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Sleep of the Just

Chapter Text

Every organisation has its own way of going about things – a signature scent if you will. S.H.I.E.L.D's scent involves brutal efficiency, blueprints of grandeur, and a general attitude of budget? what budget? which leads to such things as the helicarrier itself, a laundry room which had brought strong men to their knees in awe, and a medical facility which, two minutes and eighteen seconds after Phil Coulson bleeds out on a metal floor, has him hooked to massive blood transfusions and his heart stuttering back to life.

It stops again five minutes later, when shifting stresses on the damaged carrier temporarily cut power to the medical section. S.H.I.E.L.D staff are also characterised by their terrifying determination (even the janitors – S.H.I.E.L.D headquarters are clean).

Three hours, seventeen procedures, and an exotic blue substance that the Head of Medical technically refers to as very hinky stuff later, the man is somewhat stable. Staff are drawn away to other urgent cases and when Phil Coulson wakes, he wakes alone.

It's dark, but he can hear the helicarrier screaming around him, and smell the astringence of a medical bay. His nose itches abominably. Coulson reaches up to wipe his face... and his arm doesn't move. He tries to open his eyes or shift his legs: nothing. Ah.

Coulson is a patient man, and possessed of the S.H.I.E.L.D ethos. Trapped in a waking coma, he settles in for the long haul.

 

1 Clint Barton

The thing about his best agents, his special boys and girls, is that even when they are off-duty, they can never be heard. Just, the silence of an empty room and suddenly they're there, smelling of leather and acrid sweat and getting blood on his best chair.

Here and now when the helicarrier is screaming silence is easy, but Coulson smells one now, on the far edge of his hospital room. I expect a clean shot, Agent Barton, he thinks silently. And don't, don't – he pauses, unsure of any useful benediction for his compromised agent – don't dream. But Coulson's best sniper only stands there for a breath and a breath, then ghosts to his side. Coulson feels the warmth of a hand almost touching his shoulder, and withdrawing, and his hawk is gone.

 

2 Darcy Lewis

“So all I'm saying,” he hears, “is if a crew of jack-booted thugs kidnap a girl from defending her Master's thesis in the name of her own protection, then crashing on the way in and leaving her with a cracked arm in a freakin' war zone is not an encouraging sign of said thugs' competence. Okay? Sorry, I can see you're having a bad day, too. Ow, my arm hurts. Lollipop? I can waft the smell over – mmm, lemony.”

It's Ms Lewis, the physicist's assistant from the incident in New Mexico, the one that tased a god. Coulson wonders how long she'll stay – protective custody has turned into recruitment before now, and he'd rather like to keep this one. He ignores any ifs in this plan.

“Welp, your flying thing in the sky is cool, anyway. But I want to make one thing clear, since we meet again so providentially.” She leans over him and he smells sweat and pain, lemon and the wool of a jumper as she whispers in his ear, low and dark, “You have my iPod, and until it's back, this ain't over. I'll see you when you're up.”

Ms Lewis , he acknowledges, as an infuriated medic hauls her away.

 

3 Nick Fury

“Permission still denied, soldier.”

Sir.

 

4 Captain America

It is much later, and Coulson thinks perhaps that he has been sleeping, for the sounds of the carrier are much calmer now, almost agreeable. He hears the clear stride of a very large man, the squeak of his shoes, and a rustle of something light placed on the table by his bed. Steve Rogers' light clear voice says, “I signed all of them. Once they were dry.” A click of heels and the brisk rustle of cloth that is probably a salute.

As Rogers leaves, all Coulson can think is, I'll be – Captain America signed my cards! He almost manages a smile.

 

5 Natasha Romanov

More silence, then leather-smell and perfume and the creak of a chair. He hears turning pages, and a dark coffee voice begins:

In a certain Tsardom, across three times nine kingdoms, beyond high mountain chains, there once lived a merchant...

And suddenly Phil is back in an icy safehouse in Minsk, reading aloud from a battered book, while Agent Barton paces back and forth on the wooden floor and Natasha lies on a table, wrapped in a red blanket, twitching and spasming as she sweats out chemical agent 221, her eyes dark and mad.

..in that time there had been born to him only one child, a daughter, who from her cradle was called Vasilissa the Beautiful...

 

6 Thor

 

“Son of Coul, my father, too, sleeps the Odinsleep,” says Thor. “While he sleeps Thought and Memory fly across the worlds and gather him wisdom.”

That's one way to look at it, Coulson thinks.

“In the mean time,” says the god, “I will chant to you some little of the saga I have composed in your honour.”

Oh god.

 

7 Time

Somewhere in all this, Coulson is transferred to a ground facility – a small hospital attached to a military base. He listens to the tramp of troops jogging through his window and enjoys the breeze.

Eh, this isn't the first time he's been stuck in a hospital long term. When Coulson was much younger, he came back from a tour of duty that... didn't go so well, with a traumatised spine and a lot of new scars. Three months of bed pans and wheelchairs, and he was as surprised as any when he felt a fly land on his foot. In a couple of hours he could use the bed rails to haul himself along, so he headed to the john to piss in dignity. When he got back to the ward it was to the screaming of a nurse and the start of the everybody knows Coulson is secretly a ninja legend. He got transferred to S.H.I.E.L.D the next day.

So he knows from patience. He maps out his hands and his arms and his legs, carefully visualising each tendon and nerve and thinks through the actions of making them move. When he gets bored with that, he calculates the placement of this base by prevailing weather and the geographical ranges of the songbirds he hears, with occasional shadowy visits from his matched pair of assassins.

 

8 Pepper Potts

He never expects Tony Stark and is not disappointed, but the man's assistant and better half (then call me Pepper, Phil) comes by every fortnight or so. He looks forward to her delightful fragrance and the click of her heels. She spends a relaxed half hour updating him on the events outside. The Avengers' Initiative is doing well, it seems. There was an attack of mole-people in Manhatten on Sunday, diplomacy and trade agreements won out, but now everyone is worried about the Coming of the Incendiary Bat. It seems par for the course.

 

9 Darcy Lewis (Again)

“Hey, so Russian Modesty Blaise said you were still on ice and I was on-base so yeah. Gotta say, small-arms training is fun. Pew pew pew!”

Mine! This one's mine! he thinks, and there is rather less unacknowledged if in this thought because he rather thinks he can feel his fingers twitch. But alas, his guest does not notice this because at that moment there comes the crumpled thump of mortars exploding outside.

“Aw, hell no!”

 

10 Life

So there's an attack on the base and Coulson is at this point unable to determine if he's the target or an extra while they're here, but there is indeed a team coming through his window along with the gentle spring breeze. Ms Lewis acquits herself very creditably before succumbing to sleeping gas a half moment before Coulson does. He hopes it isn't the stuff he's allergic to.

It is, and Coulson comes awake vomiting, desperately turning his head to the side to clear his throat and mouth of the bile coming out of his otherwise empty stomach. When he's through the horror of dry-retching he blinks, because he can.

All the colours look wrong and movement is strictly shove arms and legs around wildly like a newborn baby but he can't really say he minds. Right now any movement at all is a very happy thing, so he looks around as much as he can.

Turns out he's half on-half off a stretcher in a S.H.I.E.L.D transport, and he is starting to appreciate Ms Lewis's view on rescues because half his movement difficulties are from the floor being seriously askew, the pilots up front are holding their heads and groaning, and there is sunlight coming through the wall where daylight should not be. A woman - Ms Lewis, he thinks - is lying on another stretcher, her dark hair spread around her, breathing deeply and evenly. She looks stable.

Phil Coulson heaves himself into an awkward belly-crawl and heads for the back of the transport. Secret ninja or no, there's a john back there, and he wants to piss in dignity.

 

Chapter Text

 

Darcy opens the door. Behind it, on a porcelain throne, is Coma Guy, formerly known as Suit-And-Sunglasses-Steal-My-Stuff Guy, apparently also known as My-First-Name-Is-'Agent' Coulson. He's wearing a hospital gown, the kind that ties at the back, and he says, "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph," very solemnly.

Darcy shuts the door.

She pauses, leaning her forehead against the cool metal of the toilet door, then turns around to take stock of the situation. She has a hangover, the nasty kind with the headache, spots in the eyes, a peculiarly nasty taste in the mouth and, tellingly, a powerful urge to hurl. She does not at this point remember where she came by the hangover, but she is sure it will come to her. At the moment she appears to be in a S.H.I.E.L.D personnel carrier, the box-like kind with two sets of chopper blades. The floor is tilted oddly, there are two stretchers locked into it (she vaguely remembers getting up from one), and there is a large gash in one bulkhead letting in a horrifying amount of sunlight. Huh.

Darcy forsakes proper hangover form, empties her belly on the floor, and feels a lot better.

Up front in the cockpit she sees a couple of guys in basic S.H.I.E.L.D black holding their heads and groaning, so she heads up there to help. One of them turns groggily to look at her.

Then it's a bit of a blur, but afterwards, she breaks down the actions as 1. S.H.I.E.L.D mook reaches for his side-arm, 2. Darcy nails him with the itty-bitty taser Mr Stark gave her which fits in her garter, 3. Darcy exclaims, "Dude! What the frick? You tried to shoot me!" and 4. Darcy elbows the other guy in the head and he goes kind of limp. She kicks him in the shin for good measure. Context is starting to become clear.

See, the thing about wandering around large top-secret institutions, hovering or no, is that when they're recovering from apocalyptic attacks there's so much stuff to look at, and precious few people to tell you you're not supposed to be in that room that says Authorised Eyes Only, This Means You. (She was looking for her missing iPod. And the Lost Ark.)

And the thing about that is that, sooner or later, you end up in front of a very large, very scary man with an eyepatch who cheerfully informs you that he can either "shoot you or recruit you," as he daintily finishes his coffee and morning croissant.

Which is how Mrs Lewis's bright-eyed girl ended up forsaking protest marches, primaries, and ruling the world through guile and chutzpah for... Top Secret Gopher and Coffee Girl.

Eh, it's not so bad. She sees Jane a lot (who is ridiculously, glowingly happy right now), the Avengers en masse are starting to promise scented oil foot rubs if she'll make them one – more - pot of coffee, and fetching classified documents (even if she doesn't read them, bah) can be surprisingly informative. She does the classified document crosstown gallop a lot, especially for Mr Stark, because S.H.I.E.L.D is terrified of his computer, and Barton, who is very... bland when he asks her to ferry his reports across. (She knows there's a story in there somewhere, but S.H.I.E.L.D HQ is also very... bland when his name comes up, so it's going to have to wait 'til she can get someone drunk.)

Let's be clear: Darcy is not coping. Coping is for people without ambition. Darcy performs with style, grace, and verve, and ruling the world through guile and chutzpah is still one of her long-range goals.

So anyway. It was that time of year when the office staff get rotated through one of S.H.I.E.L.D's ground bases for endurance training (unspeakably awful), small arms training (awesome), and basic catch-up on the whole administration-of-a-covert-ops-organisation thing (... intriguing). Somewhere in there she went to visit Coulson, because she heard he was there in the basket case ward and, even if he was a dick in New Mexico, hospitals suck. She was burbling along happily when she thought, Is that his finger twitching? Is that his middle finger twitching? Which is when there were explosions, people screaming, and these two particular guys in black crashing through the window with sleep gas grenades.

Darcy realises that this means her hangover almost certainly did not involve getting gleefully drunk on margaritas and kicks the guys again as she ties them to the pilot seats and frisks them for useful things. They're still breathing, and they won't choke if they vomit, and that is as much as Darcy is prepared to do for them right now. She spares a look at the piloting console... thingy, which is smashed up and sad looking. She couldn't pilot it anyway. Through the window she sees a little bit of junkyard and a whole lot of desert. There's a pot-bellied guy with a long beard tinkering with a motorcycle off to the side. He isn't letting this situation mess with his calm, and Darcy can relate. They're in Nevada, he says.

Darcy puts on a spritz of her favourite perfume (Smell of Roses and Apologise to No-One) and heads back to the toilet.

Coulson is still sitting there. He looks putty-coloured and unspeakably weary. "Ms Lewis...?" he says, a little uncertainly.

Darcy says yes, and he cheers up a bit. His eyes aren't really tracking well, she notices, and he looks a whole lot worse than she feels, so she explains the situation gently, as well as she knows it, about the kidnapping, and being stuck somewhere in the Nevada desert, and how the kidnappers look just like S.H.I.E.L.D and she's not sure if any rescue party would be good guys or bad guys.

"You need to get to ground," says Coulson quietly. "Make contact later." He starts explaining how to hack phone services the special, untraceable way and Director Fury's extra-private line and she cuts him off mid-way, because she's noticed he hasn't moved his arms or legs at all in this conversation and it's starting to sound like Agent-speak for Fly, you fools! and, hell no. 

She sticks her head out the hole in the bulkhead and looks around again. The sun is lowering and bringing out beautiful vivid colours in the desert sky. The bearded guy is polishing his bike with a rag now. It's the low-slung kind with handlebars that stretch way back, flames painted on the panels, and a comfy high backrest. She shouts to the bearded guy: "Hey! Is that bike for sale?" He shrugs.

Darcy had found a comfortably large wad of non-sequential, unmarked bills in one of the goon's pockets. Half of that and some interesting goodies from the carrier's emergency bag gets her the bike and a full tank of gas. A kiss on the cheek gets her a couple of extras and help shifting Mr Ex-Sleeping Beauty on the back of it, though unfortunately, they can't do any better clothes for him than his hospital gown.

Darcy points the bike towards the sunset and takes the extras – a pair of sunglasses - out of her pocket. She puts them on both of them.

"We ride!"

Chapter Text

Come In From the Rain 

 

"Dammit, Barton!"

Coulson yanks out his earpiece and drops it at his temporary monitoring starion. He reaches the door of the warehouse as it is kicked open and his assigned sniper comes in dripping wet.

Barton holds an unconscious woman like a sleeping child, her bedraggled hair as red as the twirling streaks of blood trickling over his face and goose-pimpled arms. He's grinning like a lunatic, blood showing in his teeth. "She didn't follow me home, but can I keep her?"

"You were ordered to make a killshot," Coulson says levelly, "not – 'jump down and wrestle with a Class A threat.'"

"I tranqed her first!" Barton's favouring his knee. Possibly both knees.

The woman's head slips off Barton's shoulder and Coulson catches it, the lolling weight giving him an uncomfortable sensory flashback of the last time a co-worker died on his watch.

"Puppy eyes...?" 

Coulson grits his teeth.

 

 

Chatter (missing scene from Iron Man 2 )

 

Natasha (Natalie tonight) surveys the wreckage. Wild parties always leave a mess, but when the host gets drunk and fires shots over the crowd with powered armour suitable for levelling a military installation there's a lot more rubble mixed in with the empty glasses and mysteriously placed pink panties.

Her very discreet earpiece crackles into noise: Stark and Rhodes have left the area, she hears Barton say from his high observation point.

All invited guests accounted for. No casualties, one sprained ankle, we're clear, their handler, Coulson, adds from the ground floor.

"Acknowledged." She scans through the rubble again, just in case. There's always someone who tries to gatecrash. She starts a mental checklist of who to call for discreet cleanup.

Hostile on your 7 . Natasha spins, palming the knife hidden in her stocking. But it is only Ms Potts, her current 'employer', picking through the rubble in high heeled shoes.

Did I say hostile? I meant spitting mad, Barton adds.

Quiet on comms , says Coulson.

"I said I'm on to you," Ms Potts splutters. "I knew you were up to something and -" Oh dear. Natasha skims through her options.

I need you on site , says Coulson. That takes out Barton's eternal favourite: Dive through the window!

Reclaim your cover if you can, he adds. There goes, "You had dinner with my supervisor last week!" as an out. Meanwhile, Ms Potts is talking about gold-diggers and other unkind labels. Oh well.

Natasha lets her eyes get wide and dark and sways forward, so her scent and the other woman's mingle, puts a finger on Ms Potts lips, and breathes, "But I wasn't interested in... Tony."

Her comm erupts with High five! and If you break that woman's heart, Romanoff, there will be words, but Ms Potts' spluttering has changed to a choked "- flattered, but -"

Natasha lets her hand fall and drops her eyes. "I'm sorry, that was unprofessional," she says demurely. "I won't speak of it again. May I come in to work tomorrow?"

"...okay." 

Notes: Eh, I watched Iron Man 2 recently and there is totally a bit where Pepper is about to rip 'Natalie' a new one... and the next we see they're working together just fine. Enquiring minds wanted to know!

 

 

Camouflage (200 words)


"No dear, I'm not going to let you let me beat you up."

Natasha snarls and points at the one HYDRA uniform they have. "It doesn't fit me. And they'll never believe you took me prisoner without a fight."

"Oh ye of little faith," Coulson sighs, zipping himself into the suit. It doesn't fit him well, either. He lets his shoulders slump and the little muscles in his face slacken. He looks tired now, tired, diffident and completely innocuous as he picks up a cardboard box of pastries and balances steaming cups on top of it. "If we're not out of the base in three hours, make for the extraction point."

He's back in two and a half, dressed as a janitor now, wearily pushing a trolley of rubbish bags out to a stinking alley. Natasha slides through the blind spot of the security camera and helps him slit open the top bag to reveal Clint Barton: half-naked, feverish, and curling himself around unknown injuries, but alive.

Barton grabs her wrist hard enough to bruise. "Make him show you the trick with the plastic spoon!" he hisses, his eyes too bright..

Natasha wraps her jacket around him. It doesn't fit.

 

 

Chapter Text

"Bucket List," says Darcy to the gas station guy as he looks dubiously at her passenger's hospital gown.

His sunburned face clears, "Oh, yeah, I took my Nana to Graceland last year. But you maybe want some clothes for your pop. It bites around here when the sun is down. Hang on, I've got some old coveralls..."

 

888

 

"Running away from the wife," says Darcy to the motel clerk. She looks fondly at the man whose arm is draped around her shoulders. He's wearing faded black denim set with rhinestones down the seams with a Long Live the King! baseball cap set low over his eyes, and her arm around his waist is less affectionate than helping him stay upright.

"Her wife," Coulson clarifies to the clerk. Her face has the blandness of a woman who has seen it all and can't be bothered getting no t-shirt no more.

"Names?" she drawls, holding out the register.

"Smith," they say together.

 

888

 

"Room service!" says a voice through the door.

Darcy turns to Coulson, who is propped up on a bed that, in a desert, still smells like mold. "Seriously?" she mouths. She feels like she's suddenly wandered into a bad spy novel – which is totes unfair: she wandered in months ago.

Coulson pauses from trying manfully to manouevre a plastic spoon into a tub of raspberry jelly to shrug.

"I didn't order any," she says sweetly.

"Oh, this is the complimentary tea and coffee tray."

Darcy retrieves the taser from her garter and stands to the side of the door before unlocking it. "Come on in!"

Later, when the motel owner's son has stopped twitching and drooling on the grey-flowered carpet, he accepts their apology, for he is a sweet boy who blushes just like an out-of-uniform Captain America, and even brings them more coffee.

And then there are Twinkies, and reality TV. It's all good.

Chapter Text

Risk

 

"Hey," says Darcy brightly, adjusting her daisy sunglasses. "I know a great trick with a plastic spoon!" The Evil Suit glances at her, his pistol wavering slightly. As he turns away, Coulson picks up the chair he's been leaning on (clutching) and breaks it over the man's head.

"Chairs work great, too," he says. "I'm going to fall down now." 

"I think we need to work more on our disguises..."

 

 

"This Is Not My First 'Rodeo'"

 

Times Coulson has successfully stage-managed a media coverup: 47


Times Coulson has not successfully stage-managed a media coverup: 1
(However often Stark saves the world, he will always hate the man for spoiling his record.)


Times Coulson has attended a non-metaphorical rodeo: Actually, this is the first. He leans on the wooden railing and chews thoughtfully at his gummed-on moustache as a rodeo clown capers like a lunatic to distract an angry bull from a downed rider. He feels a bond.


His (currently blonde) companion offers him a wide-brimmed, spangled hat. "You could... wear it ironically?"


"Ms Lewis," Coulson says levelly. "Never do anything ironically. Own your choices."


He puts on the hat. It has stars in red, white, and blue.

 

 

Ransom?


"I got a Burn Phone." Darcy shapes the words with pleasure. "And most of the other stuff you wanted, but we're running low on funds."

She watches, bright eyed, as he fumbles disparate electronic apparatus together. His hands still don't work right – it's like puppeteering rubber gloves filled with drain sludge and for a brief moment he is filled with loathing for himself, his weakness, and anyone who sees him like this. But it passes: Coulson has a job to do.

"...Did you just whistle into the phone?"

"You didn't get all the stuff I wanted," replies Coulson. His throat is drying out and he coughs to clear it. "I went to manual, so to speak. I'll show you the trick sometime." Then the other end of the line picks up.

"Fury," he says, before the coughing racks his chest. It's like knives. Darcy eases the phone away and lets him lean against her side, one hand rubbing circles on his back as she talks.

"I have Coulson," she says.

There is a pause, and Coulson hears, tinnily, "S.H.I.E.L.D does not negotiate with terrorists."

"What?!" squawks Darcy, too loud and Coulson winces through his coughing.

"Aw hell," she continues, peering at their articulated phone, "we lost our bars. There were bars, but they have left the building. Hey, next time we get kidnapped, could it be somewhere with cellphone reception? And good coffee, I'm just saying.

"Anyway, margaritas?"

 

 

Reminiscence

"... because every time I look at him I think 'Can there be hug times pliz' and Steve is so sweet he would let me but, kinda unprofessional. And I am as you know very professional," Darcy says solemnly. "But there's an urge. Who doesn't want to hug Captain America?"

They're lying side by side on another double bed. It's the end of a third day of travelling and ducking around corners and trying to get their untraceable phone to work and they're both feeling punch-drunk with exhaustion and too tired to actually sleep.

"So, hey, you and Barton, are you a thing? Enquiring minds want to know! I know you were his handler, but were you his... 'handler'?"

Coulson sighs.

"Aw shit, man, didn't mean to embarass you. No more jokes about playing the 'cello'.

"How has Agent Barton been coping?"

"Okay. I guess? He holds his end up in the..." Darcy waves her hands in a complicated shuffle to indicate Alien Invasions Mad Science and Mole People Etc. "Mostly he's the Spooky Cat That Isn't There. Except for paperwork – he's really great with an X22-AR5, only one who doesn't need to do it over and I hate nagging and the Captain always looks embarrassed and then -bam- ninja Barton is there with everything I need. Good man."

Darcy sits up, then, and checks the heat of Coulson's forehead with her inner wrist. She hums thoughtfully and fusses around for aspirin and water, making him sit up and drink it all down.

"This slumber party is lagging," she says, "and there aren't any S'mores. Desperate measures are required: I'll show you mine if you show me yours: tell me about a crush you had. Nothing current."

So Coulson tells her about his first real handler: Margaret Carter Devereaux Hill, who was tiny, British, and utterly unflappable, and sent him into dark mad places and brought him out again scratched but whole. Margaret Carter Devereaux Hill: the voice in his ear, the holder of Ariadne's thread, his guide.

"I'd have done anything for her," he says honestly. "Anything – slain her enemies, taken out her trash, let her pat me on the head or rub my belly..."

"So did you guys... have a thing?"

He smiles in the dark. "She took me along to her grand-daughter's graduation ceremony."

"Oh."

"She was very... kind."

"Okey-dokey. Now I had Barney. And Barney had an evil brother..."

She rambles on for a while, until she feels Coulson, leaning against her arm, relax finally into sleep.

Chapter Text

Radio Transcript
Operation: Bluebird
Location: REDACTED
Date: REDACTED
Page: 2

Time: 0801-2032

0801:02 AGENT BARTON, C.: In position. Sightlines are clear.
0802:29 AGENT CARRUTHERS, S: Copy that. Maintain position. Good hunting.
0803:01 AGENT BARTON, C: On it.

1132:32 AGENT BARTON, C: Bogey on horizon. 1.5 klicks, bearing East.
1132:54 AGENT CARRUTHERS, S: Negative, not the target.
1133:05 AGENT BARTON, C: Copy that.

1527:56 AGENT BARTON, C: Dusty up here. Could use a beer.
1529:38 AGENT CARRUTHERS, S: My wife worked on the carrier.
1531:22 AGENT BARTON, C: Understood.
1532:41 AGENT CARRUTHERS, S: Look I know it's not - shit. [pause] But can we just keep this professional?
1534:21 AGENT BARTON, C: Yeah.

2023:01 AGENT BARTON, C: Bogey on horizon. 1.5 klicks, bearing East by East by South.
2024:23 AGENT CARRUTHERS, S: Affirmative, this is the target. Do you have the shot?
2024:55 AGENT BARTON, C: It's dirty as fuck. Target is moving to a better distance. His jeep is slow on this ground - give it maybe five minutes.
2025:21 AGENT ROMANOV, N: I need you off this op, Clint.
2025:44 AGENT BARTON, C: I'm a little hung up, Tasha.
2026:00 AGENT ROMANOV, N: We lost Coulson.
2026:01 [Gunshot]
2026:05 AGENT BARTON, C: Target down. Anyone else I can kill for you, Tasha?
2026:15 AGENT ROMANOV, N: Let me rephrase my earlier statement.

 

Phone Transcript
Director Fury's private line (#2)
Date: [REDACTED]
Time: 1631-1634

1631:23 DIRECTOR FURY, N: I have had it with the motherfucking cakes on this motherfucking train!
1631:49 AGENT HILL, M: Low blood sugar is a mocker, sir. Service staff have located the custard squares, I am bringing them to you n-
1632:00 [clicking noise]
1632:01 MALE (probably AGENT COULSON, P): Fury.
1632:05 DIRECTOR FURY, N: Phil.
1632:07 [cries of pain]
1632:33 FEMALE (tentatively identified as PROBATIONARY STAFF MEMBER LEWIS, D): I have Coulson.
1632:45 DIRECTOR FURY, N: S.H.I.E.L.D does not negotiate with terrorists. Who are you?
1633.01 [whirring noise]
1633:07 DIRECTOR FURY, N: Shit.

 

To: [REDACTED]
From: ThunderPetal@happyhappymail.com
Subject: I AM NOT A TERRORIST!

Paid presentation: Are you really happy with your nailcare? Try this weird old tip!

Son of C says 'Geneva' and 'Clarksville'. I say boys in your t-shirt are being mean. What gives? Are you... are you trying to break up with us? Because I for one feel hurt. We're somewhere in the untrackable deserts of Nevada, if you wanna talk.

Sig: Be nice to me, I have a hangover.

To: ThunderPetal@happyhappymail.com
From: [REDACTED]
Subject: Re: I AM NOT A TERRORIST!

Petersburg. Interdepartmental shin-kicking plus quest for nicer toys plus some people do not play well with others. I apologise on behalf of my housekeeping staff, young lady. Can your uncle travel? Tell him to meet us at the place where we did that stuff.

 

To: [REDACTED]
From: ThunderPetal@happyhappymail.com
Subject: Re: Re: I AM NOT A TERRORIST!

Paid presentation: Do you feel socially disadvantaged by the cubage of your tubage? Insecurity about a man's size... down there can be crippling. But we can help - sign up for penis reduction surgery today!

It's us, again. Did you mean the place where you did that stuff or the place where you did the stuff that one time? (Because we are so embarassed.)

Can't wait for a reply today, the library is closing in a minute. (There may or may not have been Story Time With Elvis. My lips will remain sealed on rhine-stony goodness until I die.)

Sig: Be nice to me, I have a hangover.


To: ThunderPetal@happyhappymail.com
From: [REDACTED]
Subject: Re: Re: Re: I AM NOT A TERRORIST!

I like fireworks.

 

 

To: "I'm a little teapot" (Tony.Stark@starkmail.st )
From: Pepper.Potts@starkmail.st
Subject: You're staging a mini-expo.

In Nevada. It starts tomorrow. You have been planning this little surprise for months, to celebrate the unique Nevada life-style and on behalf of the Maria Stark Foundation, which is branching into protecting the hopping desert mouse's at-risk habitat.

Sig: This is a private communication. If you have received this communication in error, please contact the sender.


To: "especially when she sneezes" (Pepper.Potts@starkmail.st)
From: Tony.Stark@starkmail.st
Subject: Re: You're staging a mini-expo

O...kay? Does Nevada have a life-style?

Sig: This is a private communication. If you have received this communication in error, please contact the sender and he will come over with snacks and party favours.

 

To: [REDACTED]
From: ThunderPetal@happyhappymail.com
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: I AM NOT A TERRORIST!

Paid presentation: Now in Economy size, Aunt Sally's Herbal Buttock Tightening Cream "If it's herbal, you know it's good for you!"

Uncle likes fireworks too!

Sig: Be nice to me, I have a hangover.

 

To: "I'm a little teapot" (Tony.Stark@starkmail.st)
From: "she prefers appropriate e-mail nomenclature" (Pepper.Potts@starkmail.st)
Subject: Re: Re: You're staging a mini-expo

Hopping desert mice, Tony. Bring the family. It's a nice surprise, I promise.

Sig: This is a private communication. If you have received this communication in error, please contact the sender.

 

To: "Capsicle" (Steve.Rogers@starkmail.st), "Russian Roulette" (N.Romanoff432@shield.net), "Ferdinand" (Dr.Banner@starkmail.st), "tall, blond, and godly" (Thor@starkmail.st ), "Legolas" (C.Barton231@shield.net)

From: Tony.Stark@starkmail.st
Subject: ROADTRIP!

Just get in the plane.

Sig: This is a private communication. If you have received this communication in error, please contact the sender and he will come over with snacks and party favours.

 

Chapter Text

And sometimes, the day is not so awesome.

 

She wakes up and they're dragging her somewhere down echoing halls. Her stomach hurts from where they punched her and she can't see. Doors open and clang shut and someone shoves her into a chair and yanks the black bag off her head. Coulson is next to her, still in the Bugs Bunny t-shirt and scruffy jeans he had on when they were attacked, his twig-thin arms cuffed behind him. He looks... inoffensive and bland.

They're in a large room.  It's luxurious, with thick, richly covered carpets and polished furniture.  There's a bowl of flowers on a desk, and bland classical music is playing.  One wall of the room is made of heavy bars.  There's a man leaning against the desk with his arms crossed, slightly built, wearing a grey suit and thick spectacles.  He waves one hand and the goons who manhandled them back off to the wall. They're wearing the uniforms of prison guards.

"Oh, now look at you," the man in front says to Coulson.  "All walking and talking.  We had some thoughts about getting you out of that pesky coma -" he gestures vaguely at a long metal rod on the desk - "but hey, road trips are good for the soul, I guess.  You look great!!"

Darcy swallows. "I said we should have dressed you up as Elvis," she says to Coulson.

"I don't actually like Elvis."

"You liked the rhinestones."

"Who doesn't like rhinestones?"

"Point."

"Hey," the man waves.  "Over here.  You're Agent Coulson.  You know who I am, right?"

"Justin Hammer," Coulson says, blandly.

"I was hoping he was Al Capone," says Darcy wistfully.

"Al Capone got hauled up for tax evasion.  I don't respect a man who can't hide his paper-trail."

"But, gangster-chic, right?"

"Hey!" says Hammer.

"It's no use," says Darcy, "torture Coulson all you want, I won't talk."

"Quiet!" screams Hammer. She narrows her eyes. He ignores her.

"I gotta sympathise," says Hammer, coming closer and putting his hand on Coulson's shoulder.  "Working with Tony?  Gives me an ulcer.  And you did it all the time.  You're a champ. S.H.I.E.L.D.s finest. Well, no. Man, you should see Fury's assessment reports. 'Adequate to requirements' – jeeessus. And then he goes and dumps you on babysitting." He shakes his head sorrowfully.

"But I respect you, Agent Coulson.  So I'm gonna offer you a job.  It's a great job.  As you can see," he waves airily around, "I'm sitting pretty."

"You're serving a prison sentence."

Justin smirks. "You think there's anything goes on here I don't want? As you can see, my friends are good to me. And I am very, very good to my friends. But there's a spot in my organisation for logistics and operations, and I think you can be that guy. You wanna be my guy? And if you bring over some of Fury's command codes in your little noggin, I won't tell. Peanut?"

Silence stretches out, and Hammer adds,  "There's even a suit allowance!" and adjusts the lapels of his jacket.

Coulson's eyes crinkle around the edges as if he's trying not to wince, and he looks back at Darcy. "Torture me all he wants, huh?"

"I'm still bitter about that iPod. What happened to my gear?"

Coulson looks discomfited. "I dropped it," he says, looking away.

"Seriously?"

"No."

"Then...?"

"The playlists developed sentience and tried to take over our computer systems.  We had to destroy it for the safety of the nation."

"You realise this means war?"

"Ms Lewis, I quite honestly have no idea what happened to your entertainment device. We were busy with, I don't know, breaks in the time-space continuum? Killer robots destroying a town? It got lost, you have a salary, deal with it."

"That's not good enough! You ass-holes take and take and you never give anything back." And Darcy realises her voice is rising, because – while the banter-banter-distract routine has served them very well lately - right now she's really angry and even though she knows she's not being fair to the guy just out of a coma, she can't stop shouting.  "I had my life!  It was all planned out!  There were going to be campaigns and civil rights marches and, and pancakes when I wanted them.  And now I'm a government spook in the shadows and I'm stuck and it's all your fault."

"I'm sorry," Coulson shouts back.  "I'm sorry but some things I can't fix," he snarls, then lets his breath out and his shoulders go limp.

"It's not polite to ignore your host," says Hammer.  He grabs Darcy by the hair and pulls and - that really hurts - drags her out of the chair.  "It's rude.  Do you want me to be rude to you?"

She half sees Coulson launch himself out of his chair towards them - launch himself and fall, awkwardly, when his legs and his balance fail him.  He lies there struggling against himself like a landed fish, and oh in his face the rage and the helplessness and the shame.




Chapter Text

 

The Terrible Temptations of Trolling Tony Stark

 

Pepper's phone sounds on speaker and Stark says, worriedly, "Is there anything in Nevada except prisons and bad cell coverage?"

"The Hoover Dam, gambling, and divorce ranches," she says back, disconnects, and orders another drink.

Bruce takes off his glasses, polishes them, and puts them back on. The pair of them are sitting at a tiny cocktail bar – rough seating and the drinks come from a tent, but damn they're good – watching over the crowd as Stark does his best showgirl impersonation. There are real showgirls on stage, too, but at this point, Bruce suspects Stark could pull the crowd entirely on his own, naked, or smelling like a skunk from three days in the lab. Bruce resolves not to mention this last, by reason of giving ideas. "He doesn't know what this is about." It isn't a question.

Pepper runs her finger around the martini glass idly.  "Well, at first I was in a hurry, and explaining it all to Tony would take time I needed to organise the event.  Then it was just funny." She taps a long fingernail on the table and glances again at the phone.

Bruce nods, dubiously. "And the rest of us, are we here to help with PR, or...?" This setup honestly doesn't smell like Army playing games but... eh. He'd seen Hawkeye earlier, lounging in a high place in a Hawaiian shirt and scruffy straw hat, every muscle shouting indolent ease. But his eyes had that thousand-yard stare, and he barely took time to nod at Bruce before going back to scanning the crowd. Perhaps it would have been better to go visit Asgard with Thor and Doctor Foster and their hordes of overly boisterous, drunken friends...

On the distant stage, Stark raises his arms and cries, "So, how about those hopping desert mice, huh?  Yeah!" The crowd cheers.

Pepper puts her hand to her mouth. "Oh, I forgot to tell you, yes, well you see-" She stops and looks over Bruce's shoulder.

Natasha is coming towards them, white flowers in her hair, moving like a poem in fire and water. (Not that Bruce is crushing like a sentimental schoolboy. Not at all) "Could we borrow your services for a moment, Bruce?" She holds up a medical kit. Pepper catches her breath in her throat.

 

 

With a Bound They Were Free!

 

Steve Rogers is Captain America! Steve Rogers is striding around in the red, white, and blue, kissing babies and discussing earnestly the importance of maintaining the habitat of a national treasure. Steve Rogers has even managed to improvise a stage routine with the nice girls they borrowed from the casino theatre.

Steve Rogers is quietly furious.

He can, as it happens, spot a covert operation when it is slapping him in the face with a three-day-old mackerel. As a military man, he understands the occasional need to go off book. But as a team leader, he needs better intel than walk around looking shiny. When this is over, he and Barton and Romanov are going to have, as they say, words.

A small truck manoevres through the crowds and screeches to a halt in front of him and a girl with bleached blonde hair and daisy-rimmed spectacles leans out the window. "Captain America!" she says happily.

He puts on a toothpaste-white smile automatically, then realises that he knows her. It's... Darcy Lewis, from S.H.I.E.L.D, who picks up the paperwork, sometimes. She always seemed too nice to get mixed up in this.

She smiles widely and dips her glasses, and he sees behind them a black bruise and a manic glitter in her eyes that he recognises from his old days on the Front. "You've gotta count as senior S.H.I.E.L.D personnel, am I right? 'Saskatchewan'."

A crackle on comms and Barton says, "Tell her 'Arkansaw'. Wait..." A burly man in a suit just coming around the corner quietly crumples to the trampled grass with a small dart in his neck. "Now tell her 'Arkansaw', area's clear.

"'Arkansaw'," Steve repeats, and, "Hawkeye, when this is over..."

"Got it," replies the archer, agreeably, "words."

Darcy hops out and leads him around the van, past the side where ' Prison Services' has been sprayed over with Hopping Mice FTW!! She's favouring her abdomen and Steve winces a little. He knows that women are strong and capable and tough, but he still... doesn't like it , when they get hurt. "Sorry we're late," she says, as she slides open the doors. "There was trouble..."

There's a human form lying crumpled in on itself on the floor.

"... with the thing with that stuff," the last inhabitant of the van says, where he sits indian-fashion in the back corner, bare elbows resting on denim-clad knees, and a black wand with a sparking end held lightly in his fingers. Agent Coulson's hooded eyes brighten a little. "Good evening, Captain Rogers."

"Good evening," Steve says back automatically.

"We may, technically, be guilty of kidnapping," Darcy says, poking the body with her finger. It – he – rolls over and glares at her. She pokes him again.

"It was a jailbreak," says Coulson.

"Gosh."

"But I think I can write it up as the transfer of a prisoner to S.H.I.E.L.D. custody."

"Paperwork ninja."

 

 

(Debriefing 1)

 

Later, in a small white room with uncomfortable chairs, Darcy will say, "Oh see, it was awesome, 'cause I was all 'Eeeeeee', and Coulson went Karate Kid, not the 'wax on wax off', the 'sweep the leg bit', and then -"

And Coulson will add, poking irritably at an IV needle in the back of his hand, "There was a weapon on the table."

"And what a taser, is that how Thor feels? I wanna keeeep it."

"So we commandeered a vehicle and headed for the indicated extraction point."

And Agent Maria Hill, their debriefer, will ask Coulson, "Is she on the good painkillers?"

"No."

"Are you on the good painkillers?"

And Coulson will turn and glare at the IV bag hooked to his wheelchair. "Possibly."

.

 

Who Doesn't Want to Hug Captain America?

Here and now, Coulson sits on the edge of the prison van, dangling his sneaker-clad feet, and says, smiling slightly, "Captain Rogers."

"Agent Coulson," says Steve (Captain America!) standing soldier straight.  "It's good to see you upright." He pulls down his cowl and sits down awkwardly next to Coulson. He doesn't know what to say. He hardly knew the man, really. He isn't used to getting people back. "Bugs Bunny is still around, huh?" he ventures, nodding at the logo on Coulson's t-shirt.

"The classics never go out of style," says Coulson. He adds, hesitantly, "Captain Rogers, could I perhaps ask you a personal favour?"

Steve quirks an eyebrow but nods.

"Give the young lady a hug."

Steve smiles and goes over to a refreshment tent where Darcy is tracking the pouring of a cup of coffee with the intensity of an addict. He taps her politely on the shoulder, and then gathers her carefully into his arms.  She sighs happily and relaxes into it, saying, "Oh yeah, that's the stuff. This is healing wounds in my soul I didn't know I had. You got good pecs, Rogers."  Then, very quietly, she starts to cry.
 
Barton appears beside him. "Storytime with Elvis?"

"Barton," Coulson says, "there is no Storytime with Elvis, there was no Storytime with Elvis, and there never will be Storytime with Elvis. It was misinformation on a compromised channel."

"Sir."

"I'm never going to live it down, am I?"

"It's good to have you back, sir."

Barton's eyes flick to where Steve Rogers (Captain America!) is rubbing circles on Darcy's back and making shhhing noises like a pro. He looks back. Coulson realises suddenly that his hands are shaking, little irregular spasms that aren't from the chill of a desert evening. "Not in public."

Barton smiles with the corner of his mouth. "We got you a medical examiner. Standard procedure when coming in from the field." And indeed, Natasha is coming towards them now, towing Dr Banner, who now owns a medical case and a bemused expression.

"Agent... Coulson, right?" says Dr Banner. "I don't think we quite met properly, before."

"It was busy," Coulson agrees.

 

 

(Debriefing 2)


Maria Hill will quirk one elegant eyebrow and send Darcy out of the room.  "I think we'll get a more complete debrief later. Oh, your opinion on Probationary Staff Member Lewis in the field."

Coulson will frown.  "She's loud, she's impudent, I now know far more about - feminine hygiene - than I ever wanted to, and when she cannot get her predigested musical pap she will try to sing it.  And she cannot sing." He will shudder.  "The Dead Puppy song is going to haunt my dreams... Adequate to requirements."

"Transfer to your department?" Maria will ask, tapping at her tablet.

"Please."

 

Sleep of the Just

 

Here and now, Banner pinches his hand and watches the skin stay puckered up. He smooths it back down "You're dehydrated," he observes. "Any numbness?"

"Some. A lot. It's getting better," says Coulson.

"Hmm. Squeeze my hand. And the other."

"Will I ever play pianer again, doctor?"

Banner smiles. "Could you play pianer before?"

"Not even Chopsticks ."

"Well then." Banner breathes out through his nose. "The chest trauma healed up pretty well. As for the other, six months on your back does nobody favours. We'll get you some physical therapy and see how it goes."

Coulson nods. The shakes are coming back, and he hides it with coughing. Banner keeps his head down as he puts his stethoscope and sphygmomanometer and penlight back in their case.

"We'll take it from here, Doc," says Barton, coming into the quinjet with a soft red blanket in one hand and a silver thermos in the other.

"Thank you for your help, Bruce," says Natasha from behind him. The doctor nods, and leaves quietly.

"Do I get a teddy-bear?" Coulson asks as they give him a thermos mug with hot chocolate and marshmallows and wrap the blanket around his shoulders. Natasha silently produces a mouse plushy with a cheerful red Stark Solutions! logo on its chest. Coulson starts to laugh and can't stop. Someone wraps their hands around his on the warm cup, and another puts an arm around his shoulders. He doesn't care who. They are all of them S.H.I.E.L.D personnel, possessed of the terrifying determination of their service. But for now the job is over, and Coulson can sleep.

 

 

*

 

*



Epilogue, or, The Terrible Temptations of Trolling Tony Stark, Two

 

"Pepper? Pepper, Pepper, Pepper? There are Skrulls in the quinjet!"

"It's three in the morning, Tony. Get some sleep."

"No, see, it's Skrulls. And I know that, because the Spy Twins don't sleep, they just hang upside down in undisclosed locations."

"Or don't get some sleep – I saw some steel drummers and a fish-headed lady come over from Burning Man. You could talk to them!"

"And anyway, Pepper Pepper, Agent Coulson doesn't take off his suit, he can't, it's bonded to his skin. Hang on. Phil? Wait. What? Is this a her vengeance will be twelve percent of terrible kind of thing?"

"Go to sleep, Tony."

"I love an evil woman."

"G'night."