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It is Day Too-Ridiculous-To-Count of his captivity, and yes, Phil is very aware of the irony inherent in the word “captivity.” He is Phil Coulson, SHIELD senior agent, long-time friend of Nick Fury, and an involuntary octopus. It’s been about a year, give or take, since he has had a spine and vocal chords and the ability to hold a gun. He’s trying not to imagine the paperwork that has piled up in his absence. The current plan, since escapes 1 through 57 have all failed, is reconnaissance. Let Goodman think he’s won, gather intelligence, and wait for the perfect opportunity.
Loser is visiting again today. Phil knows it’s unprofessional of him to refer to the man as “Loser,” but until they start making eight-arm suits, he’ll be unprofessional. Lipreading is more of an art than a science, anyways, and Phil has trouble making out the other two syllables of the man’s name other than “Lu-.” Loser is some sort of Big Bad, with money to finance some of Goodman’s projects, but Phil doesn’t know if his business is in arms or drugs. What he’d give for access to SHIELD’s databases.
There are other aquarium patrons also milling about today. One guy decides it’s a good idea to practically shove his nose against the glass, he’s standing so close. He’s a young guy, blond, wearing an old leather jacket and worn jeans, and he’s staring intently at something in the tank. Why they all feel the need to stare is beyond Phil. There’s nothing that exciting --
The guy’s not staring into the tank. He’s staring at a reflection on the glass wall of the tank. He’s tracking Loser.
Phil swims to the front of the glass, front and center for the guy to notice. Up close, Phil can see his blue eyes and the dark circles underneath them. The guy just grins, like being accosted by an octopus isn’t weird at all. “What’s up, big guy?” the guy says, nodding.
Phil bobs up and down, copying the nod. Understand, he wills. See me.
The guy blinks. “Well, shit. That’s a neat trick. Listening to a lot of Will Smith, are you?”
Oh no, the guy’s a jokester. Still, Phil has to take it. He whooshes right up to the glass, looking the man in the eye. “Umm...hi,” the man says, looking nervous. Perfect. Phil is making the right impression.
Phil pokes the glass with a tentacle, pointing right at the man. He takes a step back and touches his chest. “Me? Um, hey. My name’s (something with Cl—). Hi...Ursula?”
Phil switches colors angrily. He has suffered to many indignities to let Ursula become common. The man--Cliff? Clark?--just kind of laughs. “Touchy bastard.”
Why is this guy not acting more seriously? He is talking to an octopus. Phil points a tentacle at him again, then sweeps his tentacle over towards Loser.
The guy throws up his hands. “Hey, no, I don’t know that guy.” Which is perfect, the guy is lying to an octopus.
From the corner of his eye, Phil can see two of Goodman’s zookeepers/assassins running towards the man. He goes completely black, whirling his arms. The guy, thank God, understands immediately, and picks up the guys in the reflection of the glass. Clint fights gracefully, completely at odds with the awkward posture he had earlier. He takes them out with Goodman’s trademarked poison knife and climbs through the ceiling. Phil keeps banging on the glass, feeling useless but somehow hopeful.
Phil might just have found his perfect opportunity.
***
Loser's dead. It's the only explanation for the chaos unleashed in the aquarium. Goodwin is snarling at the employees with his glinting shark teeth, leaving them cowed and sniffling behind the seahorse tanks. Ever since the news broke, Phil's been trying to blend in among the other, actual octopuses, never straying beyond his designated tank. Goodwin is a vindictive man, and he likes to take his frustrations out on his pets.
Phil is, unfortunately, one of those pets.
Phil is moving idly, in his practiced “normal octopus floor crawl.” It's not too different from his bland Mr. Suit persona. He looks exactly like any other octopus cynea specimen.
Apparently,he just can't hide well enough, because he glances up to find Goodwin's face looming large on the other side of the glass. Phil flashes black, and Goodwin laughs. "I can always find you, Philip," he says, smirking with all his teeth. Goodwin always takes care to enunciate, drawing out every syllable so Phil can catch them all. It's a sadistic form of courtesy, Phil supposes.
"Philip, my boy, we have a special...game...planned for you. One worthy of your intelligence and skill."
Which is how Phil finds himself squeezed into a tiny tank with two boxes of mollusks and yelled at a distressed employee. The cause-and-effect here is really not surprising. Phil refuses to participate in this silly game, primarily because he considers it below his dignity, but also because they are forcing him to choose between the Mets and the Red Sox, and while he loves the Mets and could never bet against his home team, he could never realistically believe they could win against the Red Sox. He will remain stoic and unmoved in the face of adversity.
What does surprise Phil, though, is that the guy from a few days before walks in the door. The scruffy blond one — the spy and/or assassin — who called him weird names but nonetheless seemed remarkably intelligent. He chats briefly with the attendant, but Phil can't make it out.
The employee leaves, and the man walks over to him. "Hey," the guy says, waving awkwardly.
Phil scoots right up to the edge, trying to grab the guy's full attention. very deliberately,he raises a tentacle and shakes it back and forth. The guy practically beams, and Phil feels another shoot of hope.
"You're pretty good at that mimic thing," Cliff/Clark says. "Thanks for the heads-up, by the way. I got the bastard, just so you know."
Phil flashes his colors and inks, the closest thing he's found to flipping someone off.
The guy recoils and says what's probably a string of swears. "You can't tell me you wanted that dolphinophile around, did you?"
Phil just glares. Does he seriously think Loser was the problem here? Forgive him the metaphor, but there are bigger fish to fry than a moneybags with a cetacean fetish.
Cl-something winces. "He wasn't the problem, was he?" Phil shakes his head as best he can without a spine, and the guy laughs. "I thought so, l fucking told (unintelligible)."
He twists around suddenly and digs a all phone out of his pocket. He says something when he answers, but hangs up immediately. "Sorry, Oswald," he says, "gotta run." He jogs out of the room, leaving Phil feeling frustrated.
Why is it that he can’t catch the man’s name, but always seems to read his insults perfectly clearly?
***
Goodwin's up to something. Phil has no idea what it is, but he hopes it makes big enough waves to get his friend's attention again. The guy's ability to connect Phil's movements to concrete ideas is incredible. Phil only knows one other person with the intuition and creativity necessary to make those kinds of mental leaps, and Nick hates aquariums.
Thinking about Nick is going to carry him down a depressing road he just can't afford to take right now, so he bottles it up and clearly doesn't think about. He continues his patrols, sneaking through water vents and other species’ tanks.
A couple nights later, he’s creeping along the floor of the blue rings’ tank, his favorite rock curled in his tentacle like a weapon, when a dark figure drops from the ceiling. The lights flicker on, and sure enough, it’s That Guy. He’s got a bow in one hand and a quiver of arrows slung around his shoulders.
Well, Phil is an octopus. He’s not going to judge.
The guy peers into the tank in front of him, like he’s looking for Phil. He came back! But how can Phil get his attention? The man raps his knuckles on the glass. Shave and a haircut.
Phil knocks his favorite rock against the glass in time. Two bits. The man turns around — jumps, is perhaps a better word — and aims his bow right at the glass. Phil raises his favorite rock, and the man relaxes with an exaggerated fuck. “How'd you get here?” It’s obvious he’s yelling. “You're supposed to be over there, with the other three-foot-long monstrosities. This water's full of baby octopi, they're all little and yellow and blue and creepy."
Phil glares. How maybe-Cliff manages to be both incredibly intelligent and downright stupid is a mystery.
The man seems to sense Phil’s disapproval and clears his throat. "Okay, so, to prove the 'Clint (unintelligible) is not crazy' interpretation of events,” and that’s nice to know, the guy’s name is Clint, “I am going to ask you some questions. And you are going to point to the 'yes' paper or the 'no’ paper.” Clint puts two crumpled pieces of paper up against the glass.
Clint is a genius. Phil can do this. He’ll pass whatever Turing test Clint throws at him. He can feel his three hearts beating faster. It’s nice to know adrenaline works the same way, even in this body.
Clint begins the questions. "Are you an octopus?”
Phil moves a tentacle towards the yes paper.
“Am I an octopus?”
No.
He asks other questions — Is 3+5=8 correct? Is a shark the same thing as a whale? Do you remember anything more than two weeks in the past? — and Phil aces them all. He can do this.
"And last, but certainly not least, is Jurassic Park III a good movie?"
Phil wants to laugh. Yes, he gestures.
Strangely, Clint acts like that’s a terrible answer. He sags against the glass. "Well, damn. Not that I don't agree with you on that score, buddy, completely misunderstood by the critics — but that was a trick question. You’re not supposed to do anything when you can’t answer the question. You've been pointing blindly this whole time, and I’ve been seeing what I want to see."
Phil panics. He flashes white, then brown, and gestures at no.
"Oh what, I’m wrong? So you've seen Jurassic Park III, then?"
Yes. He can remember, vividly, the way his sister screamed at the spinosaurus, despite them both being grown adults.
Clint is just angry now. "You're a fucking octopus!"
That’s the thing, isn’t it? Phil knows that Clint has no reason to believe him. He can see, so clearly, him walking away, blaming this on a weird week and moving on. This is Phil’s last, best hope, and he’s losing it.
But Clint straightens up. “Are you really an octopus?” He asks, slowly pronouncing each word.
Phil shakes one tentacle at no and one at yes.
“Are you...have you always been an octopus?”
He would cry if he had tear ducts. Phil gestures no.
Clint’s eyes light up. “What were you before?” He asks, and Phil swoops right at eye level and points at his chest. I was like you, he tries to say. I was just like you.
The guy rubs his face through his hands, and Phil misses what he says. But he looks up, and he’s smiling. “Okay, I believe you. Fuck it, I believe you.”
That’s pretty much the greatest thing Phil has ever heard.
***
Since Phil’s tell ability is pretty limited, he’s moved on to the show portion of the evening. Phil leads him deeper and deeper into the hidden parts of the aquarium. Clint’s good at staying hidden, and Phil is not saying that lightly. He’s a spy and probably also an assassin, and Phil’s met a lot of those, but very few of them could keep up with octopus slipping through cracks in tank lids.
Finally, they reach the dark room Goodwin uses as his laboratory. Phil sneaks into the blue ringed octopus’ tank, curls up and blends in with the rocks below while Clint watches from the vents. Phil can’t follow the conversation, but he hopes Clint is taking it all in, learning things Phil could never explain to him.
Then Goodwin snaps the employee’s neck, and Phil knows they’re in trouble. Goodwin stares straight at him, his smile full of teeth. “So, Philip, did you enjoy the show?”
Phil channels his rage, making himself black and huge and dangerous. It means shit to Goodwin, he knows, but Phil’s pissed and he wants to show it.
Goodwin just grins more evilly. “Take that as a no? Pity. I did that just for you. Well, for you and your guest.”
The next few moments are probably the worst of Phil’s life as an octopus. It beats all the mind games Goodwin has played on him, all the times he almost gave up, all the terrifying moments of doubt when he wondered that maybe he has always been an octopus. This is way worse. Commotion is happening but Phil doesn’t know what it is, and then two goons are dragging Clint’s unconscious body into the room.
Phil slams against the glass, over and over and over, feeling completely useless. Goodwin sets the stage in the most dramatic way possible. He has the goons tie Clint to a chair that he stands directly in front of, plate of anchovies in hand. This weird positioning, however, puts Phil out of his line of sight, even accounting for shark-man eyes.
After far too long a time, Clint opens his eyes. He looks around dazed for a moment, before spotting Phil. He winks. Phil feels a heady rush of relief. The bastard. Clint engages Goodwin in conversation almost immediately. It’s obvious he’s buying time, but time for what? He never called backup in all this time, something that’s only striking Phil as suspicious now.
Phil’s tentacle curls again over his favorite rock, his lucky charm. He looks back at Clint. Clint is buying time for him. Phil is Clint’s backup.
It’s been a long time since anybody’s ever trusted Phil.
He uses all of his strength to hit the rock against the glass. He hits again and again. The blue-ringed octopuses around him are starting to freak out a little, but he literally could not care about them. He just keeps hitting the glass. It cracks a little, and he moves on about a foot away, and begins hitting the glass there. He makes several tiny cracks in the glass, forming a circle about a foot in diameter. He pauses for a moment, gathering his strength, and punches through the center of the circle.
The glass shatters. Phil uses all of his momentum to launch himself out of the tank and onto Goodwin’s head. He attacks the fucker with his beak, taking out every single ounce of hatred he’s accumulated over eighteen months. A sharp pain explodes in his right tentacles, and he realizes Goodwin has bitten him. Then Goodwin shutters and falls, and Clint is standing over him, gun in hand. Clint gathers him up and holds him to his chest. Phil winds his legs around Clint’s torso and hangs on for dear life and Clint begins to run. His head feels weirdly light, and he can actually feel his skin dry up.
Clint bursts through the aquarium front doors, and Phil has a brief flash of freedom! before a fuzzy shape comes in to view. Luckily (or unluckily), Phil has seen this individual fuzzy several times before, and his poor topside vision doesn’t stop him from identifying Nick Fury in the flesh.
Well, fuck him sideways. He’s finally made it back to SHIELD. And that’s Phil’s last coherent thought before Clint collapses to the ground.
***
Phil doesn’t remember much of what happened afterward, and he doesn’t want to. He has flashes of pain, and white walls, and a big blue light. The next thing Phil knows, he’s opening his eyes and staring up at a ceiling.
Phil’s lying down. In order to lie down, he needs to have a spine. In order to have a spine, he can’t be an octopus.
Phil sits up in shock. He looks down at his body, his four-limbed, slightly aging, still incredibly fit, completely human body. He lifts his hands and flexes all of his fingers. He wiggles all of his toes. He has toes. This is the greatest moment of his life.
“You look like a two-year-old who just discovered his own wee-wee in the bathtub.” Phil turns his neck (he can turn his neck!) to see Nick sitting in the visitor’s chair beside him. Nick’s got that smile on his face, the one that means trouble, the one Phil thought he’d never get to see again.
“Well,” Phil speaks the first words he’s said in eighteen months. “At least this wee-wee’s not detachable.”
Nick laughs and Phil laughs, and Phil is so, so glad it’s the first sound he gets to hear.
***
Phil demands to be debriefed before falling asleep again, because he doesn’t want to wake up and find that this has all been a dream. (That’s happened a couple times. Octopuses have weird dreams. Phil doesn’t like them all that much.)
So Nick tells him that Loser’s real name was Lewicki, and that Barton was sent to assassinate him at the aquarium. Phil gets to cross reference all the material he’s learned about Goodwin to the stuff Nick’s found out about the people who took him. It’s a long conversation, and it ends with Nick saying: “For the record, I was this close to finding you. My own team, their own resources, all dedicated to you. I was micromanaging this shit. The fact that Barton blew in there all on his own just saved you a couple weeks, that’s all.”
Phil’s silent for a long time. “Who is Barton?”
Fury shrugs. “Depends on who you ask, like everything else. To Miller he’s a waste of a good paycheck. Hill thinks he’s an insubordinate little prick but worth the shit he puts her through.”
Nick’s playing obtuse. Phil waits him out.
“I suppose I don’t have an answer for you, Phil. Twenty-four hours ago he was an asshole who damaged company property and didn’t live up to the promise I saw when I recruited him. Now, of course, he’s the son of a bitch who brought you back alive. So I may not be objective on the subject of Clint Barton for a while.”
***
Because Nick is amazing, the stack of files he leaves on Phil’s bedside table includes Barton’s personnel file. And in that paperwork, he gets to read, time and time again, how the amazing, remarkable individual who saved him is ignored and belittled. Miller clearly never got over her first impression of Clint as a thoughtless jackass. She, in fact, tells him that in as many words. She constantly berated Clint to his face,in public places, and in an entirely unprofessional manner.
Maria and Nick obviously noticed the problem, and were in talks to have him transferred to another handler. But they had no idea who that other handler would be, and Phil doesn’t blame them. But he’s here now, and Nick doesn’t bat an eyelash when Phil requests that he be Barton’s new SO. And If Phil gets a little vindictive in dealing with Miller, Nick doesn’t bat an eyelash at that either.
lf Miller had her way, if Clint wasn't so damn stubborn, then Phil might very well still be an octopus floating in a madman's tank. It’s hard not to take that personally.
It’s not until Phil settles into the plastic chair at Barton’s bedside, waiting for him to wake up, that he realizes that, in addition to being intelligent and remarkably willing to trust an octopus, Clint Barton is also extremely handsome.
Phil is so royally fucked.