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Phil steps off the elevator onto the Avengers' communal floor of the tower, stopping for a moment to breathe in deeply. It smells heavenly, and that means it's either Clint's or Tony's turn to cook. Clint will have concocted something wonderful, and Tony will have ordered in gourmet from one of the top chefs in the city. World, maybe.
Either way, it's looking like dinner is going to be a vast improvement over the mystery lunchmeat sandwich he grabbed from the SHIELD commissary at lunch. His stomach growls in agreement, and he heads to his suite to stow his briefcase and change out of his suit.
They are just sitting down to dinner when he joins them, and he does a quick head count of his charges. Thor has temporarily returned to his family on Asgard, and Natasha is on a mission for Fury. Pepper and Tony are sitting at one end of the table and bickering quietly, both grinning as they argue, and Banner is absentmindedly setting the table, his nose to the screen of a tablet, as usual. Phil can hear Barton humming in the kitchen, occasionally singing out a word or two of the lyrics of whatever's in his head. Phil's heart lifts at the sound, lifts further as Barton steps between the two rooms, a large casserole dish in his oven-mitted hands.
There is a flash of pure happiness in the archer's eyes as he catches sight of Phil before he settles into his usual confident grin, and it's only years -- decades -- of training that keeps Phil's lips from curving into an answering smile. What they have is new and wonderful and private, and it's only because they are seasoned agents that they have managed to keep it that way.
"Coulson," Clint says easily as he sets the dish in the middle of the table. "Just in time for dinner. Chicken enchiladas, I found a new recipe."
"It smells fantastic, Clint," Pepper says with a smile as he dishes her out a serving, and the others agree with enthusiastic nods and murmurs.
"Where's Captain Rogers?" Phil asks as he serves himself. Clint returns to the kitchen and comes back with several glasses of iced tea, setting one before Banner, one before Phil, and one in front of his own plate, which is now full, courtesy of Phil. They nod their thanks at each other.
Pepper sets down her fork. "He's in his suite. I called him down," she says, a frown flitting over her features. "He said he wasn't hungry."
They all look up at that. Steve is always hungry, and he generally considers team dinners to be inviolable morale building time.
"I think he's been in his rooms all day," Banner says as he forks up a bite of enchilada. "I haven't seen him."
"JARVIS, has Steve left his rooms today?" Tony asks, and Phil frowns at him.
"Captain Rogers is entitled to his privacy, Mr. Stark," he says, even as JARVIS replies, "No, sir. Captain Rogers has been in his suite since 2347 last night."
Stark rolls his eyes at Coulson. "It's like you just met me. JARVIS, cross-reference today's date with Steve's personnel file and all known personal contacts, give me the best hit."
"Tony," Pepper says warningly.
"What? It's a hunch, Pep. And you said be more helpful. This is me, being helpful."
"Today is the birth date of known associate, close friend, and subordinate Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes, also known as 'Bucky'."
"Bucky Barnes?" Clint asks, eyebrow raised as he glances at Phil, the font of all Cap knowledge.
"I recognize that name," Tony says as he takes a sip of his drink. "Maybe one of his commandos. Or, wait, I think my dad said they grew up together. Or both."
"This is none of our business," Phil says firmly, an empathetic ache in his gut for Steve. Knowing the man's history like it's his own is uncomfortable sometimes, a breach of privacy he never intended.
"Come on, Coulson. We're just curious. Concerned. For our teammate," Tony says with a winning smile before Pepper's elbow in his ribs turns it into a grimace.
"Let the man grieve in privacy."
"Thank you, Agent Coulson." Steve's tired voice comes from the doorway. He walks slowly to the table and sits heavily in one of the vacant chairs. There is an empty place setting before him, Bruce having set several extra out of habit.
He looks like hell. His hair is neatly combed and his clothes are tidy, as they always are, but there is a drained weariness in his bearing, his face is pinched and tight, and pain has dulled the brightness of the blue eyes that usually smile and sparkle.
He serves himself and then just sits, his gaze on his plate while the others stare wordlessly at him and flick uncertain glances back and forth at each other.
"Steve," Pepper says softly, her hand on his arm. "I'm so sorry about your friend."
Rogers closes his eyes and swallows harshly. "Thank you," he says, his voice grating with emotion. "He... Bucky was... since were we kids, he -- "
His voice breaks, and he stops. Then he shakes his head, and when he opens his eyes, they are flashing with anger.
"I'm... I am so damn tired of this," he says bitterly. "Tired of hiding it. This is the future, right? And you people are supposed to be enlightened and understanding and all that -- bull." Steve's face twists with emotion. "Bucky was my best friend, but that doesn't even begin -- he was the man I... we were... Bucky was everything."
Phil stares at him, fork slack in his hand, and the few bites of food he's taken weigh like boulders in his gut. There is a wild, raging grief on Steve's face, and Phil knows it, he knows it well, intimately -- it's the same fevered dread that tears at him when the comms go silent, the same OhGodpleaseno terror that rose up and choked him when Fury, voice tight with pain, snapped out, "Barton has turned," on a night full of chaos and death.
They were lovers, a tiny voice stutters inside of him. Steve Rogers and James Barnes were lovers oh my God Bucky and Cap they were lovers, and something breaks within him and he stands, fork clattering to his plate.
"Excuse me," he says, and he has no idea how his voice stays even, but it does, and they are all staring at him now, but he doesn't notice, he can't notice, he just has to get out, go somewhere else, and he turns and he leaves and voices rise behind him, but he keeps walking.
He finds himself in his bedroom, staring up at the framed USO poster that has hung above his bed since he was ten years old, every time he's had a bedroom and not just a bunk or sterile quarters, through elementary school and junior high school and high school and college and all the years since. He studies the printed face he knows as well as his own, every shadow and curve and line, and he closes his eyes and the memory slots into place, crystal clear, and he drops onto the edge of the bed and covers his face with his hands.
Phil's breath jerks out of him when JARVIS suddenly says, "Agent Coulson, Agent Barton is requesting entrance."
Phil's cell phone beeps a text alert, and he automatically pulls it out of his pocket.
Just tell me you're all right and I'll leave you alone.
"Let him in," he tells JARVIS.
"Phil?" Clint calls from the living area, and then again as he moves closer. "Phil?"
There is such concern in his voice, such care, and Phil shakes with it.
Clint steps into the bedroom doorway and stops. His face is pale as he stares at Phil. "Phil, are you..."
"I'm not all right," he rasps, and Clint is suddenly standing right in front of him. The archer's sure and steady hand, which can hit a target dead center at three hundred meters during a hailstorm, trembles as it rises to Phil's face, cups his cheek, wipes away a tear Phil didn't even know was there.
He sits tentatively on the bed beside Phil, his body taut with anxiety. "Can I... what..."
Clint raises one hand to rest on the back of Phil's slumped shoulder, rubbing lightly before he squeezes gently and tugs Phil toward him, and when Phil curls himself against Clint's chest, Clint's arms band around him tightly, holding him up, holding him steady. Phil closes his eyes and buries his face in Clint's neck, breathing in the clean, familiar scent of him, and he starts talking.
Phillip is fourteen and he is lying on his bed in his tiny bedroom, on top of the Captain America bedspread that he knows he is too old for, but he doesn't care, and he is staring up at the ceiling and he is laughing so hard he can't breathe.
His best friend is lying beside him, giggling so much that he snorts with it, and that sets Phillip off again, and they don't even know what they're laughing at anymore, but they can't stop.
Still laughing, Phillip turns his head to look at Keith, but his laughter chokes off, and he is breathless again, for a completely different reason. Keith's deep brown eyes are sparkling, bright with tears of laughter, and he is grinning, and there is a gap between his front teeth, a light dusting of freckles across his sunburned cheeks, his hair slightly shaggy because he is overdue for a haircut, and he is the most beautiful thing Phillip has ever seen.
Keith has stopped laughing now, and he is staring back at Phillip, and there is something in his eyes, something that looks hungry, and Phillip turns on his side and slowly leans in until their lips are touching and Keith's startled breath is hot on Phillip's face. It's awkward and their noses are bumping, but Phillip tilts his head and they just fit, and Keith's lips press tentatively back at Phillip's, and then more firmly, and joy rises dizzily within him. He raises a shaking hand to touch Keith's cheek with trembling fingertips, and Keith shoves him away so hard Phillip almost falls off the bed.
"What the hell are you doing?" Keith snaps, and there is anger in his voice, but there is also fear.
Phillip's stomach rises into his throat, and he opens his mouth, but he doesn't know what to say. "I -- "
"What are you doing, what the hell do you -- I'm not -- I'm not a fucking queer!" Keith snarls, his voice rising until he's shouting, and Phillip's eyes burn and his cheeks are hot and he wants to cry, but he won't. He won't.
You kissed me back, he thinks wildly. You wanted it, you kissed me back!
Keith scrambles over him to get off the bed, his elbow in Phillip's chest, his knee catching Phillip's crotch, and the breath explodes out of him and the pain blooms white hot, but he just lies there, curled and gasping and staring into Keith's furious face.
Keith's darting gaze finds Phil's prized poster, hanging above the bed, and he glares back at Phillip.
"What do you think your precious Captain America would think of you if he knew you were a dirty faggot?" Keith sneers, and Phillip starts to cry, he can't help it, and the door slams and Keith's gone.
Phillip is terrified when he goes back to school on Monday, and he waits for the jokes and the knowing looks and the slurs and the punches. They never come, and he never stops expecting them, and Keith never talks to him again.
Every night before he goes to bed, Phillip stares up at the poster over his bed, and he tells himself, Captain America is not a fag, and neither am I.
"Little bastard," Clint growls, and Phil shakes his head against the now damp cloth of Clint's shirt.
"He died," he says quietly. "In 1986. Of AIDS."
"Ah, God, Phil," Clint whispers. "I'm so sorry."
Clint rubs his cheek against Phil's skin, Phil's hair, and they sit silently as Phil regroups, re-gathers himself and his strength from the man holding him.
"I knew," Phil says. "From the time I was twelve, maybe even before. But after that day, I lied to myself for twenty years. Two decades, Clint, and I was fucking miserable." He raises his eyes to the poster again. "I wonder... how different would things be if I had just... if I had known about Cap and Bucky, if I had just known that they were like me?"
He sighs. "I don't... I don't blame him. Rogers. Steve. It's not like they could have been out and proud, but... twenty years."
Clint's voice is quiet in his ear. "Maybe your life would be better, Phil, but maybe it would be worse. Either way, you wouldn't be you, here and now. And if you weren't here now, I wouldn't be either."
"Then that isn't a life I'd want," Phil tells him without hesitation, and Clint's arms tighten briefly around him. "I should have known," he continues, "After Keith died, I should have realized that he was more pissed off at himself than at me that day, that he just wasn't ready yet to learn that truth about himself, but by that point I was so deep in denial..."
"What changed?" Clint asks, and when Phil hesitates, not sure if he's ready to share that part of himself, Clint brushes a kiss against his temple. "Never mind."
"Clint -- "
Clint lifts Phil's chin with his fingertips. His eyes are honest and open, and so, so blue.
"I'm serious, Phil. You want to tell me someday, I will listen. You want to keep it to yourself, that's fine too. It doesn't make a difference."
Phil closes his eyes, rests his forehead against Clint's. "Thank you." For understanding. For listening.
"Wouldn't be here if I didn't want to be, you know that."
They lapse into silence again, Clint's hand carding soothingly through Phil's short hair, rubbing gently at the nape of Phil's neck.
"Agent Coulson, Captain Rogers is requesting entrance," JARVIS says, and Phil stiffens.
Clint squeezes his shoulder. "You don't have to talk to him tonight. It's been a rough day for both of you."
"That's why we need to clear the air as soon as possible," Phil tells him. "Otherwise the tension is just going to keep ratcheting up."
Clint sighs and scrubs a hand through his hair. "You should know that Stark's ready to call Fury and demand another liaison because he thinks that you couldn't handle finding out that your childhood hero is gay."
Phil laughs bitterly, gestures at Clint's damp shirt. "I couldn't."
"Not what I meant and you know it," Clint says with a glare. "I managed to hold him off for a while, but..."
"But I've got to tell them something," Phil concludes wearily. "Whatever I decide to tell them, Clint, I'll do my best to keep you out of it."
Clint stares at him. "You're joking, right? You think, what, I'm just gonna let you come out while I hide in the shadows? You think I'm going to let all the male interns and baby agents and analysts think they have a chance to succeed where all the female ones have failed?"
He laughs at Phil's bemused expression, leaning forward to press a quick kiss to his lips. "You're oblivious, Coulson, as always. It's actually kind of comforting to know it wasn't just my signals you were missing. Come on, let's get this over with. I'm with you every step of the way, Phil, as long as you want me there."
Phil leans briefly on his shoulder. "I couldn't do any of this without you anymore, Clint. I wouldn't want to."
They stand together and walk toward the living area, and Phil grips Clint's hand tightly as he calls for Steve to come in.
Steve steps in, the carefully composed look on his face fading into a confused frown as he spots them standing there together, their hands clasped.
"I thought I understood, but it's clear that I was wrong," Steve says after a moment.
"Let's simply say that you and I have more in common than being present while the other was unconscious, Captain, and that such a realization was a little more than I was prepared to deal with without warning." His lips quirk up into a brief smile. "If I had known when I was twelve, well... my hero worship would have known no bounds."
Clint laughs. "That's a damn scary thought, sir, considering its current levels."
"You call him 'sir' while he holds your hand," Steve says softly. "Bucky... Bucky used to do that, but with him it was always... he thought it was the greatest joke in the world."
He trails off, and Phil is reminded that today was a horrible day for Steve even before Phil's own personal drama unfortunately compounded the issue.
With every day that passes, it becomes clearer to Phil that for all the time he's spent studying his hero, for all his knowledge of the minutiae of Captain America's life in the spotlight, he does not know Steve Rogers. He is no larger than life champion; he is just a man, and he is alone, and he is grieving.
Clint's calloused hand is warm and solid in his own, and for the first time in his life, Phil would not trade places with Captain America.
"I'm so very sorry for your loss," Phil tells him. "I should have said so earlier. Please be aware that SHIELD provides excellent grief counseling, if you would like to speak to someone."
"I've had more than enough of the SHIELD docs with their clipboards, thanks."
"Hear you on that," Clint says with a short laugh. "If you just want to grab a beer and talk, my door's always open."
Steve's smile is brief, but genuine. "Thanks, Barton."
He glances back at Phil. "I know you don't like for us to point it out, Coulson, but you're human. You're allowed to act like one every once in a while."
"Nevertheless," Phil begins, drawing himself up to attention, "I sincerely apologize if my reaction led you to believe -- "
Steve holds a hand up, stopping the apology. "I won't deny that I had some concerns," he answers honestly, "But they've been pretty well cleared up now."
He looks at the two of them, at their clasped hands, and the envy on his face is unmistakable. "I think I'll call it a night. I'll... I'll tell Tony and the others to stand down, that we can discuss things in the morning."
"Good night, Captain," Phil tells him, and Clint echoes, "Night, Rogers."
"G'night."
Steve turns toward the door and stops, turns back around. "You fellas are damn lucky. Don't ever forget it."
"We don't," Phil tells him seriously. "Not for a minute."
Steve nods, and he's gone.
The door closes behind him and Phil lets his breath out slowly, feeling the tension gradually dissipate. Clint leads him to the sofa and they sit, the archer wrapping an arm around him and pulling Phil into his chest.
There are going to be more difficult discussions and revelations in the morning, and God knows how far they're going to go -- a couple of gay Avengers is not small news, and maybe it should be, and maybe it shouldn't be, but they can deal with that tomorrow. For now, Phil simply wants to relax in the arms of the man he loves.