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Summary
Phil is tired. Phil is stupid. Or, he’s stupid because he’s tired, or he’s tired because he’s stupid, and he’s not really sure which one it is anymore.
He doesn’t remember anymore when he started counting small luxuries in terms of meals. The food bank has meat sometimes, but he can’t cook it, so he leaves it for the mothers at the food pantry that glare at him because he doesn’t look homeless, doesn’t look like someone who should be trespassing in their aisles filled with boxes of Kraft mac and cheese and chicken broth and if they’re lucky, a box or two of fancy risotto or rice pilaf. He doesn’t know how to tell them that they don’t look homeless either, that they look nice, and clean, and perfectly employable - just like he does.
The one where for once, Clint Barton gets to be the guardian angel.