Middle of nowhere

[agent_coulson]

Phil settled down into his armchair with a cup of tea. Technically it wasn't his armchair, actually, furnishings were just included in the rental, but this place was already beginning to feel like home. Or at least that's what he was telling himself. If he closed his eyes and imagined the sound of honking horns and people laughing and vendors shouting, he could almost feel like he was back in New York again.

The trouble usually started when he opened his eyes and remembered he was in Nebraska, living next to corn fields, with five channels on the television, and under strict orders not to use the phone, the internet, or let his picture be taken by anyone. That was about the time he started silently cursing at Nick Fury, although recently he'd started just cursing out loud, because no one was around to hear it anyway.

Still, he had to admit there was a certain serenity to living in the middle of farmland, miles from anyone or anything who knew the significance of the fact that he still lived and breathed, albeit sometimes painfully. Out here he was just back to being regular old Phil Coulson, the kid who'd grown up in a small Wyoming town, graduated with a class of a couple hundred, and had a dog named Soldier.

He stretched out a little and winced, setting his tea aside. The major healing was finished at this point, but he was still sore and stiff most of the time, so he tried to run through a basic physical therapy regimen every day, to get his flexibility back. The staff had just missed his heart, according to the doctors, which made him incredibly lucky, but it had ripped right through some fairly important muscles. His injuries had been nothing to laugh at, especially after finding out Fury had rubbed his trading cards in them so he could lie to the entire Avengers team.

The Avengers team. That was something else that pained him. He understood why Fury had done it, even felt like it had probably been a smart call, ruining of mint-condition trading cards aside, but the fact that they all still thought he was dead... he didn't like that. He didn't like the fact that just by continuing to sit here, in this armchair, and keep himself out of sight, he was lying to all of them.

When he'd gotten his shoulder warmed up enough to be able to lift his arm over his head, he took a break and picked up his tea, which had cooled to a good temperature. He'd picked up the morning paper from the doorstep earlier--his only link with the outside world, other than the pointless local newscasts on the television--and now he spread it open, sipping and reading, trying to pretend he wasn't more than a little homesick and restless, and if he was honest... maybe a little lonely, too.

Comments

[aimtrue]

It had been months. Months since he'd been taken by Loki, and used to assist in the Chitauri's invasion of Earth. Months since New York had been devastated by the battle. Months since Fury's plan of having a team of superhuman fighters had come to fruition. But at the steepest cost that Clint could ever imagine paying.

In the days that had followed the end of the invasion, Clint had been more subdued than usual. Most of the agents didn't notice - not that they maintained eye contact with him for longer than a brief moment at a time - but certainly Natasha had. He brushed it off as best he could, giving her empty reassurances, as he helped with the clean up of New York.

It was difficult to keep up that pretense, after she'd caught him in the S.H.I.E.L.D morgue, opening the cold chambers and whispering 'sorry' to the faces of all the agents he'd had a hand in ending the lives of. She hadn't said anything, just sat and waited. Natasha knew him well enough to know that this was something he just had to do.

There had been one body missing. That had been his first clue. He'd called Fury out on it, asked when they'd be able to put Agent Coulson to rest - it was no surprise to anyone, the closure that Clint wanted. Coulson had been his handler from the day that he'd joined S.H.I.E.L.D. Fury had brushed him off, saying that there was no body to bury. The memorial service with an empty coffin had followed a week later.

They assigned Sitwell to be his handler from that point on. Clint threw himself back into his missions, never stopping long enough to think, and on the surface remained steadfastly the same as he'd always been. Coulson had known how to handle him, had known between the jokes and barbs and gentle ribbing, that Clint was nothing if not dedicated to the mission at hand. Sitwell kept writing him up for insubordination. Sitwell was an asshole.

Something still hadn't sat right with Clint, about Coulson's death, about everything. It had been so convenient, so perfect, so- and Clint knew. He knew that Coulson never kept his cards on him - 'it could bend the corners' he'd said - so how they'd been covered in his blood, he didn't know. Didn't even want to think about what sick and twisted thing Fury might have done. And so, he might have liberated Agent Hill's clearance codes and card, to take a closer look at Coulson's file.

When it'd come back without the 'deceased' stamp all over it, and a triple encrypted address somewhere in Nebraska, he went off the grid. He didn't bring attention to himself, didn't do anything out of the ordinary. Just returned Hill's card, and went home for the night. Except home turned into a hire car and long stretches of open road, listening to that stupid CD that Coulson had insisted on on the car ride to New Mexico.

He pulled up outside a house that looked so... so damn domestic. It was a far cry from the hustle and bustle that surrounded their places back in New York. It was nice, it just wasn't where Coulson should be. It didn't feel right. He didn't care that the car wasn't parked properly, or that he hadn't slept in days. He didn't care that his pace was brisk, as he took the steps up the porch in one, and knocked unforgivingly at the door. He needed to know he was right. He needed to know.