussion made themselves known. Instinctively, Phil reached out to catch him. Clint landed hard against his body and they overbalanced and fell, sprawled against the hardwood. The wind knocked out of him as they landed with Clint pressed to his chest, a hand braced against the ridge of scar tissue on his chest.
Phil’s anger left as swiftly as it had come and for a moment, they lay still, breathing in each others’ space.
“I’m sorry.“ Clint whispered against Phil’s skin. He didn’t seem inclined to move and Phil wasn’t going to make him. “I’m so sorry Phil.” He visibly deflated, closed his eyes against the fabric of Phil‘s shirt. The strains of the past year were more visible, tiredness etched into every line. There were half-scabbed cuts on his face that continued down his neck, half hidden in the shadows. Quieter, he said, “A year ago, I lead an attack on SHIELD. Thirty-six people were killed, including you. Then two nights ago, I lead two mercenaries straight to your door.”
Phil flashed back to the beginning, when he first woke up, the blinding agony that burned through him with each throb of his heart. He could feel Clint pressed to the long healed scar, scalding hot even through the layers of fabric. Could feel the phantom burn of blood in his throat, like he was drowning all over again. “Clint-”
“Phil, I love you.” Clint said. “Loved you; I don’t know. But I can‘t do this. Can‘t keep losing you.
“You have a life here. A good one.” Clint pushed back and got to his feet. He seemed to have come to a decision and before Phil‘s eyes, he steeled himself, tucking emotions away until he couldn‘t see them any longer. “I didn‘t come here to bring you back. I came here because you deserved to know who you were, so you could let him go.” So I could let him go. Clint didn’t say, but Phil heard it anyway.
He was already between Phil and the door, set to leave, to take everything he knew with him. Desperately, Phil scrambled to block him. “Don’t I get a choice?”
Clint pressed a kiss to Phil‘s forehead. A benediction. A goodbye. He shook his head. “Goodbye Phil.”
“Wait, don’t go.” Phil grabbed his wrist. “I… I have cereal.”
Clint frowned, “You have what?”
“I have cereal.” Phil paused, suddenly hesitant. He gestured uncertainly in the direction of his kitchen “Cinnamon Toast Crunch. I - I have boxes of it. I have a cupboard filled with boxes of Cinnamon Toast Crunch because I can’t walk out of the grocery store with buying it and I don’t why.”
“Phil - ”
He grabbed his notebook, shoved it into the space in between them. “Everything you’ve read in here, that’s all I have. An entire year of nothing. You’re right, I don’t remember anything about you, but ever since I woke up, it’s felt like a piece of me has been ripped out and the only thing I can do is keep filling it with boxes of cereal I don‘t even like.”
Clint‘s face crumpled, “Don’t do this to me. You don‘t know how hard it was to let go of you.”
“So don‘t.” Phil pleaded, “Please. I need to know. Everything, even the bad. I can’t keep living like this. I can’t stand not knowing.”
Clint stared down at Phil’s book. The cover was bent and worn, nearly torn off, the coil bent, the pages crinkled from handling. In it is over a year’s worth of guesses and theories, questions and frustrations. Pages upon pages of achingly familiar black writing that Clint flipped through now and when he couldn’t take anymore, he closed his eyes and took in a shuddering breath.
“You like your coffee scalding hot in the morning” Clint whispered, “And you make them put it in your Costco travel mug because you never get to it right away and that way, it’s still warm when you finally finish all your morning work. When you debrief, you like it without cream, because the bitterness reminds you to sip.”
Clint opened his eyes and met Phil square on, his eyes bright and pleading, “And when you train junior agents, you make us leave the apartment early so we can go to that Starbucks that has all the syrups so you can get your venti Irish mint and melon monstrosity.”
Knees weak, Phil put a hand out to steady himself. “I don’t remember.”
“I do.” Clint said with certainty. “I remember everything about you.”
He flipped the notebook to the back, where the ruled lines were empty and waiting. Pen poised, he pressed the tip to the paper and began to write.