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(1)
Phil gets the call at four in the morning, or so the clock beside his bed tells him with its illuminated bright green numbers.
“Can you repeat that?” he asks, hoping he hadn’t heard right. It’s a futile thought.
“Sorry sir but you’re down as their emergency contact and Agent Barton keeps trying to leave by the air vents and Agent Romanoff is really scary.”
Phil sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “Just, tell them I’m coming and not to move.”
He pulls himself out of bed and gropes around for a fresh shirt. The last time he’d made the mistake of being caught in his pajamas both assassins had mocked him mercilessly for a week and then turned up to a briefing decked out head to toe in their very best Captain America sleepwear.
He settles for a simple grey pullover and a pair of creased slacks.
He’s almost out the door when he remembers the box he’s had sitting on his corner shelf since last years Secret Santa…before he can think better of it, he picks it up and takes it with him.
The nurse looks relieved to see him, judging by how hard she hugs him.
“Sir, Agent Barton pulled his stitches but he won’t let us near him…and Agent Romanoff is…just very scary…”
“It’s okay, thank you Rose, I’ll talk to them.” He gives her a pleasant smile and gently pats her on the back. She’s a good woman, she doesn’t really deserve the antics of the two lethal terrors in the next room over.
Phil takes a moment to compose himself before he hits the access button to the medical bay.
The door opens. Assassin #1, Clint Barton, is sitting across the bed with a hospital gown around his waist whilst Assassin #2, Natasha Romanoff, stands behind him in a set of (probably stolen) scrubs and sews up the gash he’s reopened on his shoulder. They are making a mess of the sheets and the patch job.
Both assassins turn to look at him as he enters.
“Oh hey Phil, you here to bust us out?” Clint asks, pulling his gown back up when Natasha pats him on the shoulder to indicate she’s done.
“You,” Phil growls at Clint, “You fell off a three storey building and punctured a lung yet you’re trying to climb around in the vents again. You do not ‘Hey Phil’ me.”
Out of the corner of his eye he can see Natasha smirk.
“And you,” he whirls on her, “You were hit by a car. I don’t care how fast you heal; you need to spend at least one night here where they can monitor you. It’s protocol.”
She lets out a very un-Black Widow like huff and glares at Clint.
“I can’t believe you hit me.” She snarls.
“Oh My God! I said I was sorry, I warned you I was coming.” To his credit, the archer looks apologetic.
“You said watch out. Watch out where Clint? How was I supposed to know you were going to drive that hunk of junk through the wall?”
“Hey, it wasn’t a piece of junk.”
“Are you kidding me-”
“Both of you. Stop. Now.” Phil rubs at the spot just above his eye that’s beginning to throb. “Here.” He throws the box he’d brought with him onto the bed by Clint’s feet.
“This is the only home surgery I want you two doing…when I come back tomorrow to check on you both, you better be here and in one piece.”
He gives them his best agent stare, raising an eyebrow for added effect. They don’t seem quelled at all but look at his peace offering and agree to stay.
When he comes back in the morning, at the more reasonable time of seven, he finds his assassins have escaped. They’ve left the board game open on the bed though, at some point they’ve decided to color in Operation Sam to give him a SHIELD issue tac suit and all the ailments on the cards had been renamed after battle wounds.
Children, SHIELD’s most deadly assets are children.
(2)
It’s been a while since Phil has had the opportunity to enjoy a leisurely stroll around the SHIELD Academy but seeing as how his meeting with Agent Weaver has been postponed for another hour, he takes the opportunity to indulge in a little nostalgia while he can.
On the hill by the training yard he spots a familiar figure overseeing a group of cadets who are making their way through the assault course below. Clint looks every bit like the drill sergeant in his faded BDU’s, arms crossed over his chest and a whistle hanging from his neck.
“So, how’s training the recruits going?” Phil asks. He remembers Clint and Natasha had scored three weeks worth of cadet training thanks to a Quinjet they’d dropped somewhere in the Pacific ocean. It wasn’t like SHIELD would usually punish agents for the loss and destruction of property, especially since they’d been hit by enemy fire and had to emergency eject….but that was the third Quinjet the pair had lost in two months and they are very expensive.
Clint’s eyes don’t leave the scene below him but he gives a small nod.
“They’ve got a lot of work to do but some are showing promise.” The smirk at the end was a little too smug and Phil doesn’t want to think about the ways Hawkeye and Black Widow are taking their grounding out on the cadets.
“Well, Evans says they’re one of the best groups he’s seen-” Phil is interrupted by the sound of an explosion and a puff dirt that hits the air somewhere near the tyre ladder. “-What was that?”
“Oh,” Clint waves him off. “Just the mines. Don’t worry, they’re only little.”
Phil plays that sentence back in his head. He’s pretty sure they’ve never used live ammunition in the assault course before…especially for cadets.
“You booby trapped the course?” he asks Clint. Now that he looks a bit closer a few of the cadets are trembling as they make their way between obstacles and it has nothing to do with exhaustion.
“No, Natasha booby trapped the assault course.” Clint unfolds his arms and reaches to pick up his bow. “I am the booby trap for the rope swing.” He grins and nocks an arrow.
On cue Natasha’s voice crackles across the radio on Clint’s belt. “We’ve got a live one Hawkeye, you know what to do.”
Phil can make out Natasha sitting at the top of the vertical wall, her legs dangling off the side of the tower. She gives a small wave and Clint fires. The arrow travels silently, swiftly severing the rope a young cadet is clutching at and sending him sprawling into the mud below. Phil glares at Clint.
“What?” The archer smiles.
(3)
“I’m ordering both of you to stop now. This is a training run, not a demolition derby. That’s millions of dollars of research you two are playing with.” He winces when the engineer next to him lets out a yelp and on the screen he sees Natasha accelerate to overtake Clint on the outside. The archer plays dirty and gives her motorcycle a kick with his foot, sending it off course.
“Asshole!” she swears over the comm and takes a hard left to avoid hitting the side of a sea container. She recovers enough to only lose the side mirror as it severs on impact but she keeps the bike upright and guns it down the side of the dock.
“Sorry, was that a bit much?” Clint’s voice is unrepentant and Natasha laughs.
“Oh, you will pay for that Barton.”
“Make me.”
“Flirt on your own time and return the equipment now.” Phil growls. The engineer next to him is practically sobbing, watching Hawkeye and Black Widow treat his very expensive prototype motorcycles like bumper cars. 100Mph bumper cars in an obstacle course.
“We haven’t completed our lap yet!” Clint whines and then hits the brakes as Natasha shoots out in front of him, having taken a shortcut along the boat ramp. His back wheel locks up but he recovers it before he ends up in the water and hoots down the comm.
"Do these still have flares?” he asks. The engineer’s eyes go wide in panic.
“Oh, here it is.” Even with the grainy camera footage Phil can see Clint press a button on the center console and then a second later he watches a grappling hook explode from the headlight bracket. Natasha swerves just in time to avoid being decapitated as it thumps into the wheel of a forklift in front of them.
“Disconnect, disconnect!” Clint punches at the button again and the rope snaps off before it can pull the bike from under him.
“Did you even read the manual?” Natasha asks from in front of him. She hits a switch near the top of the tank and six small flares deploy from the back of her bike.
“Shit!” Clint swerves to avoid them and then groans. “I think one hit me in the head.”
“Then wear a helmet.”
“But my hair….”
“Children. Back. Now.” Phil does not have the time for this. He has enough paperwork from their mission in Lisbon, the expense report is overdue as he needs to somehow justify $504 worth of lip gloss (Natasha) and $630 worth of parking tickets (Clint). He really doesn’t need to add a training incident report to his deadlines.
Sighing, Phil walks out of the observation station leaving the engineer to collapse in a nervous puddle on the floor. He takes up a position outside of the small demountable and waits by the side of the docks his agents are currently terrorizing.
Natasha comes in first, leaning on the bike so hard that the back tyre swings out and creates a thick black line of burnt rubber as it spins in a full one-eighty. She stops by Phil’s side and pulls her helmet off, smirking as she sees Clint arrive a moment later, dropping out of a wheelie and cutting his speed so that he stops just inches away from her front tyre.
Phil clears his throat and holds out his hand. Both assassins reluctantly dismount and drop the keys in his palm.
“You made the engineer cry.” He says, looking disapprovingly at them both. Clint grins in triumph.
“Ha! That’s square number five.” He nods to Natasha who rolls her eyes before pulling out a crumpled piece of paper from lord knows where on her catsuit.
And that’s how Phil learns about the bingo game.
(4)
“Mark me down for monologuing bad guy.” Clint says whilst he and Natasha are huddled over a small notebook in the back of the Quinjet. “Like seriously, is there an induction seminar they all take at villain school. How to blab about our evil plan and suck at security?”
“I don’t think I remember that lesson from the Red Room.” Natasha answers dryly. She scrawls a few words in purple marker inside a box on the roughly drawn 5x5 grid and then reaches for a red pen. “And if you get monologuing bad guy, I want sleazy security guard.”
“I thought I told you both to cut this out?” Phil sighs, feeling the need to remind them of his presence on the jet.
“You said to cut out base bingo. This is mission bingo. Totally different.”
Clint explains as Natasha finishes her writing and tucks the notebook away in her jacket pocket.
Phil does not roll his eyes because he is a professional. “I’m sorry I wasn’t more specific.”
*Two minutes till drop* The pilot calls over the comm line and Natasha and Clint take their positions at the drop zone.
“Last check.” Phil says to his agents and then steps in front of them to confirm their gear is in working order. Oxygen, parachutes and weapons are secured and operational. He tightens the rope that holds Clint’s quiver and then steps back, feeling strangely like a father sending his children off on their first day of school.
*Package is ready for post. Clear the departure zone.* The back of the Quinjet slides down, sending the cold wind from outside howling through the cabin.
“Remember, it’s a simple in and out…” Phil shouts over the wind. Clint sticks his thumb up and then walks to the edge of the ramp and towards the twenty thousand foot drop that awaits.
“After you,” Clint holds out his hand for Natasha. She takes it but uses her momentum to throw him forward, sending him sprawling out of the plane. He yells over his comm line as he falls.
Natasha looks to Phil, a little too satisfied. “Falling from a great height was square number three.” She shrugs and then leaps.
(5)
His agents are late for an on base check in, which is strange because as much as they act like a pair of delinquents, they are usually punctual delinquents.
So like the good handler he is, he goes to investigate what’s kept his charges from checking in. He finds them in Clint’s quarters.
Both of his assassins are sitting back on the bed watching the small tablet they’ve propped up on a shelf, using it as a make shift television stand. They’ve found a table from somewhere, dragging it in to the middle of the room and covered it in a ridiculous amount of plastic shot cups, clear liquid poured to the brim in all of them.
“Hey Phil, come play, we’ve combined movie night with Russian roulette.” Barton nods at the tablet where James Bond is grappling with his assailant on the top of a moving train. “If you’ve done anything that happens on the screen you need to take a drink.” To demonstrate, Natasha pauses the movie.
“Grappling on the top of a train.” She says and both Clint and her take a shot. They stack the empty cups and resume.
“I know downtime can be a little boring but I shouldn’t need to tell you this is a terrible idea.” Phil eyes them both, even as Clint snatches the remote to pause the movie again.
“Hah! Drink!,” Clint grins at Natasha and gestures towards the screen. Moneypenny has just shot Bond who has been paused mid fall.
“I shot you one time, you need to let that go.”
“Still shot your partner. Drink.”
“Fine.” She takes a shot and gives him a feral smile.
Phil squints suspiciously at the amount of pre-made shots on the table.
“Please tell me they’re not all vodka shots…” There’s a good few liters worth of liquid there. He knows Natasha has a tolerance but Clint…
Clint shakes his head, eyes still glued to the movie. “Course not, half are water…right Nat?”
Natasha gives him an innocent look and bats her eyelashes.
“What?” Clint does look away from the movie this time.
“You said you wanted to play Russian roulette with drinks, half of it is good vodka and half of it is bad vodka. There is no water.”
Clint peers at her for a moment, his face expressionless before he shrugs it off and turns back to the screen.
“You sure you don’t want to play Phil?” Natasha asks, moving over on the bed and patting the now vacant spot next to her.
Phil only entertains the idea for a moment before deciding that it’s ridiculous.
“I don’t think-“
“Oh, hey, drink.” Clint interrupts before he can politely decline and hands Natasha another shot before getting one for himself.
The screen is paused again and Bond has a girl up against the wall…
“I don’t want to know...” Phil turns to leave before his two agents can finish their shots.
Their competitive steaks eventually get the better of Russian roulette movie watching.
“You cheated.” Clint glares at her…or in her general direction. His vision is probably still a little blurry from the alcohol poisoning.
“I’m sorry, I thought we took turns picking the movies. I didn’t complain last week when you picked Goldeneye just because you wanted me to drink during those scenes.” Natasha is of course, unrepentant.
Phil, who was minding his own business in the mess hall enjoying his breakfast quietly until Strike Team Delta joined him, is now curious.
“What movie did you pick?” He asks Natasha.
“Robin Hood.” She says and Clint groans.
“Yeah, an archery movie Nat. Did I really have to drink for every arrow shot?”
“Did I have to drink for every Xenia Onatopp thigh hold?”
Clint gives her a crooked smile. “No, but it was so worth it.”
Natasha glares at him.
“Seriously Phil,” Clint says, “You should join us next time. We’ll watch Men In Black and you can drink for every one of Tommy Lee’s deadpan deliveries.”
“…Maybe.” Phil says around a mouthful of eggs.
Phil never does get the chance. Three months later, he dies.
(+1)
Really, going to look at your own grave might be a bit narcissistic but it’s not like he’s going to see who left the biggest flower arrangement. It’s about closure and recovery and accepting what happened to him.
So on a sunny afternoon in the spring he finds himself walking the dirt path of the cemetery towards his not-so-final resting place. It’s actually a lovely area, the graves are well maintained and there are some charming old trees and park benches to make the place less…somber. Phil can appreciate that sort of thing.
He slows his pace when he comes upon the subdivision he’s after and notices that he seems to already have visitors. They haven’t seen him but there are two figures sitting on his grave, leaning against his headstone. It’s a punch to the gut and he has to stop himself from walking to them on instinct. Instead he hides in the shadows and watches them from a distance.
He’s only a little bit disappointed in them to discover they are passing a bottle of vodka back and forth.
Part of him, a huge part of him, wants to go to them, to reach out to the two assassins he’d considered family and tell them he’s okay. It will be okay. But that would be a lie and he respects them too much to lie to them.
Instead he watches them take turns drinking from the bottle like a pair of rebellious teenagers who stole dad’s liquor.
When the bottle is finished they pull each other up. In the setting sun Phil can see Clint pull something from his jacket and leave it on top of his headstone before they walk from the cemetery leaning on each other.
When he’s sure they’ve gone he makes the journey to his grave. They’ve done a good job, the flowers are lovely and the headstone is very simple yet classy. There is only one item out of place.
Laid out on his headstone is a pair of Captain America boxer shorts…
He wipes away the wetness on his cheeks and smiles wryly.
Children, his best friends are children.