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The first blow snaps Phil's head back, and he rocks with it, absorbing the impact rather than fighting it. The next one is harder, into his gut, and it knocks the breath out of him. After that, they come faster and harder, and he does his best to breathe through him, even when they start to pull small, involuntary grunts of pain from him, especially those that fall on his chest and shoulders.
Finally, there is a break in the action -- he imagines it's so that he has time to see the error of his ways and prepare to tell them everything.
Instead, he uses the time to take stock of the situation. His body aches from the beating, but there are no broken bones yet. They have tied him up with rope, because they are idiots, and though his arms are twisted painfully behind him, if he keeps carefully working at it, which he will, he will soon have enough slack to really work with. A dislocated thumb is going to be a bitch to escape with, but it's not like it would be the first time.
They’ve taken his coat, his tie, his belt, his shoes and his socks, and his legs are tied to the legs of the metal chair, which has -- sadly -- been bolted to the floor, so they are not complete idiots. But they have used more rope on his legs, which will be easy to undo once he has the use of his hands. First, though, he has to figure out how he's going to subdue his four interrogators with his hands free and his legs still tied to the chair.
The door opens and another two minions step in, one carrying a rusted metal pail, and the other carrying a cattle prod which has definitely not been approved by either PETA or Amnesty International.
Fuck, Phil thinks, and his timetable is now screwed. He wasn't expecting them to get this seriously down to business for quite a while yet.
The man in charge smiles as he steps closer to Phil, and Phil sees that whatever terrorist splinter group this is obviously doesn't offer dental insurance as a benefit. It's something they should really look into. Smiley grabs Phil's shirt in both hands and rips it open. Buttons fly everywhere, pinging off the walls and the floor, and then the man pulls out a wicked looking knife, displaying his frightening smile again as he sees Phil's eyes focus involuntarily on the dirty blade as it gleams dully in the room's bright lights.
He slices down Phil's chest, parting Phil's undershirt, not being particularly careful with it, and Phil hisses as the blade finds skin. But the cut is shallow, and it's not as if his chest is a pristinely untouched expanse of skin anymore anyway.
He goes very still as the man grabs the waistband of Phil's trousers in one hand. The knife parts his trousers and his shorts, exposing him to the cold air of the room, and oh. This is going to be very bad, then.
Smiley steps back to allow the others closer, and Phil does not intend to react as they get near him with the prod, but his body jerks instinctively against the restraints, a visceral response as he tries to flee from the coming pain.
"We do not have to do this," the man says pleasantly, glancing from Phil to the flunky who is holding the prod in tightly clenched hands, a gleeful grin on his face. He looks back, locks his gaze with Phil's. "Just tell us what we want to know, Agent Coulson, and this can all be so easily avoided."
Phil just breathes as deeply as possible and ignores his trembling limbs, glaring up wordlessly at the man through eyes half swollen shut.
The goon with the bucket throws icy water over him, and even as he gasps in shock, the other one is shoving the tip of the prod into the bare, wet skin of his chest.
Fire blooms in his chest and arcs through him, and the man gives him no break and no chance to regroup, just shocks him again and again and again and again, in a different place every time, and his body jerks and twitches at the shock, at the burn.
His teeth grind against each other as he tries not to scream, not to babble, and blood runs down his chin from where he's bitten his tongue, his lip, his cheeks, and he chokes on it, but still he doesn't speak, doesn't scream.
It sears and sizzles like fire, like lightning in his chest, it's like acid licking at his scar, scorching through his nipples and toes and fingertips and when they reach his cock and his balls, he can no longer hold back his cries. They tear jaggedly from him, primal yelps from a wounded animal.
Finally, finally, it stops, and Phil's breath rushes out of him in a sob. Everything is blurry, his eyes filmed over with involuntary tears, and the room is silent except for the sound of his heaving breaths.
"Is there something you wish to tell me, Agent Coulson?" Smiley asks blandly, and the goon with the prod lunges forward playfully, laughing as Phil can’t stop himself from flinching.
Phil glares at the bastards. He thinks, viciously, Fuck you, as he spits blood onto their shoes, but he says nothing, and the man with the prod lunges in again, not pretending this time.
It goes on and on and on and Phil’s vision starts to gray out, and he no longer tries to stop the choked gasps of pain that spill from his lips. He's afraid if he tries to keep everything in, he won't be able to control what comes out.
The scorching, snapping agony is so constant it goes sort of distant, and Phil lets it, floating numbly in his head. His limbs are twitching constantly now, practically convulsing, he's lost control of his bodily functions, and he can no longer focus his eyes.
Most worryingly, his heartbeat is uneven, fluttering and pounding and unable to settle into a rhythm. He's been medically cleared after Loki's attack, of course, but they never tested him for anything like this level of electrical stress.
"Enough!" he hazily hears the lead guy bark, and the burning, searing fire stops suddenly, but his limbs continue to jerk and shudder, overstimulated nerves and synapses still firing.
All he can do is breathe shallowly, body limp, head lolling against the back of the chair.
His heart is still struggling in his chest, fluttering alarmingly before it speeds into a gallop that feels like it's about to break through his ribcage, and then jittering to a sluggish thud once more, and he can’t seem to catch his breath.
"Leave him," Smiley snaps, and Phil hears him through a hollow echo, as though they're all inside a big metal box. "He's no use to us dead."
They all file out and leave Phil with a single guard, a young guy with wide eyes in a pale face. He is jumpy and twitchy, and Phil thinks that maybe this is the first time he has witnessed this particular interrogation technique.
He realizes that this would be a really good time to get free and get the fuck out, surely he can handle a single, traumatized rookie, but his body simply will not obey his commands to move. Instead, he tries to even his breathing, willing his laboring heart to settle down. He does his best to stay alert, but he thinks he might be drifting in and out of consciousness.
He's not sure how much time has passed before he hears the sound and feels the rumble of distant explosions. The guard tenses and looks toward the door, but he does not leave his post. Phil's lips twitch, the closest he can come to a smile, because the cavalry has arrived.
More time passes, and the guard gets increasingly edgy, gaze jumping between Phil and the door, and Phil really hopes he doesn't get shot by mistake due to an itchy trigger finger.
The door swings open, and the guard whirls toward it, a burst of bullets thudding wildly through the walls and ceiling and the floor.
"Who's there?" he barks. "Show yourself!"
The only answer is a blur of movement across the doorway and a thwip and a thunk, and he falls, an arrow protruding from his eye, gun clattering against the floor beside him.
"All clear," Phil slurs, and Clint appears in the doorway, nocked arrow first, cautious in case Phil's signal was coerced. Part of Phil is indignant at the very idea, and part of him is pleased that Clint is following protocol. Most of Phil is just glad he's here, and his battered, exhausted heart does a slow roll in his chest at the sight of him.
"Barton."
"Good to see you, sir."
The archer's face is grim, and he is covered with dirt and soot and blood, and Phil really, really hopes it's not Clint's.
The color drains from Clint's face as he gets a good look at Phil, but his expression doesn't change. He shuts the door, locks it with a set of keys he has acquired from God knows where, sets his bow down, and calmly engages his comm.
"Hawkeye here," he says evenly as he crosses to Phil and begins examining the ropes. "Package has been found. I'm going to need backup and cover in the cells," he tells the rest of the extraction team, because it's obvious to both of them that Phil is not going to be escaping under his own power, and Clint won't be able to help him and adequately cover their retreat.
Whatever he hears in response reassures him, because he crouches and pulls his knife from his field suit. The move puts him eye level with Phil, and though his face is calm, his eyes are flinty gray, hard with rage.
"'m fine," Phil mumbles, but his limbs are still numb and tingly, and his heartbeat, while no longer all over the damn place, has settled into what seems like a sluggish crawl.
The archer nods once, jerkily, and carefully cuts the ropes holding Phil, whose arms flop bonelessly forward to his sides as the rope falls to the ground. Phil watches Clint's hands rub gently over the raw, chafed skin of his wrists and ankles, but the sensation of it is detached and distant.
Clint stows the knife and takes a deep, shaky breath, and one of his hands comes up to cup Phil's swollen cheek.
Phil knows they don't have time for this, they need to leave, but he leans into the touch anyway, his eyes drifting closed.
After all too brief a moment, Clint's hand falls away. "Escape first. Then everything else. Can you stand, sir?"
"Not on m'own."
Clint swallows roughly. "Right. Okay, then."
Strong hands grasp Phil's sides under his arms and lift him to his feet. He wobbles, very aware that without Clint's support he'd be faceplanting very painfully onto the concrete floor.
His ruined trousers and underwear slide slowly down his legs to puddle around his ankles, and Clint's jaw twitches. Phil is too exhausted to be mortified.
They simultaneously glance at the dead guard. He is younger than Phil but also bigger, and not by enough to make it unworkable.
"All right, sir, let's sit you back down for a minute."
Clint lowers him back to the chair, where he slumps against the metal, breathing shallowly.
The archer eyes him worriedly but says nothing as he lifts each of Phil's legs and pulls the ruined material away from him, pausing briefly to try and rub some warmth back into Phil’s bare, chilled feet.
He drapes Phil's torn and soiled trousers over Phil's lap -- partly for modesty, partly for warmth -- before turning to the guard and quickly and efficiently stripping him of his boots, his trousers, and his uniform jacket.
"It took us way too long to figure out that the scattered attacks were a diversion to draw us all away from the command center," Clint tells him as he works. "We doubled back as soon as we did, but -- "
"Debrief later," Phil tells him, shivering against the chair. "'scape now."
"Coulson -- "
"Later."
Clint nods, face lined deeply with guilt and worry as he stands with the bundle of clothes in his arms, and he nudges the guard's boots toward Phil's bare feet with his toe.
Phil would like to say that they work together to get him dressed, but that's a lie. Clint does most of -- all of -- the work, his gracefully nimble hands ruthlessly efficient and nothing but gentle in their movements. When they are done, Phil slumps tiredly against him, chest to chest, his head on Clint's shoulder.
A hand ghosts quickly through his hair, warm lips on his ear.
Clint carefully stows his bow and draws his sidearm before wrapping one incredibly strong arm around Phil and clamping his hand just under Phil's armpit to hold him steady. Phil’s bruised ribs protest painfully at the pressure, but there are no fractures or outright breaks to make it unbearable, so he grits his teeth and ignores it.
"One step at a time, sir," Clint says, and they shuffle slowly forward.
This would be monumentally easier if Clint just carried him, and they both know it, but Clint doesn't even bother to offer, nor does he just take the initiative and do it. They stagger toward the door.
Right as they get there, a complicated series of knocks raps on the other side of it. Phil flinches, but Clint holds him steady as he answers with an equally complex set of knocks, and then he unlocks the door.
Phil is grateful for the brief rest -- his heart is fluttering wildly again -- and then the door opens and Natasha is there, deadly and bloodied and beautiful.
She swears, low and murderously, as she sees him, and then she nods. "Sir." Her gaze flits over him, cataloguing injuries, as she tells Clint, "Let's go. The upper levels are mostly clear, but we're still cleaning up down here and in the lower levels."
They leave the cell and continue down the corridor, and there are half a dozen dead goons scattered messily down the length of it. Natasha covers their front and watches their back and simultaneously collects Clint's arrows for him, slipping them into his quiver as they go.
Then there are pounding feet and eight men round the corner fifteen yards ahead of them. Clint angles his body to block Phil as much as he can and he and Natasha are both firing before the goons can even raise their weapons.
Cap's shield comes flying around the corner, richocheting off the subterranean wall with a clang and showering sparks everywhere as it plows into the back of what’s left of the group of grunts. After the shooting stops, Clint gives the all clear over his comm and the man jogs around the corner to retrieve it, looking impossibly tall and heroic in his bright blue uniform.
Wow, Phil thinks fuzzily, his thoughts distressingly unfocused because his heart is really laboring again, They brought Cap too.
It's a nice gesture. Unnecessary, because Clint and Natasha are fully capable of retrieving him, with or without extra backup from SHIELD or anyone else, but it's really nice that Cap came too.
Then he hears the whine of Iron Man's repulsors, and the lights flicker as thunder booms and lightning crackles, and he hears the distant roar of the Hulk, and he thinks, They all came. They all came for me.
And then he is sagging, his knees buckling, and there are cries of alarm and hands grabbing at him, and the darkness pulls him under.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
When Phil wakes, things are very hazy. The room is bright and white, the walls an institutional ecru, and he hears the steady beeping of a heart monitor, and various other beeps and clicks, and he realizes he is in a hospital bed.
He's disoriented from the drugs and he doesn't know what's happened or how he got here, but he definitely recognizes SHIELD Medical, and he wonders if everything that he thinks has occurred since the last time he remembers being here was just a very detailed dream. He hopes not, because while parts of it sucked, some of it was really, really good.
Then the memories start to steal in: the flashbang tossed into the mobile command center, waking up tied to a chair, the head goon's terrible smile, and the endless, endless burn. His body twitches and shudders as he remembers, and the heart monitor picks up to a scream and the other machines begin to beep alarmingly.
There's a startled sound beside him and he jerks his head in that direction with a panicked cry as Clint jolts up from the chair he's been slumped in, and then he's standing beside the bed, one hand grasping Phil's tightly and tangling their fingers together, the other gripping Phil's chin gently but firmly as he looks reassuringly into Phil's eyes.
Phil sees his mouth moving, hears the beautiful hum of his voice, but the words take a moment to register.
" -- you're okay, Phil. You're safe now, and I'm here, and you're okay. Phil, focus on me. Look at me, you're safe."
Phil takes a deep, shaky breath, and nods. He yelps and jumps again as the door crashes open and the room is suddenly full of unknown people, orderlies and nurses and a doctor or two, but Clint doesn’t step aside, and he doesn’t stop talking, and Phil keeps his gaze on Clint's, focusing on the love and the reassurance in the other man's eyes and in his touch and in his voice. If Phil trembles as they poke and prod and examine him, barking diagnoses and orders across his body, if his breath catches, if moisture slips from the corners of his eyes, Clint takes no notice, his voice steady, his eyes calm.
Then there are quiet words for Clint, and he nods without taking his eyes from Phil's, and then they are all gone, and it is just the two of them again.
Whatever they have pushed into his IV blurs the sharp edges of reality, smoothing them into soft cotton without knocking him for a loop or putting him out completely, and Phil is grateful.
"Water?" Clint asks, and Phil nods. Clint raises the head of the bed so Phil isn't lying flat, and then he lifts the cup, putting the straw to Phil's lips so he can drink, his other hand carding soothingly through Phil's hair, and Phil notices with alarm that Clint is shaking too.
Phil shifts in the bed, moving closer to the edge of it and noting absently how nice it is to be able to shift positions in a hospital bed without the searing, ripping fire of the spear wound in his chest and his back. That doesn't mean that nothing hurts, because really, everything does, but it's kind of an all-over throb, and the drugs have mostly subdued it for the moment.
"What are you doing, Phil?" Clint asks, and then he realizes, and he shakes his head. "No. Dammit, Phil, no, you are one giant bruise and there's not enough room, and I'm not gonna try it and hurt you worse."
"You won't hurt me," he says with the ghost of a grin. "'m on the good drugs."
Clint doesn't smile, and Phil frowns. "Come here. Lie down with me. Please? Just for a little while, 'cause you know they'll make you move anyway if they see you."
Clint sighs and lowers the rail on the side of the bed, because no matter what he says, he needs the contact as much as Phil does. He toes off his shoes and swings his legs up, lying on his side as he curls his fingers into Phil's and rests his head on the bed next to Phil's.
His body is a warm line along Phil's side, and it feels wonderful and safe, like home, and Phil leans into it, into Clint, angling his head for a kiss.
Clint's lips barely brush his before he pulls back. "Your lip is all torn up, Phil, and everything is so swo -- " His voice breaks as his breath catches. "I..."
He bows his head, presses a gentle kiss to Phil's bare shoulder where it peeks out the collar of the hospital gown.
"It'd make me damn happy if this is the last time I keep you company in a hospital bed for a really, really long time, okay, sir?" he murmurs into Phil’s skin.
Phil chuckle fades into a soft groan. "You're one to talk," he says, because it seems like they've spent an awful lot of their time together -- even before there was a together -- with one or the other of them recovering from something.
Clint's breath shudders brokenly out of him, hot against Phil's neck. "Jesus, Phil, you just... you just went down and I wasn't sure if you'd been shot, or what, and you were gray... they had to shock you twice on the way to the hospital. You stopped breathing."
"Arrhythmia?" Phil asks, though he knows the answer.
Clint nods uncertainly. "I think. I mean, I don't -- there was a lot of jargon flying around, and I was more concerned with the fact that you weren't breathing, so I can't tell you -- "
"Hey. Shh, Clint, relax. I don't need you to give me a sitrep. I can get that from the doctors. I just need you to be here."
Clint breathes out slowly and some of the tension seeps out of his body as he rests his forehead against Phil's.
"I can do that. I can definitely do that," he vows, calloused fingertips stroking gently over the skin of Phil's cheek and swollen jaw. Phil closes his eyes and leans into the contact, struggling to empty his mind of everything except the scent and feel of the man beside him.
They lie quietly, taking comfort in each other's presence, the silence broken only by the steady sounds of the machines and the monitors, and Phil's drifting in and out again when the door opens suddenly. He jumps, unable to stifle a groan as his overtaxed muscles twitch.
"Visiting hours!" Tony says loudly, and Clint swears under his breath as he sits up.
"Shut up, Stark," he growls as he levers himself off the bed to stand by it. "He's asleep."
"Shit, sorry."
"Mmm... 'm not," Phil murmurs, blinking his eyes open in time to see the whole team pile in behind Tony. The room is suddenly full of overlapping voices, and if Phil had been asleep, he certainly wouldn't be now.
"Want me to tell them all to screw off, sir?" Clint asks quietly as he leans over to smooth the blankets over Phil. They aren't usually big on PDAs, even around the rest of the Avengers, but Phil doesn't care at the moment. He reaches for Clint's hand and tugs at the archer until he's sitting on the edge of the bed again, their fingers intertwined. Clint brushes the fingers of his free hand through Phil’s short hair, settling it, and smiles briefly at him, some of the worry smoothed away by fond affection.
"I suppose I can put up with them for a little while," Phil says with a put-upon sigh, because he will never admit how much seeing all of them so concerned about him means to him.
Natasha says nothing, just moves closer and positions the uncomfortable chair as close to the bed as possible. Making sure its back is flush with the wall and all windows and doors are in her sightline, she curls into it and looks at him, her eyes narrowed and calculating, once again cataloguing all his injuries. After a moment, she nods in satisfaction, so apparently he's passed whatever her test is.
The others offer their well wishes -- Banner's are quiet, Rogers' are sincere, and Thor's are exuberant -- and Phil nods in acknowledgement and thanks them all.
Tony hands Phil a tablet. "Pepper put a whole bunch of crap on there for you to watch, and I might have added some stuff. A few screening copies, some advance copies, a couple of pilots under consideration, I don't know."
Phil accepts it and then lays it on the bed, because even the unbelievably slight weight of Stark's newest electronic baby is a bit much for his weakened muscles at the moment. He raises an eyebrow at Tony. "There isn't any illegally obtained material on this device, is there, Mr. Stark?"
Tony stares innocently back at him. "Of course not. But if there is, Pep did it."
The door opens again before Phil can respond, and the others go quiet when they recognize Director Fury in the doorway.
The room is already overcrowded, so he makes no move to enter. He simply studies Phil from the door, completely ignoring the rest of the team.
"Director," Phil says, and he holds on tighter when Clint moves to pull his hand free.
"Coulson. You are singlehandedly raising our insurance premiums this fiscal year, Agent. Your fellow agents would greatly appreciate it if you would knock it the hell off."
"I'll do my best, sir."
"See that you do." With a serious nod in Phil's direction, he turns and departs, quietly shutting the door behind him.
General conversation resumes after he leaves, but Phil lets it all wash over him without really listening. He's exhausted, and he knows the pain is going to eventually get worse before it gets better, but right now, he can't bring himself to care. Clint is steady as a rock beside him, Tasha has their backs, and he's surrounded by the rest of the team. His team. He is okay, he is safe, and he is loved, and no matter what happens, they will come for him. They will always come for him.
With that thought, he lets himself drift off, a tired smile on his face.
END