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Fucking magic.
Clint dodges another spat of green energy. He runs along the rooftops of mid-town and then leaps behind a high-rise billboard. He has a second to assess his environment before instinct tells him his time is up, and then he sprints forward, jumps, and somersaults off the building. He flaunts gravity by grabbing the edge of the window-ledge on his way over, avoiding another green flash, and tucks into a roll designed to take him through the window pane located beneath the ledge.
He smashes through the glass okay, even though he can feel shards of it cut across his face. Clint hadn’t counted on the renovations being conducted inside the building, though, and tumbles down two flights of scaffolding. He lands on the concrete floor with an audible thump and wastes a precious thirty seconds sucking air back into his lungs.
A high-pitched whine from outside the building makes him groan and stumble back to his feet. The evil sorceress of the week has fixed on him, all because Clint had been the one to shoot an arrow into her crystalline contraption and foul the whole ‘dominion of you puny humans’ thing she had going on. The rest of the team is busy with her minions, flying creatures that look just enough like demented monkey’s that neither Tony nor Clint had been able to resist. Even Steve had joined in, cracking jokes at the witch’s expense.
Clint isn’t feeling much like laughing, now. He’s seen what those green flashes of hers can do – his second and third arrows, launched for good measure at the crystalline structure she’d assembled in the skies above midtown – had been turned into saplings. She’d winged him when he turned to run, and caught the quiver on his back. The near-indestructible piece of technology had been reduced to its component elements – mostly bits of metal and wood. Clint doesn't want to think what his component parts would look like scattered across New York city.
His only hope is to get to the S.H.I.E.L.D. van. Thor is holed up there using Mjolnir as a defence, protecting their bastion of safety. This witch wasn’t from Asgard, but Thor has experience stopping magical attacks. The last Clint had seen, the god had stationed himself over Coulson’s command centre and was keeping both the bolts of green energy and the demented flying monkeys away with blasts from his hammer.
Now that’s a form of magic Clint can get behind.
He watches the windows of the office building while simultaneously calculating his exits. He’s near ground-level now, but not quite there – there’s an elevator shaft to his left, a staircase to his right, and another wall of windows right in front of him. The windows would be his first choice if he still had his quiver, but as it is, the only arrows Clint’s got in his arsenal are the three standard point steel-heads clenched in his left fist.
There’s another high-pitched whine from the window – the witch isn’t actually riding a broomstick, but whatever the hell she’s sitting on isn’t too different – and Clint’s out of time. He dives for the elevator shaft just as a bolt of green energy explodes through the windows.
The elevator is resting at the bottom of the shaft. Clint grabs onto the cables and slows his descent enough that he doesn’t break his legs when he hits the bottom. He kicks open the elevator top plate, drops into the car, and then waits the five-point-six seconds he knows it will take the witch to circle around the building. When she should be at the farthest point of her axis, Clint takes off in a dead run to where he knows the S.H.I.E.L.D. van will be.
He makes it outside and half-way down the street before the witch spots him. Clint can see the van just ahead, Thor still stationed atop it like a statue brought to life. He’s laughing and swinging his hammer, spears of lightning sparking off it in waves. He’s keeping an angry horde of flying monkeys away from the van, and Coulson is standing in his shadow, service weapon out, calmly picking off monkey’s with a precision that would be hot if Clint weren’t in imminent danger of being reduced to his component elements.
Okay, it’s still hot. Marksmanship is a weakness of his, and so is Coulson. Hotness is guaranteed.
Clint can hear the whine of the witch behind him, and a bolt of energy sears into the ground at his feet. Clint yelps but keeps on running, putting on a burst of speed. His instincts are screaming for him to dive to the side, but there’s no where to go – the streets are even empty of parked cars. Besides, Clint’s worked with this team long enough to trust them. If he can make it a little farther, Thor will be able to take this witch problem permanently off his back.
He almost doesn’t make it. Another sizzle of green energy flashes by and Clint dives. Thor calls his name and there’s a flash of lightning. Clint misses the exchange in his mad tumble, but the witch must dodge because he can still hear her cackle.
Clint knows he’s not out of danger yet. He rolls to his feet and keeps running for the van. He can see the whites of Coulson’s eyes now – he’s almost safe.
There a sudden blast of sound from behind him. Clint hears the high pitched whine right behind his left ear, and he knows his luck has run out. He forces himself to keep his eyes open, prepared to meet death on his feet, and so he sees the moment when Coulson’s features harden.
Clint's stomach turns to ice. He draws breath to shout 'No', but Coulson’s already launching himself forwards. He puts his body between Clint’s and the bolt of green light and there’s a sickening flash.
Clint tumbles to the pavement at the base of the van. Thor roars. Mjolnir flashes and the witch screams. Clint hears her death cry as if from far away. He rolls over. His brain is already trying to prepare itself for seeing the smear on that pavement that’s probably all that’s left of the best man he’s ever known.
Please, no, he prays with every fibre of his being. Oh, god, please no.
Clint completes his turn and stares. A boy stares back.
Clint blinks, but the image doesn’t waver. Standing where Coulson would have been is a child. He’s maybe six or seven. He’s naked and holding an armful of black cotton. Two pieces of uneven leather sit on the pavement at his feet. His eyes are wide and innocent and so very blue – and despite the full head of hair and the lack of fine lines and weight of experience, Clint knows those eyes.
They’re Coulson’s eyes.
“Phil?” Clint says.
The little boy’s chin wobbles, just for a second, before it firms. He swallows. His gaze darts around the scene of destruction – Thor standing atop the S.H.I.E.L.D. van wielding Mjolnir, flying monkey still attacking midtown, giant pockmarks in the pavement where stray shots have damaged the road. Clint knows there are broken windows behind him and glass in his hair. He’s still holding his bow and the three arrows, and his hands are ripped and bloodied from the dozens of flips and falls he’s done over the past half hour.
He knows he doesn’t look reassuring, or practical, or anyone someone would trust with a child, let alone the kind of person a child would voluntarily trust, but Coulson's – no, Phil’s – gaze still comes back to him after surveying the scene.
“My name is Phil,” the boy says. His voice is higher than Clint is used to, but he still recognizes it. That’s the voice that’s called him home, that’s ordered him coffee, that’s said again and again and again ‘take the shot, Barton.’ That voice, more than anything, makes Clint realize this is real.
“Where am I?”
Clint swallows and rolls onto his knees. Around him, he’s dimly aware that the battle is ending. Their mistress now gone thanks to Mjolnir, the flying monkeys are collapsing in grief. It isn’t hard for the Avengers to pick them off. Clint sees Tony fly by out of the corner of his eye, and he knows the Hulk can’t be far, going by the crashes he can hear a block or two away. Thor is watching their backs and Clint feels justified in keeping the majority of his attention on the little boy who is now all he has left of Phil Coulson.
“You’re in New York,” Clint says, putting his bow and arrows on the ground. He holds up his empty hands and keeps his eyes trained on Phil’s face. The boy is staring at him as if Clint holds all the answers to the universe, and in this moment, for this child, Clint knows that he does.
“My name is Clint,” he says, doing his best to speak slowly and carefully, but not as if he’s talking to a child. He’s not sure how much Phil remembers, but Clint knows what his handler is capable of, and he’s not about to underestimate him just because he’s small. “What’s the last thing you remember?”
Phil bites his lip as if he’s concentrating, an expression Clint’s seen a handful of times, enough to be familiar. His eyes stay steady on Clint’s face, though, and he’s holding himself still.
He’s tense, Clint realizes. It triggers a memory in him, one long buried – of himself as a young child, facing the strangers at his front door. Men in blue uniforms who had come to tell him and Barney that their parents were dead.
“I think I was sleeping,” Phil says, and Clint drags his thoughts away from his own past. This isn’t about him – this is about Phil. “I went to bed last night and drew a line through the calendar, because it’s three more days until my birthday.”
Clint nods. “That’s right,” he says, feeling relieved. “It’s July 5th. You’re birthday is on July 8th.”
Phil’s small eyes sharpen. “How do you know when my birthday is?”
“Because we’re friends,” Clint tells him. It’s even true. Clint has worked hard on getting over his inescapable crush, hard enough to form a relationship with Coulson that's more than just asset and handler. In the months since Coulson’s come back from the dead, Clint has started hanging out with him. He tells himself that a friend is all he needs, that he’s okay with settling for that when he knows he wants more. “Friends tell each other things, like when their birthday is. My birthday is June 18th. How old are you turning on your birthday this year, Phil?”
Phil doesn’t look convinced, but he’s still watching Clint. “Eight,” he says. “I’m going to have a party. I’ve already organized everything.”
“That sounds wonderful,” Clint says. He absolutely does not think about the small present he has wrapped in his room, or the big celebration he and Natasha had talked Tony out of throwing. Coulson’s always preferred low-key celebrations for his birthday, quite the opposite of Clint, who’s all for recreating the party he never had as a child. Natasha always buys Coulson a bottle of Russian vodka, and Clint picks up little things from his missions over the years. He wraps them individually and packs them in a box, and gives it to Coulson when he can. Usually the three of them end up sitting in Coulson’s office drinking spiked coffee.
But this Phil Coulson is only turning eight, not forty-eight, and he deserves a party, not alcohol. Clint nods decisively. “I’m going to call my – our – friends Tony and Natasha, okay? They're experts in helping little boys and getting them back to where they are supposed to be for their birthdays.”
Phil frowns at him. “I’m almost eight years old. I’m not a little boy.” He glances once around the still winding down battle and shivers. Clint’s reminded that Phil is naked and clutching the remains of what must once have been his second-favourite suit. “I guess calling for help couldn’t hurt, though.”
“Absolutely not,” Clint says. He lifts a finger to his ear to trigger his communicator. “You’ll love this, though – Captain America is here to help you.”
Phil’s face quirks in confusion. “Who?”
*
The next hour is spent in furious discussion. Tony drops out of the sky right next to them, too startled by Clint’s revelation that Coulson had been hit by the witch’s energy bolt and now he’s an eight-year old boy to remember that giant metal men are pretty damned scary to eight-year old boys.
Phil startles sideways and bumps into Clint. Clint lifts his arm without thinking and tucks Phil close, protecting him. Tony shoots him an amused glanced, but that’s quickly lost in the scientific babble that erupts the moment Tony kicks his big brain into gear.
Jasper shows up and starts coordinating the science teams. He’s brought a pair of pants and a t-shirt he had at his apartment from the last time his son stayed over. They’re a little big on Phil, making him look even more ridiculously small.
S.H.I.E.L.D. collects Phil’s cotton-ball uniform and Clint’s sapling-arrows and starts running chemical tests. The Hulk paces in circles around them and Clint’s got nothing against the Big Guy, but he’d rather have Bruce Banner here right now to help in the biological/technological/magical mumbo-jumbo speech. That’ll have to wait until the Hulk falls asleep, though.
Natasha sidles up to Clint with cat-like quiet. Jasper’s the only one who has experience with children, but he’s been kidnapped by Tony to help coordinate the science. Phil’s still wide-eyed and watching everything. He hasn’t given Steve more than a second glance, which is freaking Clint out more than just a little.
“How old is he?” Natasha asks, nodding her head towards Phil.
“Seven, turning eight in three days,” Clint says quietly back. Phil looks back and gives Natasha a shaky smile, though the hand he has clenched around Clint’s tightens. She smiles hesitantly back.
“I suggest we retire to the Tower,” Natasha says, turning to the group at large, and easily cutting through the discussion. “We’re all filthy, and could use something to eat.”
“An excellent idea,” Pepper says, arriving on the scene. “Happy’s here with the car, he’ll give Clint and Phil a ride back to the Tower.”
Phil stares at Pepper and her three inch heels like he’s never seen her before in his life, like they aren’t practically best friends. Pepper always knows what to do, though – she slips off her shoes and goes down to her knees in front of Phil and smiles at him so reassuringly that even Clint can start to believe everything is going to be okay.
“Have you ever ridden in a limo before, Phil?”
Phil shakes his head and his hand tightens around Clint’s. “No, ma’am.”
“Well, you’re going to love this, then,” Pepper says. “Why don’t you and Clint come with me, and we’ll leave the scientist people to figure out how you got here and how to fix you back.”
Phil looks up at Clint with such heartbreaking innocence that Clint has no choice but to nod. Together the two of them follow Pepper down the street beyond where S.H.I.E.L.D. has erected barricades. Happy is waiting for them with the black limo, and Phil’s eyes go saucer-wide when he sees it.
“We’re really going to ride in that, ma’am?”
“Yes, sir, little Master,” Happy says, touching the valet’s cap he must have dug out of storage just for this occasion, because Clint knows he’s actually the head of S.I. security, now. “Hop right in and we’ll get you home.”
“Home?” Phil asks, twisting around to look back up at Clint.
“Not home, home,” Clint has to say. “To my home. I’ll show you where I live, and you can see all my cool toys, okay?”
Phil nods and it’s so him that Clint’s breath stutters in his chest. “Okay.”
Pepper and Happy make small talk amongst themselves as Happy negotiates post-battle traffic and gets them back to the Tower. Clint gives Phil the five-dollar tour and watches carefully for signs of exhaustion. Phil’s a little kid now and little kids need naps, right?
He fixes them both a sandwich – peanut butter and jam is apparently Phil’s seven-turning-eight-in-three-days favourite – and they eat in the common room. Pepper calls to let them know that the team has a few working hypotheses and are on their way back to use the resources at the Tower.
It’s getting late by the time Tony has something to tell them. JARVIS had notified Clint an hour ago that pyjamas, toiletries, and several changes of clothes have been delivered to Clint’s floor of the tower. Phil’s starting to droop, but he forces his eyes open when Clint tells him the rest of the team is on their way.
Tony’s changed out of the suit by the time he comes up to the common room floor. Bruce is back with them and Steve’s in civvies. Natasha is wearing black yoga pants and a warm sweater and Thor is doing his best to appear not-god-like. Clint knows it’s still got to be unnerving as hell for a little boy to whom everyone in this room is a stranger, but Phil’s hand merely finds Clint’s again and squeezes. He straightens his shoulders and looks so much like Coulson that Clint has to look away.
“So,” Clint asks, after everyone’s gotten a second to ogle the still-a-baby-Phil, “what have you got?”
It turns out, what they've got is nothing.
Not nothing, Clint corrects himself as the mumbo-jumbo drones on, but there isn’t going to be an easy way to fix this. The witch’s spell used focused energies to reduce matter to its component elements – Clint’s fancy arrows got turned back into baby trees, Phil’s suit got disassembled into cotton balls, and Phil himself got turned into a seven-turning-eight-in-three-days year old boy.
“As best we can determine, the arrow-trees are now perfectly healthy saplings. Every scan we and JARVIS have taken of Phil show him to be healthy as well. We know this is not his natural form – there’s an unknown energy signature coming off both Phil and the saplings in waves. It’s reducing itself every time it cycles, like a count-down. It’s possible that when the field collapses the effects of this spell will dissipate, leaving regular grown-up Coulson behind, or…”
He trails off, and Bruce glaces at him. They both hesitate. Bruce bites his bottom lip, but goes on. “Or he’ll stay this way, in which case he’ll probably grow up normally. The third option is, well, that when the spell dissipates Phil will just… disappear.”
Phil’s hands go tight on Clint’s fingers, but he doesn’t look away. Clint wants to insist they take this discussion elsewhere, but he supposes that Phil – who’s seven and forty seven and still Phil Coulson – deserves to know.
“The point is,” Bruce goes on, sounding apologetic, “that we just don’t know, and we won’t until the effect of the spell dissipates.”
“How long will that be?” Phil asks in a reasonably steady voice.
Tony’s mouth opens and closes twice before he manages to get the words out. “Two and a half days.”
Phil nods. “The day after I turn eight.”
Tony worries at his lower lip and Bruce speaks up. “That’s right,” he says, “the morning after you turn eight, or forty-eight, the spell should end. At that point, we don’t know what will happen.”
Phil’s expression is too serious for his age. “Can I write to my parents?”
It’s Pepper who shakes her head. She’d come into the room after the team but had mostly stayed quiet in the corner of the couch. “No. The year is 2013, Phil. As far as your parents know, you're a grown man.”
Phil nods again. His hand, which has never left Clint’s, squeezes. “I think I’d like to go to bed, now.”
Clint forces himself to nod back. He’s just learned that Phil might die. Again. He could really use a drink. Phil needs him to be strong now, though, so that’s what he’ll do. “Sure. JARVIS had some clothes delivered here for you. Do you…” he hesitates, “do you want to stay on my floor tonight?”
Phil looks up at him. “If it’s not too much trouble.”
“Never,” Clint promises, and holds his hand while he slides off the couch. He looks over at the group. “We’ll see you guys in the morning.”
Everyone mumbles goodnight, and Clint and Phil escape up the elevator. They’re quiet while they get ready for bed. Clint’s floor only has the one bedroom with a queen in it, but at some point someone – Clint suspects Pepper – had moved a twin-sized bed and mattress into Clint’s room.
Phil changes into Captain America pyjamas – Pepper had probably thought she was helping – and brushes his teeth. Clint usually sleeps naked, but he doesn’t think that would be appropriate right now, for a host of good reasons. He finds a pair of boxers and an old t-shirt and takes care of his own teeth. They both climb into bed and Clint turns off the light.
“Night, Phil,” he says quietly, into the darkness.
“Good night, Clint,” Phil says back.
*
The next two days are supremely weird. Clint doesn’t know if he feels more like a big brother, or a substitute parent, or a strange combination of both. He doesn’t have any experience with children, but Phil doesn’t act like a normal child. That first morning he gets up before Clint and manages to brush his teeth and shower without waking him. Clint finally blinks himself awake and looks over at the empty twin bed, confused until he remembers what it is. Then he shoots out of bed and runs out of the room, terrified that he’s somehow already lost Phil.
He stops in the kitchen and stares. Phil is dressed in one of the new sets of clothes Pepper had bought for him yesterday. He’s standing at the stove on the stool he must have found in the hallway closet, the one Clint keeps around for maintenance. He’s flipping eggs on a pan and there are several pancakes warming under the red light. The table is set for two and both orange juice and milk have been set on the counter. The pot is brimming with coffee.
Clint has never seen Phil cook anything more elaborate than toast. He and Jasper are the take-out experts of the underground world. Clint’s been in love with the kitchen Tony had given him from the first day he moved into the Tower, but he’s pretty sure that Coulson’s never even opened the refrigerator.
“You… made… breakfast?” he asks, shocked.
Phil looks guiltily over his shoulder as he flips the last egg. The toaster pops. “I’m sorry?”
“No,” Clint says, shaking his head. “No, it looks – it smells – fantastic. I just never knew you could cook.”
Phil gives him a confused look. “Of course I can,” he says, and steps off the stool. He collects the eggs, all over easy and not a single yolk broken, and the toast, and carries it all over to the table. Clint shakes himself out of his surprise and helps him. They sit down together and Clint takes an egg.
“Mmm, this is delicious. Sir, you’ve been holding out on me.”
Phil stares at him, and Clint colours. “Sorry. I mean – Phil.”
“I’m your superior?” he asks, sounding lost.
Clint swallows hurriedly. “Um, yeah. I mean, for a couple of years. I’ve worked with you for a long time.”
“Oh,” Phil says, and he looks smaller than usual. “I thought we were friends.”
“We are,” Clint says. He puts down his fork and looks at Phil until the little boy glances back up at him. “We are friends, Phil. You’ve saved my life more times than I can count, more times than I know about, even, and I’ve saved yours a couple. We hang out and watch movies all the time. We’re friends.”
Phil doesn’t look like he quite believes him. “My father says superior officers can’t be friends with the men under their command.”
“Well… maybe your father and you learned to disagree about a few things,” Clint says, for lack of anything better to say. He realizes in that moment that he has no idea what Phil’s relationship with his parents is like. They don’t talk about family. Ever.
Clint’s always thought that was for his benefit – Coulson’s always been really consciousness of Clint’s fractured up-bringing. He was never a bastard about Clint not getting a movie reference or messing up a common saying. He didn’t talk about his parents or where he grew up. Clint’s always assumed it was because Coulson didn’t want to rub his perfect upbringing into Clint’s face but now, looking around the kitchen, at the breakfast Phil’s obviously expected to make, at the way there isn’t a single speck of dirt or oil left on the counter, he isn’t so sure.
“Is your father, are you parents… are they good to you at home?” Clint asks.
Phil’s face shuts down so fast Clint knows he’s asked the wrong question. Stupid, stupid, stupid. He’s had enough experience with social workers over the years to know better.
“Yes,” Phil says, and goes back to eating his breakfast in silence.
Clint curses himself but does the same. He insists on doing the dishes after, even though there isn’t much left to do – Phil’s already washed most of the pans and replaced them in the cupboard.
After that, Clint’s at a loss. He ends up taking a shower while Phil watches TV. He bangs his head against the wall of the shower a few times, wondering what the hell it is he’s trying to do.
Phil seven-turning-eight-in-two-days is not Coulson. Not his Coulson. He’s latched onto Clint, though, like some kind of strange pseudo-parent, and since it's Clint’s fault that all of this is happening anyway – Clint’s the one who should have been fried by that witch’s energy beam, not Coulson – it’s up to him to deal with this.
Besides, even if Phil isn’t Coulson, he’s still Phil Coulson. Clint would never abandon Coulson anywhere, no matter what he looked like, or what age he happened to be.
If Phil doesn’t turn back into himself in two days, if he’s forced to stay seven forever, or slowly grow up back into adulthood, or fuck, if the spells ends and he just dies, then Clint is going to have to deal with whatever the outcome is. He’s not going to run away from this. He’d better just make the best of it.
He steps out of the shower, dresses, and then plunks down next to Phil on the sofa. “What are you watching?” he asks.
Phil gives him a sideways glance. “I don’t know; whatever came up on the TV.”
Clint shakes his head and steals the remote. “That absolutely will not do. You’re always complaining that my taste runs to the juvenile, well – now you’re in a position to appreciate that personally. Let’s watch cartoons.”
Phil gives him look. “I’m not a child,” he says.
“Sure you are,” Clint says, and shrugs, “and even if you aren’t, I am.”
He cues up Captain America and the Howling Commandos and settles in. Clint had missed the cartoon in the eighties when it first aired, but he knows Coulson used to watch it in college. He finds it supremely funny to listen to the actor who plays Cap, but the show’s pretty educational. Coulson used to tell him they raided Cap’s old declassified mission records for some of the plot points.
For lunch, Clint makes sandwiches even though Phil offers to help, and they go downstairs to hang out with the rest of the team. Pepper’s taken the next couple of days off work and organized a series of activities for them to do. Clint can see in everyone’s eyes the knowledge that they have no idea what will happen two days from now. Either Phil will turn back into Coulson, or he’ll stay a little boy, or he might just… disappear. Either way, they should appreciate the time they have.
It’s a chance at a goodbye none of them got the last time.
They take Phil to the Central Park Zoo, and Clint watches as he slowly learns how to be a kid. It’s obvious to him that Phil’s been raised with high expectations – from what he said this morning, his father must be in the military. He probably ruled the household with an iron fist, and Clint doesn’t know if Phil ever had time to enjoy just being a kid. Staring at the seals splashing around the zoo, Clint’s glad he’s gotten this second chance.
Pepper sidles up to him while they’re walking to the snow leopard exhibit. “I’m thinking of reversing your edict on the birthday party idea,” she says.
Clint has to admit that makes sense. “Coulson’s expectations of low-key celebrations makes more sense now.”
Pepper nods. “I don’t know much about his family life, he never talked about it, but I learned enough to understand that it wasn’t exactly happy. I don’t think he has any siblings, and I’m sure he hasn’t ever had a real birthday party.”
“Not one he didn’t organize himself,” Clint agrees. He shakes his head. “I never knew. We never talked about family.”
Pepper shoots him a sympathetic glance. “I don’t think Phil wanted you to know. A distant father can hardly compare to the circus, and I don’t think anyone from the 70’s would have labelled what his parents did as neglect. I just don’t think he was very happy.”
“He deserves to be,” Clint says fiercely. “He deserves everything.”
“He does,” Pepper agrees, looking a little surprised. “So – party?”
“Party.”
They invite all of the Avengers and the few agents inside of S.H.I.E.L.D. who have both the security clearance to know what effect Coulson is suffering under and the respect to never tease him about it – at least, not more than a little – should this revert and everything go back to the way it’s supposed to be. That means Maria, Jasper, Melinda, Jason, and Fury. Pepper plans everything – it’s going to be fun, but overall low-key. No circus clowns or women jumping out of cakes, just close friends and lots of food.
They keep it a secret from Phil until the morning of. The night after the zoo he falls asleep on the common room couch and has to be carried up to his room by Clint. The second day they spend at the nearest Six Flags with a water park – Tony flies them in his personal jet and they spend the day eating street food and making themselves sick. It’s more fun than Clint’s had in years, and Phil’s face is flushed and happy by the time they load themselves back onto the plane.
The next day is Phil’s birthday, and Clint wakes him up with a present. It’s one of the few good memories he has of his childhood, of his mother waking him up on the day of his birthday with a special gift. It was usually a quarter, or a special pancake, but one day she gave him a stone arrow-head. Barney lost it years later, but Clint still treasures the memory.
“Happy birthday, Phil,” Clint says, shaking the little boy awake. He’s got hot chocolate and a small wrapped box. “Welcome to the big number eight.”
Phil blinks himself awake and smiles at Clint with such innocent love that Clint feels his chest grow tight. He doesn’t know what he’ll do if Phil dies tomorrow, and he’s hoping that he turns back into his regular self. If Phil’s stuck as a child, though, Clint knows he will never give him up.
“Thanks,” Phil says, rubbing his eyes and sitting up. His expression goes slack at the mug of chocolate and the gift. “You didn’t have to.”
“I wanted to,” Clint says, sitting down on the side of the bed. He nudges the little present towards Phil. “Go ahead, open it.”
Phil’s hands curl around the gift. He opens the box with a shy smile, which drops off his face as he stares at the gift.
Clint bites his bottom lip. “It’s a fossilized dinosaur claw. I found it when I was doing a mission up in the Alberta badlands. I’ve been meaning to give it to you for a while now, and, I don’t know, it seemed like a kind of cool gift for an eight year old boy.” He pretends his chest isn’t clenching up in worry. “Do you like it?”
“Like it?” Phil echoes, staring at the claw. It’s slightly longer than his finger. “I love it. Clint, this is amazing.”
Clint exhales. “Whoo. I mean – good.”
Phil picks the claw up carefully, and then he throws his arms around Clint, hugging him. He almost spills the hot chocolate. “Thank you!”
Clint’s arms come up around Phil. He holds the little boy close, thankful again that he at least gets this, that Phil didn’t die right away when the witch’s spell hit him. “You’re welcome.”
They hang out for another half an hour, Clint telling Phil everything he’s googled in the past two days about fossilized dinosaur claws, which admittedly isn’t much, but which Phil seems to soak in anyway. They take turns showering and then Clint leads Phil downstairs. They’ve taken to having breakfast with the other Avengers, since everyone is hoping to spend a little extra time with Phil.
“Phil,” Pepper says to him once they’ve all finished eating. She and Clint have agreed that springing the entire party thing as a surprise might be a little much. “We know it’s your birthday today, and we’d like to make it really special for you. I know you don’t remember all of your friends, but we’ve invited everyone over this afternoon for a party.”
Phil stares at Pepper, then looks back to Clint. “But – I didn’t have time to organize anything.”
Pepper and Clint share a look, and Clint is aware of the rest of the Avengers doing the same. If they hadn’t realized before that something was off about Phil’s childhood, they do now.
“You don’t have to organize anything, sweetie. That’s our job. Your only job is to have fun.”
Phil doesn’t seem to know what to say to that. Clint tries to think of words to help him, but before he can think of anything, Phil asks hesitantly. “You mean, all of these people, they want to just come over to see me?”
“Yes,” Pepper tells him. “They’re your friends.”
Phil nods, and there’s a heartbreaking smile dawning on his face. “Okay. I guess that sounds like fun, then.”
“You’ve never had friends over for your birthday before?” Clint can’t help but asking later, when they’re keeping out of Pepper’s way and watching TV on the couch.
Phil shakes his head, burrowing himself a little closer into Clint’s side. “Mom’s too busy to help me invite people, and Dad doesn’t like to have the house cluttered up. I’ve had dinner at a restaurant before. The kids from my class brought presents.”
“That sounds like fun,” Clint says, mostly because he has no idea if it does or doesn’t.
Phil shrugs. “It was okay. Most of the kids came because their parents made them, I think. I don’t have a lot of friends of my own.”
“You have lots of friends here,” Clint tells him, holding him close. “You grow up and become one of the best men I know, and you have lots and lots of friends.”
“Like you, right?” Phil asks, his voice almost too quiet for Clint to hear.
“Like me,” Clint promises.
The party is actually a lot of fun. Maria and Melinda arrive together, and Jason snaps a picture with Jasper’s camera of them wearing matching birthday-balloon hats. Fury shows up with a gift wrapped in sparkly paper and dares them with his one eye to say anything about it. No one’s brave enough. Jasper whoops when he sees Phil and scoops him up into a hug. “I’ve always wanted to do that,” he confesses when he finally puts the shocked-but-happy-looking Phil down, “but you’ve always been too big, before.”
The Avengers are all there, and they’ve become familiar enough that Phil relaxes around the new faces. They play pin-the-eye-patch-on-the-Director, using a cut-out of Fury Tony somehow got made. Fury glares when it comes out but soon he’s laughing along with the rest of them. He wins the game by pinning the eye-patch correctly on his own face and accepts his prize of candy.
There’s lots of food and a huge cake. Phil blows out all eight candles with a grin that’s almost too large for his face. He opens his presents after, and Clint has to admit that everyone did well. There’s a framed pictures of older-Phil with the Avengers from Maria, a camera from Jasper that’s the brother to the one he’s had in his hand all day. He promises Phil a copy of the memory file before he leaves. Melinda gives him a special kind of wax for Lola, and assures Phil that if he doesn’t grow up tomorrow, she’ll teach him how to drive. Jason gives him tickets for a basketball game, which is one of Coulson’s secret pleasures.
Bruce gives him a chemistry set and a book entitled ‘The Golden Book of Chemistry Experiments’ which he assures Phil is a classic. Tony gives him a four-day pass to Disneyworld, Florida, and the promise of a free ride there and back. Phil opens a box that turns out to be a game of Twister from Thor, who assures Phil it is a ‘mighty endeavour well worthy of his skills’. Natasha gives him a New York Nicks jersey and a hand-made certificate that promises she will accompany him to a game, and will sit patiently while he explains the rules.
Steve shuffles awkwardly on his feet before handing over his present. Phil opens it to find a set of old, but well preserved, trading cards, held carefully inside a plastic sleeve. Each has been signed by Steve himself.
“I know this isn’t something that matters to you now,” Steve says awkwardly, “but I had planned on giving this to you on your birthday, and it’s your birthday, and if you turn back into your adult self tomorrow, well, I think you’ll like those.”
Phil nods politely. “And if I don’t?”
“Then you can take them out of the plastic sleeve,” Steve says with a smile, “and I can teach you how to palm cards.”
“Steve Rogers,” Tony exclaims from the couch. “Tell me you are not secretly a card shark.”
“It’s hardly a secret,” Steve says with a smile. “Bucky actually wrote it into our mission files one day – ‘don’t play poker with Rogers, he cheats’.”
The group laughs. When everyone’s distracted, Clint slips Phil another present.
Phil looks at him curiously. “But you already gave me my present this morning.”
Clint shrugs. “I know, but this is more of a private thing. Just between you and me.”
Phil nods and opens the paper. Inside is another hand-made certificate, this one from Clint. It says: No matter what happens, I am here for you – always. Clint signed it in his barely legible chicken-scratch.
Phil stares at the certificate and then holds it close to his chest. “Really?” he breathes, his eyes wide.
“Really,” Clint promises with all his heart. “You’re my best friend, Phil,” he says, and then, because when else is he going to have a chance to say it? “I love you.”
“I love you, too,” eight-year-old Phil Coulson says, and throws himself into Clint’s arms. Clint hugs him close and squeezes the tears from his eyes.
The rest of the group interrupts soon enough. Fury’s gift is the last one handed out – the Director has somehow gotten his hands on a blue-ray copy of the original Star Wars trilogy, digitally re-mastered without the new crap George Lucas decided to throw in it a couple of years ago.
Attached to the box is a worn VHS tape with the words “gas station security” scrawled across. Phil looks up questioning and Fury grins.
“If you grow up, you’ll thank me for deleting that little piece of evidence. If you don’t, I’m showing Barton tomorrow.”
“I think that sounded like a threat,” Phil says, but he’s grinning.
Fury grins back. “Damn straight it is, Cheese.”
This incarnation of Phil has never seen the movies before, so they finish the last of their cake and settle in on the couch. Phil’s entranced, tucked into Clint’s side, but Clint can’t help but watch the clock. Bruce and Tony had told them it would be sometime in the morning after Phil’s birthday, but they had admitted the energy waves were erratic and they couldn’t pinpoint the time exactly. Clint knows JARVIS is monitoring the situation and will alert them when the time draws near, but he can’t help but hold Phil extra close just in case – as if his mere presence could somehow protect the little boy.
They make it through A New Hope and start in on The Empire Strikes Back. No one says anything about leaving, and Clint understands that the whole team – S.H.I.E.L.D. included – is going to stick around to see what happens to Phil. One by one, though, they slowly fall asleep. It’s been a long three days for everyone, and the reality of their closest friends nearby, along with the familiar movies and the flickering screen, is enough to make even Clint blink heavily.
He’s not going to fall asleep, though. He’s going to savour every moment he has left with Phil, just in case it’s his last.
They’ve finished Empire – and Phil’s gasp when Vader declared he was Luke’s father was priceless, Clint hopes JARVIS got that on film – and started Return of the Jedi when there’s a soft, overhead chime.
“Sir,” JARVIS’s softly modulated voice says, “the energy signature is decreasing rapidly.”
Around them, the Avengers and S.H.I.E.L.D. agents shake themselves awake. Clint darts a look at the clock, but it’s only a few hours past midnight. More time, he thinks to himself, I need more time!
He doesn’t have it, though. Phil sits up on the couch, and Clint can see the air around him is starting to shimmer. Tony orders full lights and the apartment brightens. Phil looks around at all of them, and then back at Clint. For the first time, he looks frightened.
“I’m right here,” Clint said, clutching Phil’s tiny shoulders and staring deep into his eyes. “I’m right here, Phil.”
“Clint,” Phil says, and his hands come up to grip Clint’s wrists. His eyes are wide and so very, very blue.
The air continues to shimmer. Clint can hear the sound of ten people holding their breath. He stares into Phil’s eyes and refuses to look away as the shimmering grows. He knows he’s leaving everything open on his face, everything he’d hidden away for years, never daring Phil to see, but he can’t hold anything back, now.
When the strain of holding eye contact too long becomes too much, they blink together.
Clint opens his eyes to find a familiar blue gaze staring back at him. The rest of Phil’s face has changed, though. It’s older, wiser, with crinkles at the corners and laugh lines at the mouth. The shoulders under his hands are firmer, broader, and in possession of subtle strength. The hands gripping his wrists have calluses.
“Clint,” Coulson breathes.
Clint sobs and throws himself into Coulson’s arms. His hands drop away from Clint’s wrists and encircle his back, holding him close. Clint breathes in the warm, remembered scent of him – shaving cream and gun oil, ink and the hint of ash. He shakes.
Around them, the Avengers cheer. Jasper whoops and Jason high-fives Melinda. Clint pulls back and rubs a hand over his eyes, wiping away the tears, in time to see Maria exhale a long sigh of relief. Fury’s single eye is closed. Tony and Pepper are hugging, and Bruce looks pleased. Thor is already going for glasses, wishing to raise a toast, and Natasha is sitting so tense, her hands are white by her side.
“Tasha,” Coulson says, softly, and Nat exhales. She crosses the floor swiftly to gather both Clint and Coulson into a hug, and then releases them to help Thor with the glasses.
Steve is looking relieved and so very, very young. Coulson shoots him a smile, and he grins a wobbly grin back.
After Thor’s toast, to which they all drink heartily, Tony, Bruce, and Jasper insist on running tests. They hustle Coulson down to the lab and Fury goes with them to supervise. The rest of the party slowly breaks up. Melinda, Maria, and Jason leave together, still beaming excitedly. Thor and Steve stack the presents in the corner and take off, presumably to bed, though Clint hears Thor offering to spar. Natasha slips away so quietly not even Clint hears her go, and Pepper starts to gather the last of the plates and load them in the dishwasher.
Clint moves to help her, and they stack for several minutes in silence.
“I saw the card you gave him,” Pepper says finally, after the last of the dishes have been put away.
Clint can’t meet her eyes. He shrugs and wipes down the counter.
“You really would have done it, wouldn’t you? You would have left S.H.I.E.L.D. to take care of him, if that’s what needed to be done.”
Clint stops and looks up. “Of course I would have.”
“He deserves to know that, Clint,” Pepper says gently. “He deserves to know that he’s loved so much.”
“Well, he knows now,” Clint says, and then can’t help but bite his lip in anxiety, because – oh, shit – he does.
“And that’s a good thing, is what I’m trying to say,” Pepper agrees with a smile. “So go to bed and stop worrying about it.”
“Who’s worried?” Clint asks sarcastically, but he does drop the cloth and turn towards the elevator. He stops half-way there and turns around, though, catching Pepper’s eye. “Hey, Pepper?” Clint says. “Thanks. For, well, for everything these past few days.”
“Phil and I have a few things in common,” Pepper tells him. “We’re both in love with men who risk themselves for a living. It creates a certain bond.”
Clint stares at her. He blinks. Pepper laughs softly and shakes her head. “Go to sleep, Clint.”
He does.
*
He doesn’t expect to actually fall asleep once he makes it to his room. Clint thinks he’ll toss and turn and examine the night from every angle, first. He doesn’t, though. His head hits the pillow and it’s like all the worry and fear, all the anxiety and stress, leaves him in an instant. He sleeps.
He has a vague memory of waking once in the middle of the night. There’s a presence in his room, but it’s familiar and safe. “Go back to sleep, Clint,” someone says, and Clint isn’t awake enough to argue, just obeys. The bed shifts once as the other person gets in, and Clint knows a moment of pure joy, that other arm wrapping around his chest, before the exhaustion drags him under, again.
When Clint finally does blink himself awake, it's morning. The light streaming in through his window is brilliant and clear. He knows he’s not alone in bed, but it takes his brain a second to catch up to that revelation, because he’s so warm and comfortable that he doesn’t register a threat.
He turns his head far enough to the side to see Phil Coulson snuggled up against his back. The agent’s eyes are still closed and his breathing is regular, but Clint knows he’s not asleep. He licks his lips and rolls over in bed, ghosting a hand up and over Coulson’s shoulder. “Morning.”
Coulson – Phil? – smiles with his eyes closed. “Good morning.”
Clint lets his hand rest on Phil’s shoulder, and then can’t resist stroking him lightly through the thin t-shirt. Phil’s smile deepens and he murmurs a contented hum. “Mmmmm.”
Clint can’t bring himself to ask about Phil’s presence in his bed. It feels like something special, like a mirage that will disappear if he stares at it too long. “Did the tests go okay?”
That’s either the right or the wrong thing to say, because Phil’s eyes open. His blue gaze meets Clint’s, and he smiles. “They went fine. The energy signature is completely gone.” He hesitates. “The arrows are still saplings, though. The energy has disappeared, but they didn’t change back. Neither did my uniform or shoes, or your quiver.”
Clint shivers. His hands tighten on Phil’s shoulder. “So we got lucky,” he says, and then has a realization. “Wait – you mean, you remember everything?”
Phil’s smile is still gentle and warm, and he’s still in Clint’s bed. “Yes, Clint. I remember everything.”
“Oh,” Clint says, and forces himself to exhale. “Um, good.”
Phil’s watches him. He shifts so he’s sitting up in bed on one elbow, and his left hand reaches over to touch Clint’s face. “You really do love me, don’t you? I almost couldn’t believe it wasn’t a dream when I woke up this morning.”
Clint can’t help but close his eyes. He tilts his head into Phil’s palm. “I do,” he admits. His voice is softer than he means it to be. “I have for years, now. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”
“Not as sorry as I am,” Phil says. Clint opens his eyes to see Phil looking sad. “Though I can’t exactly blame you – I never said anything, either.”
Clint’s breathe catches in his chest. “You. Really?”
Phil nods. “I love you, Clint. I have for a long time, longer than I like to admit. I kept you at arms length for a variety of idiotic reasons, several to do with my father. When I died, I realized not telling you how I felt, not having you in my life, was my biggest regret. When I came back, I told myself I would do whatever I could to change that.”
“You’re not the only one,” Clint breathes. He touches Phil’s face. “I promised myself I would do what I could to silence my crush long enough to actually speak to you. The friendship we’ve built in the past few months is the most important thing in the world to me.”
Phil smiles, and it’s like his whole face gets brighter. “I hope you won’t object to more.”
“Never,” Clint promises him, and rolls them over until he’s on top of Phil. He leans in close and breaths the same air as him, savouring the moment, before he carefully brushes their lips together.
Beneath him, Phil smiles, and then deepens the kiss. Clint’s mouth opens and Phil’s tongue is there and the kiss is good, so very good.
An unknown amount of time later, they surface for air.
“I kind of want to find your parents and beat them up, though,” Clint admits.
Phil makes a face. “My father is in his eighties, Clint. It wouldn’t really be much of a fight.”
“Still, though,” Clint says, and holds Phil close. “They weren’t good to you.”
Phil sighs. “They weren’t bad,” he says. “They thought they wanted children, they thought they wanted me, only, at some point, they realized they didn’t. I was never exactly the child they wanted, despite trying too hard for too long. I rebelled when I was a teenager, and left. I haven’t spoken to them very much since.”
Clint shakes his head. “They’re idiots. Tony has a jet, you know. I could fly wherever they are, yell at them, and be back in time for dinner.”
“You could be back in time for lunch, knowing Tony,” Phil says with a smile. “But it’s not worth it, Clint. They aren’t my family any more. You are. You and the rest of S.H.I.E.L.D. The other Avengers.”
Clint bites his lip. “I’m sorry you never felt you could talk about it, before.”
“I wasn’t beaten, Clint. I wasn’t neglected – not like you were. It wouldn’t be right to compare.”
“It’s not the kind of thing you need to compare,” Clint tells him. “They’re your parents; they’re supposed to love you. They didn’t. It doesn’t matter if they didn’t beat you every day or anything. What they did hurt you, and that means it hurts me.” He hesitates, wondering if he’s said too much. “Okay?”
Phil looks at him for a moment, something dark and young in his eyes, before he sighs and bumps their foreheads together. “Okay,” he says, and then, into the quiet between them, “thanks.”
“I said ‘always’, Phil,” Clint says quietly back. “I meant it.”
Phil leans back and bites his lip. “I’m going to frame that certificate you made.”
Clint rolls his eyes but can’t help his smile. “You will not.”
“Oh, watch me,” Phil says. “Twenty bucks says Jasper has already printed out the birthday photos and framed them, too.”
“No bet,” Clint says, and then something occurs to him, something that’s been bothering him since this whole thing started. “Hey, Phil – how come you didn’t recognize Steve?”
Phil colours. “Oh. Right. Well,” he clears his throat. “The party I told you about? The one for my eighth birthday? It was a… disaster. No one came, and my mother forgot to get the cake I asked her for. It was pretty much the complete opposite of yesterday.”
“Yesterday was good?”
“Yesterday was wonderful,” Phil assures him. “I’ve never felt…” he shakes his head, “I’ve never felt loved, like that. It was incredible.”
Clint smiles and leans in to kiss him again. “You’ll have to get used to it now.”
Phil smiles back. “I look forward to it. After my party, though, I started spending a lot more time on my own at school. I realized I didn’t have many friends there. That’s when I found my first Captain America comic. I got a little… obsessive… after that.”
Clint gives him a disbelieving look. “No.”
“Shut up,” Phil says, and bumps their foreheads together. “Just because you’re a real superhero now…”
“I am not!”
“Doesn’t mean you can mock…”
“The hottest and most badass S.H.I.E.L.D. agent I know?”
“Your boyfriend.”
“Mmm, I like the sound of that.”
Phil laughs and kisses him again. Clint wraps his arms around him. “Besides,” he says, nipping at Phil’s ear, “I already have plenty of blackmail material on you. Not only are there pictures, but I remember a certain VHS tape Fury was prepared me to show me last night.”
Phil’s face abruptly shuts down. Clint worries for a half-second before he catches the devilry dancing behind Phil’s eyes.
“Shit!” Clint says, but it’s too late – Phil’s already out of bed and running down the hall towards the elevator. He’s wearing sleep pants and a t-shirt, but he’s still miles away from the suited-up Phil Coulson Clint’s used to. He misses a few crucial seconds staring at Phil’s ass before he shakes himself and gives pursuit.
Phil beats him to the VHS tape, but Fury’s not an idiot – he made a copy. Clint watches it a few days later in Fury’s office, and laughs when Phil glares at them both.
“I wasn’t really sorry about the mess,” he says on his way back out the door.
“Cheese,” Fury says, looking around his office at the newly framed picture of a grinning Fury with an eight-year-old Phil Coulson, “you never are.”
The End