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tarotgalOne thing about Agent Coulson: he doesn't stay dead. We love him too much to allow that, don't we?
Title: Assess & Acquire
Author: tarotgal
Fandom: Marvel CMU (Avengers & Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.)
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Pre-Clint/Coulson
Spoilers: For the first Avengers movie and the first episode of Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.
Warning: Character death. A lot of character death.
Summary: When Clint Barton shows up unannounced on Phil Coulson’s doorstep, Coulson is forced to change his vacation plans. So when a simple mission to assess and acquire an object of unknown origin comes up, he figures there’s no reason he should turn that down. Naturally, things are never as simple as they seem.
Author’s Notes: Written for NaNoWriMo 2014 all in one month (a first for me!). This story is finished but will be posted in pieces. Total word count: 73,274.
Chapter 2
The sound of the buzzer brought Coulson to as though he’d been subjected to some form of shock therapy. He sat straight up in bed, gasping for breath. He shuddered as sweat trickled down the sides of his face and down his back, and gooseflesh broke out upon his arms. Looking down, he saw he was in his pajamas and in his bed.
The bastards. They’d done it again. He didn’t want to die; of course he didn’t. But this wasn’t natural. He’d only been dead for a few minutes the first time, and S.H.I.E.L.D. technology was amazing; he couldn’t really blame them for bringing him back. But how had Clint managed it this time? Clint had been sick and not at his best. He must have had help. Which meant Fury knew. Probably Coulson’s team knew by now as well. They’d all be descending upon him at any moment.
The door intercom buzzed again, and Coulson knew that was one of them now—Agent May to scold him and say him he’d taken unnecessary risks, or Skye to sit by his bedside and look worried, or Clint to tell him what had happened with the suspects, or Fury to finally fire his ass for letting this happen again.
Knowing he couldn’t hide from them forever, Coulson pulled himself out of bed. He moved sluggishly, which was no surprise; he’d been exhausted during his trip to Tahiti as well. When he got to the doorway of his bedroom, he put on his slippers out of habit. Their rubber bottoms slapped softly against his hardwood floors as he made his way to the door. He thought about who he wanted to find at the door and decided that as long as it wasn’t everyone all at once, he could cope. He pressed the button. “Yes?”
“Agent Coulson, it’s me.”
Clint. Of course it was Clint. He’d probably come to apologize or to make sure that his momentarily delay had not caused permanent damage… or had not somehow damaged the relationship between them. Coulson wasn’t so sure yet it hadn’t. But he buzzed Clint up anyway. Then he unlocked the door. By the time he’d opened the door, the elevator dinged, doors rolling open.
Clint wasn’t alone in the elevator. Behind him was the downstairs neighbor, Ms. Sampson. She wore a floral dress and held a cat carrier in each hand. The two exchanged words that were too soft for Coulson to hear before the agent stepped out of the elevator, one hand on the door to keep it from closing on him as he exited.
Clint looked terrible. Coulson must not have been in recovery long, because Clint apparently still had his cold. Clint blinked at him for a moment, then snapped forward with a strong “Hahh-Ktshhhhh!”
“Looks like you still have—”
Coulson broke off as Clint sneezed again. “Huh huh-KIHtchhh!”
An overwhelming sense of deja vu washed over Coulson more like a tsunami than a wave. He gripped the door frame, feeling dizzy, disoriented.
“Geez, Coulson. I’ve got a terrible head cold, but you look worse than I feel. Are you all right?”
Coulson closed his eyes, concentrating on the smooth, painted wood against his forehead. “For someone who has just been shot, I guess I’m fine.”
“Shot?” Alarmed, Clint laid his hand on Coulson’s shoulder. “How? What happened?”
“Ha ha.”
“Coulson?”
“You know. You were there.”
Silence. A pregnant, meaningful, but uneasy silence. Coulson opened one eye. Clint looked as though he might be sick with concern. Then he sneezed again. “Ehhh-Hetshhh!” Sniffling and rubbing at his sore nostrils, Clint spoke with a measure of timidity Coulson had never heard from him before. “Can I come in? I think we both need to sit down.”
They sat on different ends of the couch. Coulson sat with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. Clint leaned back on the cushions and struggled to breathe without sneezing.
“Let’s start at the beginning. Where were you shot?”
Irritated that Clint would play him like this, he grabbed his t-shirt at the bottom and pulled it up to show Clint. Clint flinched a little as his eyes took in the sight before him, but confusion still danced in his eyes.
“You say you were just shot?”
“Yes,” Coulson sighed. “Right…” He tucked the end of his shirt under his chin and looked down. His scar—the one the Asgardian blade had made—was impossible to miss. The small scars from scratches or accidents over the years were there, right where they were supposed to be. But there was nothing new. He’d been sure he’d felt the bullet hit him right in his chest. But there was nothing—no fresh wound, not even an old wound. He believed fully in the miracles S.H.I.E.L.D. doctors could perform, but even they couldn’t heal a wound and leave no mark at all behind.
Coulson dropped his shirt, tugging it back down. He shivered. “Last mission, when we were at the docks, one of those smugglers shot me.”
“Coulson, we’ve never gone on a mission at the docks.”
“But last night—”
“Last night I was huddled up under a blanket in my apartment watching reruns of Dog Cops and sneezing until my nose was this lovely shade of Fuji apple red.” He sniffled now, his nostrils flaring. “I had a rough night last night, barely able to sleep when this cold got so bad. Then I ran out of medicine, and I felt so miserable… I needed help, and you’re the first person I thought to go to.”
“What about Natasha?”
Clint smiled. “Okay, you’re the second person. Tasha’s undercover in some operation in Bulgaria, I think. But…” Coulson waited for him to finish, but he never did. “Hahh… hah-eh-Chishhh! H’Ketchhh!” Clint sneezed freely, at least turning his head this time so Coulson didn’t get caught in the spray. “Hahh-Kitchuhh!” He pressed the back of his hand against his dripping, twitching nose.
Coulson stood. “Hold on. Let me go get you some tissues.” With a sigh, he headed to the linen closet. He’d bought several tissue boxes at the grocery store the day before.
But none of them were there. Given how sneezy Clint had been, it seemed possible Clint could have sneezed his way through one of the boxes, maybe two. But the entire four-pack? That wasn’t what bothered him the most about what he saw, though. Right there, on the second shelf from the bottom, was the box of tissues sporting a black, gray, and white chevron pattern. It was identical to the box Clint had destroyed the day before.
Coulson raced to the kitchen. He opened the pantry. He looked in cupboards. He opened the fridge. There was nothing. Nothing but some baking soda, some bottled water, some tea, a half a bear of honey, and an unopened box of cereal. “This is all wrong,” he said to himself while Clint sneezed again in the other room. Nothing about this made any sense. Nothing.
And then his phone buzzed. He heard it from the other room, rattling the nightstand. As if in a daze, Coulson walked to it. He stared at the caller ID for almost a full minute before answering. “Agent Hill?”
“Good morning to you, too, Agent Coulson. There’s a situation at the New York City Science Museum. An employee has reported a new 0-8-4. I hate to ask, but…”
Though she kept talking, Coulson stopped listening. He even lowered his phone.
This was all happening again. Clint showing up at his door, sick and sneezy. The box of tissues waiting to be used. Agent Maria Hill calling him about the unidentified, suspicious 0-8-4 at the museum a couple blocks away. It was all happening again as though it had never happened the first time.
“I can’t,” Coulson suddenly said, sitting down on the side of his bed. He lifted the phone back to his ear.
“Agent Coulson, are you there?”
“Agent Hill, I can’t.”
“I know you’re supposed to be on leave, but this is—”
“No, you don’t get it. I can’t go to the museum. And I can’t go down to the docks with Agent Barton to stop smugglers.”
“Sorry, what?”
“I can’t do these things because I’ve already done them. And I think they got me killed.” He hung up while she was trying to stammer out a response.
Then he returned to the living room. Clint sat hunched over, both hands cupped to his face. His eyes flicked upward toward Coulson. “Those tissues? I thig I deed theb.”
Coulson nodded in agreement. “And I need you to help me out. Because I think I’ve been Groundhog Dayed.”
Clint blinked at him then pitched forward again. “Huh… huh-Kuhfshhhhh!”
Coulson went back for the tissue box. He waited while Clint blew his nose repeatedly, dropping the used tissues to the floor at his feet when he was done.
Irritation crawled over Coulson’s skin. He may be living the same day over again and he may have actually just died and come back to life, but that didn’t mean he was suddenly all right with Clint making a mess in his apartment. He got up and went to the bathroom, returning with the small trash can. Clint eyed it but got the message. “Okay, now tell me about what’s going on. You think you were shot?”
“I know I was shot. But I’m the only one who seems to remember it.” Quickly, Coulson outlined the events from the day before—Clint arriving, the trip to the museum, the shopping trip, the operation at the docks that had gone so very wrong. The only thing he left out of the story was the kiss. Coulson wasn’t sure what it had meant, so Clint would probably only find it confusing. He fully expected Clint to inch away from him on the couch or excuse himself and leave or even duck into the bathroom to call Nick Fury and explain that Coulson had lost his mind. Instead, Clint listened attentively, with only an occasional sniffle.
When Coulson was done, Clint gave a nod. “All right.”
“All right? I tell you all that and all you can say is ‘all right’? Do you actually believe me?”
The side of Clint’s mouth turned up in a smile. “Loki took over my mind, Sir. We fought off hundreds of aliens in New York City that were trying to take over the world. You died and came back to life. At this point, there’s nothing you could tell me that I wouldn’t believe.”
Coulson was surprised at how relieved he felt. Whether this was all in his head or not, at least he had Clint on his side now.
“So do you think it was a one-time thing? Or do you think you’re permanently in a… a… a loo… hah-Cheww! Sniff! A loop?”
Coulson shook his head. “I have absolutely no idea. But I hope it’s not permanent. I guess there are ways I could find out for sure. I could hand you my weapon and you could kill me right now.”
Clint’s brow furrowed. “I don’t think that’s a great strategy. I think we try to keep you from dying today. Then you’ll see a tomorrow. Tomorrow might be the same as today or the same as yesterday, which was also today. Or tomorrow might actually be tomorrow. Either way, you’ll be alive to see it.” Then he reached over, took hold of Coulson’s hand, and held it in his own.
“Thank you,” Coulson said softly.
With a shrug, “Least I can do considering I got you killed yesterday. Lucky for me, you don’t know how to stay dead.”
“Lucky,” Coulson repeated, though he was far from feeling it. He reclaimed his hand. “Okay, if you’re going to stay here, you’re going to need more than just a box of tissues—trust me on this. I’m going to get dressed and go to the grocery store.”
Clint cleared his throat. “I’m not letting you go alone.”
Despite the situation, this made Coulson laugh. “You forget that I went to the grocery store yesterday and nothing happened to me there. I’ll be fine.”
Clint stared unblinkingly at him. “Of course you’ll be fine, because I’m going with you. Now go get dressed.”
Coulson hopped in the shower, marveling at how much his life had changed since the last time he’d put on a suit and tie. Except that this was, technically, the same day. And so he chose the same suit and tie. But this time he slipped a few handkerchiefs into the pockets, just in case Clint needed them… knowing Clint would need them. It didn’t take ten minutes before Clint did need one. Shivering on the walk over to the store, Clint looked twice as miserable as he had when he had shown up on Coulson’s doorstep—both times. “Heh… heh-hrSchh! Heh-Ketchuhhhh!” Clint stopped in place, leaning against the back of a bus stop. Here was the world famous Avenger who helped save the world, incapacitated by a cold. “Hahh… hahEHschhh! Sniff! Sniff!” Clint sniffled wetly and rubbed his gloved hand at his nose until Coulson forced a hanky on him. “Thah… thanks-hahh-Kumffff!” He sighed into the handkerchief’s folds and massaged his nose before lowering his hand.
“Are you sure you don’t just want to go back to my place?”
Clint nodded vehemently. “I need to grab some orange juice.”
“Without pulp.”
Clint eyed him. “You really have lived this day before, haven’t you?”
“This time around there are fewer text messages. Come on.” Coulson grabbed a cart and started filling it with the same items he’d bought the day before. Clint followed along behind like a sniffly puppy, stifling sneezes the way he had the night before during the operation.
Once, he even dug the handkerchief out of his pocket and pinched his nose through it. “H’nggh-huhhhhhh!” His exhale afterward was twice as loud as the sneeze, but he was smiling when he folded the hanky up and stuffed it into his back pocket. “These handkerchiefs feel amazing. Sniff! You’re never getting this one back.”
“Fine by me,” Coulson said, thinking of the damp, germ-covered handkerchief. He couldn’t help but smile when Clint couldn’t see, however. He dropped a bag of cherry cough drops into the cart.
“I, sniff, like the honey and herbal ones, sniff, sniff, better.”
Coulson made the switch as well as a mental note. He had no intention of living this day again to make use of this information immediately. But he was still Agent Barton’s handler, and it was never a bad idea to know everything you could about your agents.
He found that grocery shopping was actually a good excuse to let his mind wander to his situation—what was happening, what had caused it, and would it happen again? Certainly he’d been through a whole host of crazy over the years during his time with S.H.I.E.L.D., but usually that involved linear time. Usually.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. Assuming it was Nick Fury calling about the operation down by the docks, Coulson dropped the Vitamin C tablets into the cart and answered immediately. But it wasn’t Fury; it was Agent Hill again. “Hello?”
“Coulson, the museum—”
Coulson looked back at Clint, rubbing his nose and sniffling and rubbing his nose some more. Poor guy. “I told you, I can’t make it to the museum. Send someone else.”
“No, the museum: it’s not there any more.”
The words hit Coulson hard in the gut. For a second, he couldn’t breathe. Then he couldn’t believe it. “Say again?”
“It just exploded, taking out a city block. And that’s not all. There was some blue-purple energy that was part of the explosion.”
Coulson swallowed hard. All those people he’d seen at the museum. The tourists, the scientists, the children. That little girl who had bumped into him. The researcher who’d been concerned about him. They were all gone now, thanks to the… whatever it was. “That energy would be from the 0-8-4.”
“That’s what we guessed as well.”
But Coulson didn’t have to guess. He knew. He knew because he’d seen.
“Coulson, it’s spreading.
“What?”
“The energy. It’s taking over the city, destroying everything in its path.”
“Well we have to stop it.”
“Our scientists don’t know what it is, let alone how to stop it. Coulson, you’ve got to get out of the city. You—”
She kept speaking, but Coulson didn’t hear her. He looked up at the florescent light bulbs overhead in the store and the brighter ones in the display cases. From every outlet shot bolts of teal and purple. The strands of energy ripped through everything in sight, dividing shelves in two, setting the produce section on fire, taking down a screaming couple at the cash register and the line attendant as well. The escalator down to this level of the store exploded, setting off a chain reaction. “Too late,” Coulson said into the phone.
He turned, seeing Clint’s wide eyes, searching his for answers, for aid. And those were the last things he saw before the building exploded around him.
Title: Assess & Acquire
Author: tarotgal
Fandom: Marvel CMU (Avengers & Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.)
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Pre-Clint/Coulson
Spoilers: For the first Avengers movie and the first episode of Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.
Warning: Character death. A lot of character death.
Summary: When Clint Barton shows up unannounced on Phil Coulson’s doorstep, Coulson is forced to change his vacation plans. So when a simple mission to assess and acquire an object of unknown origin comes up, he figures there’s no reason he should turn that down. Naturally, things are never as simple as they seem.
Author’s Notes: Written for NaNoWriMo 2014 all in one month (a first for me!). This story is finished but will be posted in pieces. Total word count: 73,274.
Chapter 2
The sound of the buzzer brought Coulson to as though he’d been subjected to some form of shock therapy. He sat straight up in bed, gasping for breath. He shuddered as sweat trickled down the sides of his face and down his back, and gooseflesh broke out upon his arms. Looking down, he saw he was in his pajamas and in his bed.
The bastards. They’d done it again. He didn’t want to die; of course he didn’t. But this wasn’t natural. He’d only been dead for a few minutes the first time, and S.H.I.E.L.D. technology was amazing; he couldn’t really blame them for bringing him back. But how had Clint managed it this time? Clint had been sick and not at his best. He must have had help. Which meant Fury knew. Probably Coulson’s team knew by now as well. They’d all be descending upon him at any moment.
The door intercom buzzed again, and Coulson knew that was one of them now—Agent May to scold him and say him he’d taken unnecessary risks, or Skye to sit by his bedside and look worried, or Clint to tell him what had happened with the suspects, or Fury to finally fire his ass for letting this happen again.
Knowing he couldn’t hide from them forever, Coulson pulled himself out of bed. He moved sluggishly, which was no surprise; he’d been exhausted during his trip to Tahiti as well. When he got to the doorway of his bedroom, he put on his slippers out of habit. Their rubber bottoms slapped softly against his hardwood floors as he made his way to the door. He thought about who he wanted to find at the door and decided that as long as it wasn’t everyone all at once, he could cope. He pressed the button. “Yes?”
“Agent Coulson, it’s me.”
Clint. Of course it was Clint. He’d probably come to apologize or to make sure that his momentarily delay had not caused permanent damage… or had not somehow damaged the relationship between them. Coulson wasn’t so sure yet it hadn’t. But he buzzed Clint up anyway. Then he unlocked the door. By the time he’d opened the door, the elevator dinged, doors rolling open.
Clint wasn’t alone in the elevator. Behind him was the downstairs neighbor, Ms. Sampson. She wore a floral dress and held a cat carrier in each hand. The two exchanged words that were too soft for Coulson to hear before the agent stepped out of the elevator, one hand on the door to keep it from closing on him as he exited.
Clint looked terrible. Coulson must not have been in recovery long, because Clint apparently still had his cold. Clint blinked at him for a moment, then snapped forward with a strong “Hahh-Ktshhhhh!”
“Looks like you still have—”
Coulson broke off as Clint sneezed again. “Huh huh-KIHtchhh!”
An overwhelming sense of deja vu washed over Coulson more like a tsunami than a wave. He gripped the door frame, feeling dizzy, disoriented.
“Geez, Coulson. I’ve got a terrible head cold, but you look worse than I feel. Are you all right?”
Coulson closed his eyes, concentrating on the smooth, painted wood against his forehead. “For someone who has just been shot, I guess I’m fine.”
“Shot?” Alarmed, Clint laid his hand on Coulson’s shoulder. “How? What happened?”
“Ha ha.”
“Coulson?”
“You know. You were there.”
Silence. A pregnant, meaningful, but uneasy silence. Coulson opened one eye. Clint looked as though he might be sick with concern. Then he sneezed again. “Ehhh-Hetshhh!” Sniffling and rubbing at his sore nostrils, Clint spoke with a measure of timidity Coulson had never heard from him before. “Can I come in? I think we both need to sit down.”
They sat on different ends of the couch. Coulson sat with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. Clint leaned back on the cushions and struggled to breathe without sneezing.
“Let’s start at the beginning. Where were you shot?”
Irritated that Clint would play him like this, he grabbed his t-shirt at the bottom and pulled it up to show Clint. Clint flinched a little as his eyes took in the sight before him, but confusion still danced in his eyes.
“You say you were just shot?”
“Yes,” Coulson sighed. “Right…” He tucked the end of his shirt under his chin and looked down. His scar—the one the Asgardian blade had made—was impossible to miss. The small scars from scratches or accidents over the years were there, right where they were supposed to be. But there was nothing new. He’d been sure he’d felt the bullet hit him right in his chest. But there was nothing—no fresh wound, not even an old wound. He believed fully in the miracles S.H.I.E.L.D. doctors could perform, but even they couldn’t heal a wound and leave no mark at all behind.
Coulson dropped his shirt, tugging it back down. He shivered. “Last mission, when we were at the docks, one of those smugglers shot me.”
“Coulson, we’ve never gone on a mission at the docks.”
“But last night—”
“Last night I was huddled up under a blanket in my apartment watching reruns of Dog Cops and sneezing until my nose was this lovely shade of Fuji apple red.” He sniffled now, his nostrils flaring. “I had a rough night last night, barely able to sleep when this cold got so bad. Then I ran out of medicine, and I felt so miserable… I needed help, and you’re the first person I thought to go to.”
“What about Natasha?”
Clint smiled. “Okay, you’re the second person. Tasha’s undercover in some operation in Bulgaria, I think. But…” Coulson waited for him to finish, but he never did. “Hahh… hah-eh-Chishhh! H’Ketchhh!” Clint sneezed freely, at least turning his head this time so Coulson didn’t get caught in the spray. “Hahh-Kitchuhh!” He pressed the back of his hand against his dripping, twitching nose.
Coulson stood. “Hold on. Let me go get you some tissues.” With a sigh, he headed to the linen closet. He’d bought several tissue boxes at the grocery store the day before.
But none of them were there. Given how sneezy Clint had been, it seemed possible Clint could have sneezed his way through one of the boxes, maybe two. But the entire four-pack? That wasn’t what bothered him the most about what he saw, though. Right there, on the second shelf from the bottom, was the box of tissues sporting a black, gray, and white chevron pattern. It was identical to the box Clint had destroyed the day before.
Coulson raced to the kitchen. He opened the pantry. He looked in cupboards. He opened the fridge. There was nothing. Nothing but some baking soda, some bottled water, some tea, a half a bear of honey, and an unopened box of cereal. “This is all wrong,” he said to himself while Clint sneezed again in the other room. Nothing about this made any sense. Nothing.
And then his phone buzzed. He heard it from the other room, rattling the nightstand. As if in a daze, Coulson walked to it. He stared at the caller ID for almost a full minute before answering. “Agent Hill?”
“Good morning to you, too, Agent Coulson. There’s a situation at the New York City Science Museum. An employee has reported a new 0-8-4. I hate to ask, but…”
Though she kept talking, Coulson stopped listening. He even lowered his phone.
This was all happening again. Clint showing up at his door, sick and sneezy. The box of tissues waiting to be used. Agent Maria Hill calling him about the unidentified, suspicious 0-8-4 at the museum a couple blocks away. It was all happening again as though it had never happened the first time.
“I can’t,” Coulson suddenly said, sitting down on the side of his bed. He lifted the phone back to his ear.
“Agent Coulson, are you there?”
“Agent Hill, I can’t.”
“I know you’re supposed to be on leave, but this is—”
“No, you don’t get it. I can’t go to the museum. And I can’t go down to the docks with Agent Barton to stop smugglers.”
“Sorry, what?”
“I can’t do these things because I’ve already done them. And I think they got me killed.” He hung up while she was trying to stammer out a response.
Then he returned to the living room. Clint sat hunched over, both hands cupped to his face. His eyes flicked upward toward Coulson. “Those tissues? I thig I deed theb.”
Coulson nodded in agreement. “And I need you to help me out. Because I think I’ve been Groundhog Dayed.”
Clint blinked at him then pitched forward again. “Huh… huh-Kuhfshhhhh!”
Coulson went back for the tissue box. He waited while Clint blew his nose repeatedly, dropping the used tissues to the floor at his feet when he was done.
Irritation crawled over Coulson’s skin. He may be living the same day over again and he may have actually just died and come back to life, but that didn’t mean he was suddenly all right with Clint making a mess in his apartment. He got up and went to the bathroom, returning with the small trash can. Clint eyed it but got the message. “Okay, now tell me about what’s going on. You think you were shot?”
“I know I was shot. But I’m the only one who seems to remember it.” Quickly, Coulson outlined the events from the day before—Clint arriving, the trip to the museum, the shopping trip, the operation at the docks that had gone so very wrong. The only thing he left out of the story was the kiss. Coulson wasn’t sure what it had meant, so Clint would probably only find it confusing. He fully expected Clint to inch away from him on the couch or excuse himself and leave or even duck into the bathroom to call Nick Fury and explain that Coulson had lost his mind. Instead, Clint listened attentively, with only an occasional sniffle.
When Coulson was done, Clint gave a nod. “All right.”
“All right? I tell you all that and all you can say is ‘all right’? Do you actually believe me?”
The side of Clint’s mouth turned up in a smile. “Loki took over my mind, Sir. We fought off hundreds of aliens in New York City that were trying to take over the world. You died and came back to life. At this point, there’s nothing you could tell me that I wouldn’t believe.”
Coulson was surprised at how relieved he felt. Whether this was all in his head or not, at least he had Clint on his side now.
“So do you think it was a one-time thing? Or do you think you’re permanently in a… a… a loo… hah-Cheww! Sniff! A loop?”
Coulson shook his head. “I have absolutely no idea. But I hope it’s not permanent. I guess there are ways I could find out for sure. I could hand you my weapon and you could kill me right now.”
Clint’s brow furrowed. “I don’t think that’s a great strategy. I think we try to keep you from dying today. Then you’ll see a tomorrow. Tomorrow might be the same as today or the same as yesterday, which was also today. Or tomorrow might actually be tomorrow. Either way, you’ll be alive to see it.” Then he reached over, took hold of Coulson’s hand, and held it in his own.
“Thank you,” Coulson said softly.
With a shrug, “Least I can do considering I got you killed yesterday. Lucky for me, you don’t know how to stay dead.”
“Lucky,” Coulson repeated, though he was far from feeling it. He reclaimed his hand. “Okay, if you’re going to stay here, you’re going to need more than just a box of tissues—trust me on this. I’m going to get dressed and go to the grocery store.”
Clint cleared his throat. “I’m not letting you go alone.”
Despite the situation, this made Coulson laugh. “You forget that I went to the grocery store yesterday and nothing happened to me there. I’ll be fine.”
Clint stared unblinkingly at him. “Of course you’ll be fine, because I’m going with you. Now go get dressed.”
Coulson hopped in the shower, marveling at how much his life had changed since the last time he’d put on a suit and tie. Except that this was, technically, the same day. And so he chose the same suit and tie. But this time he slipped a few handkerchiefs into the pockets, just in case Clint needed them… knowing Clint would need them. It didn’t take ten minutes before Clint did need one. Shivering on the walk over to the store, Clint looked twice as miserable as he had when he had shown up on Coulson’s doorstep—both times. “Heh… heh-hrSchh! Heh-Ketchuhhhh!” Clint stopped in place, leaning against the back of a bus stop. Here was the world famous Avenger who helped save the world, incapacitated by a cold. “Hahh… hahEHschhh! Sniff! Sniff!” Clint sniffled wetly and rubbed his gloved hand at his nose until Coulson forced a hanky on him. “Thah… thanks-hahh-Kumffff!” He sighed into the handkerchief’s folds and massaged his nose before lowering his hand.
“Are you sure you don’t just want to go back to my place?”
Clint nodded vehemently. “I need to grab some orange juice.”
“Without pulp.”
Clint eyed him. “You really have lived this day before, haven’t you?”
“This time around there are fewer text messages. Come on.” Coulson grabbed a cart and started filling it with the same items he’d bought the day before. Clint followed along behind like a sniffly puppy, stifling sneezes the way he had the night before during the operation.
Once, he even dug the handkerchief out of his pocket and pinched his nose through it. “H’nggh-huhhhhhh!” His exhale afterward was twice as loud as the sneeze, but he was smiling when he folded the hanky up and stuffed it into his back pocket. “These handkerchiefs feel amazing. Sniff! You’re never getting this one back.”
“Fine by me,” Coulson said, thinking of the damp, germ-covered handkerchief. He couldn’t help but smile when Clint couldn’t see, however. He dropped a bag of cherry cough drops into the cart.
“I, sniff, like the honey and herbal ones, sniff, sniff, better.”
Coulson made the switch as well as a mental note. He had no intention of living this day again to make use of this information immediately. But he was still Agent Barton’s handler, and it was never a bad idea to know everything you could about your agents.
He found that grocery shopping was actually a good excuse to let his mind wander to his situation—what was happening, what had caused it, and would it happen again? Certainly he’d been through a whole host of crazy over the years during his time with S.H.I.E.L.D., but usually that involved linear time. Usually.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. Assuming it was Nick Fury calling about the operation down by the docks, Coulson dropped the Vitamin C tablets into the cart and answered immediately. But it wasn’t Fury; it was Agent Hill again. “Hello?”
“Coulson, the museum—”
Coulson looked back at Clint, rubbing his nose and sniffling and rubbing his nose some more. Poor guy. “I told you, I can’t make it to the museum. Send someone else.”
“No, the museum: it’s not there any more.”
The words hit Coulson hard in the gut. For a second, he couldn’t breathe. Then he couldn’t believe it. “Say again?”
“It just exploded, taking out a city block. And that’s not all. There was some blue-purple energy that was part of the explosion.”
Coulson swallowed hard. All those people he’d seen at the museum. The tourists, the scientists, the children. That little girl who had bumped into him. The researcher who’d been concerned about him. They were all gone now, thanks to the… whatever it was. “That energy would be from the 0-8-4.”
“That’s what we guessed as well.”
But Coulson didn’t have to guess. He knew. He knew because he’d seen.
“Coulson, it’s spreading.
“What?”
“The energy. It’s taking over the city, destroying everything in its path.”
“Well we have to stop it.”
“Our scientists don’t know what it is, let alone how to stop it. Coulson, you’ve got to get out of the city. You—”
She kept speaking, but Coulson didn’t hear her. He looked up at the florescent light bulbs overhead in the store and the brighter ones in the display cases. From every outlet shot bolts of teal and purple. The strands of energy ripped through everything in sight, dividing shelves in two, setting the produce section on fire, taking down a screaming couple at the cash register and the line attendant as well. The escalator down to this level of the store exploded, setting off a chain reaction. “Too late,” Coulson said into the phone.
He turned, seeing Clint’s wide eyes, searching his for answers, for aid. And those were the last things he saw before the building exploded around him.
no subject
Date: 2015-03-12 07:03 am (UTC)I love how Clint so easily believes Coulson about the time loop situation and is totally OK with it and wants to help. I especially liked that Clint insisted on going to the store even though he felt so bad. And even though he felt bad he was still concerned with how Coulson looked and felt.
But the part about the whole block exploding? Oh, gosh. As Hawkeye would say, "Ok, this looks bad."
That was not good. So I guess Phil learned his lesson and will try something else the next time around. I love these two. But you already knew that.
no subject
Date: 2015-03-12 03:15 pm (UTC)I'm glad you thought Clint believing him so quickly made sense. I feel like Clint is in no condition to be skeptical. And why wouldn't he trust Coulson instinctively?
But the part about the whole block exploding? Oh, gosh. As Hawkeye would say, "Ok, this looks bad."
LOL! Yeah, definitely not good. Poor boys.
At least Phil's got time to try a lot of things...