Two weeks after Phil gets the offer from SHIELD, his phone rings. An untraceable number. He picks up.
“Hi son.” It’s a voice he hasn’t expected to hear, since Dad is supposed to be in a coma in a hospital somewhere, but given all that he’s seen it really doesn’t surprise him. SHIELD has connections, after all, so he knows about the other agency of black suits.
“Mom’s going to be mad, you know.” Phil smiles just a little. It’s good to hear his father’s voice after thirty five years.
The man on the other end just laughs.
His mother is proud when her boy joins SHIELD. She’s proud of him when he drops by one afternoon in summer, clad in a clean-cut black suit and a striped purple-and-blue tie, a brown-haired man in the car grinning as Phil greets her on the doorstep of their home.
“Your father would be proud,” she hugs him and murmurs into his ear.
He can’t tell her that Dad is a part of another covert agency guarding the borders of the universe, that he’s only gotten that one call because the Director has leverage over just about everyone.
So Phil just nods. “I know.”
K hears about his son two days after all the diplomatic tension with a few (make that a few hundred) alien races are smoothed over, both from the Director of SHIELD and the brown-haired man that he sometimes sees Phil with.
Fury sends a memo, but that man - Clint, if he remembers correctly - he had found a way to enter the locked building in which the MIB is headquartered.
The man looks shaken, dark circles under his eyes and a multitude of cuts and bruises. K has lived long enough to recognize heartbreak and sorrow, and the figure sitting at his desk is a perfect example of it.
K puts a hand on Clint’s shoulder and squeezes. “I know, son. I know.”
It isn’t so much as a family reunion because Mom still can’t know that Dad is actually alive instead of being in a coma, and he’s not allowed to talk about his job either.
But Clint is burrowed into Phil’s side and half-asleep from the pain medication the medics had dosed him with, Natasha is curled up in one of the other old but comfortable chairs, slightly more alert than her partner, and K is sitting in the oldest couch in the room with a glass of whiskey in hand and a slight grin.
Phil tucks a cushion behind Clint to make sure that the archer is comfortable, before reaching for the glass on the table, ignoring the muffled grumble of protest that Clint makes when he moves.
Across the room, his father’s smile widens. Phil returns it, raising the glass in a toast.
It might not be a reunion, but the people in the room are family, and that’s all that matters.