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Sitwell lets Blake call him 'Coulson' three times before he snaps.
"My name is Jasper Sitwell," he hisses. "That hasn't changed because my duties have. I haven't changed." (He has. They all have.) "You think you could make the effort to remember that, sir?" The honorific comes out more viciously than he intended, spat between his teeth like he's really angry about this – and, he realizes, he is. He just isn't sure why.
He's already formulating Blake's indignant counter-arguments in his head (it was an honest mistake, Agent; it's only been two months; I'm focused on the mission, not the messenger), so it takes him a moment to realize that Blake isn't actually arguing.
The older agent is sitting behind his desk, face in shadow, only his hands illuminated by the harsh desk lamp. Sitwell watches those hands clench into fists as Blake swallows and starts nodding.
"Sitwell," he whispers, not as an address, but as apology. "Sitwell."
Blake's sorry and Sitwell's shouting for no reason and the dry, taut air of the office is making his collar itch, so Sitwell leaves.
It's weeks before Sitwell hears the name 'Coulson' again. There's almost a moratorium of some kind on it, because it's stamped at the top of all the paperwork, tagged in the system to anything concerning the Avengers Initiative, known to just about every agent at headquarters, and yet no one ever actually dares to say it aloud.
No surprises; it's Blake who breaks the silence.
"Coulson," he says sharply, "wouldn't have tolerated this kind of conduct."
"Coulson," Sitwell returns just as sharply, "wouldn't have tolerated the attitude you have toward the Avengers Initiative."
As soon as he's finished speaking, Sitwell regrets what he's said; not because he doesn't believe he's in the right, but because he shouldn't have said 'Coulson.' He should have said 'Phil.' He should have made it blindingly clear to Blake that he and Coulson weren't just agents in the same command structure, that they were friends, that Sitwell was someone Phil listened to and respected, that Blake has less than no right at all to tell Sitwell what Coulson, what Phil, would and would not have tolerated.
Instead, he turns on his heel and leaves, and he studiously ignores the stricken look on Blake's face when Sitwell's words hit home.
He's sitting in Phil's office the first time he hears the music.
That's kind of weird and a little worrisome, because he's not the type to hear things that aren't there, and the coincidence is slightly unsettling. He isn't supposed to be in Phil's office anyway, but no one else comes down here anymore, and that just isn't right. Part of it is that it helps him; he's not sure how, exactly, but it does, because when he leaves Phil's office after a half hour or an hour or however long he needs, he always feels calmer. Part of it, though, is that he just can't stand to think of the office door closed on an empty room all day every day, the dusty plants forgotten completely, the slowly aging paperwork untouched because someone else (he himself) has already filled out duplicate copies.
So he's sitting in Phil's office, in Phil's chair, filing unnecessary paperwork S.H.I.E.L.D. will never see, when he hears the music.
It's not like it's poetically appropriate or something. If it were, he would be hearing cello music, because Phil always liked the cello. (It was a good fallback for Phil when people asked about his love life; 'I'm seeing a cellist,' and he always had the names of a few concert pieces in reserve, the touring schedules of a few different orchestras, so no one ever questioned his story.) He'd lent Sitwell some CDs once, before his – death, Sitwell calls it, but S.H.I.E.L.D. insist that it be known as permanent removal from active duty, and Fury, after one loud and very angry phone call, told Sitwell that if he ever called it anything but death he was in for a fucking nightmare. So Sitwell calls it death, and beforehand he'd borrowed some CDs from Phil, and now he has an extensive collection of Julian Lloyd Webber recordings and nowhere to return them.
He doesn't particularly want to return them, but that's hardly the point.
Sitting in Phil's office, though, hearing the faint strains of music, the saxophone seems like an odd choice for a delusion.
Blake has an issue with the Avengers' next mission.
Sitwell cares less than not at all, which infuriates Blake in part because it's disrespectful (but he and Sitwell share rank, though not seniority, so there is very little he can do) and in part because it's not logically possible (and Blake has always been a man of logic, strict definitions and loyal rulebook adherence, so any little thing that throws his worldview becomes an annoyance). He has the Avengers conduct the mission as originally planned, handles the affair with what could almost be described as flair (that, too, irritates Blake), and receives, along with the rest of the team, a commendation from the chief of the City of New York Fire Department.
Blake grumbles that they cause more fires than they put out. Stark attempts to argue, but Sitwell heads him off at the pass ("it's not worth it, take my word for it") and Stark listens.
Sitwell isn't used to having them listen to him.
It's really for Phil that they're doing it, not for him, but it's still, in some tiny way, gratifying.
He and Blake are up late completing paperwork for a S.H.I.E.L.D. initiative totally unrelated to the Avengers (for once). They're in Blake's office, Sitwell pacing back and forth at the side of the room while Blake growls at his chair for spinning when he doesn't want it to, at the computer monitors for flickering (Sitwell reaches over his shoulder and alters the refresh rate), at the work itself for making no sense whatsoever (over the course of the evening, the two of them have already shared more than one muttering session about bureaucracy, despite the fact that they both work within it).
Something about the way he phrases a sentence has Sitwell quoting back to him – a line from a Queen song – without even thinking about it, without realizing until afterward what he's saying. Blake smiles, though (actually smiles, and Sitwell was pretty damned sure he wasn't capable of that), and Sitwell finds himself daring to see if the senior agent will unbend far enough to make the evening of work bearable.
"What kind of music do you like?"
Nope.
The shield of what Blake calls 'professionalism' and Sitwell considers 'stick-in-the-ass disorder' snaps down into place over his face, and Blake says, "I don't have time to listen to music, Agent."
"No, of course not."
Sitwell isn't sure how anyone manages to live without music. He likes progressive rock, swing, jazz, big band, ska, and plays the trombone because just listening wasn't enough.
He privately suspects that maybe 'not having time to listen to music' is a large part of Blake's problem.
They catalogue every alien artefact that's fallen from the sky. They also catalogue several that haven't, because they tracked forty-seven objects after the battle in New York, and somehow, in S.H.I.E.L.D.'s most off-limits storage room, there are fifty-three items.
Sitwell flips through the inexplicable pieces of extra hardware, mutters "broken, broken, hairdryer," under his breath, and is brought up short when someone laughs. For about half a second, he thinks it was Blake; then he realizes that, in order for it to have been Blake, the other agent would have to have something that vaguely resembles a sense of humour.
Not Blake, then.
"Agent Barton, don't you have anywhere else to be?"
Dead silence, but Sitwell knows by now that it's all the answer he's going to get.
He really thought Barton had stopped doing that, after the… change in supervisory structure.
To be fair, he's not in Phil's office when he hears the music for a second time.
It's true that he's walking down the corridor to Phil's office, and it's true that he's just spent half an hour in there, watering plants and writing meaningless mission reports, but he's not actually in Phil's office, which he thinks counts for something, and which also means that maybe he's not delusional.
He stops in the middle of the hallway and tilts his head, listening. It was classical last time, Milhaud's Scaramouche (and yes, he knows enough classical music for saxophone to recognize it; he's a trombonist who likes swing and big band, which means that familiarity with saxophone pieces is his life's blood), but this time it's Coltrane, fluid and easy and so fast that Sitwell can barely keep track of it. He's impressed. It's not just music; it's good music.
He's itching to accompany it, but there's no one assigned to live or work in this corridor and he can't just go tearing through the residential hallway on the next floor up to find the saxophonist. Even working for an organization as weird as S.H.I.E.L.D., that would be somewhat frowned upon.
Instead, he retreats to his own quarters, gets out his trombone for the first time since Phil's death, and plays.
Sitwell doesn't play the trombone very well.
That's not exactly fair. He plays the trombone rather well indeed, when he's in practice and still in possession of at least one nerve. He plays it better than just 'well,' because he is a man who loves music intrinsically, without demanding anything from it, without expectations, but just because it exists and he wants to exist within it. That's all it takes to make music, which is different from 'playing the trombone.' Sitwell does both.
At the moment, though, he doesn't do either very well; he hasn't touched the trombone in months and he can't seem to convince himself to play anything that doesn't come across as sad.
It's only then that he realizes – music doesn't lie.
He is sad.
"Do you miss him?"
It's too early in the morning for this, and he tells Barton that.
"With all due respect, sir," and of course they both know Barton's riding for a fall when he begins that way, "I don't miss Agent Coulson on a schedule."
When, Sitwell wonders, did he become 'Agent Coulson' again? Most of the Avengers never knew him as anything else, but to Barton, he's been 'Phil' for years now.
It seems wiser not to ask (a lot of things seem better unasked these days), so Sitwell answers the question instead. "I do miss him, Agent Barton. He was my mentor and my friend. And that's not what you're really asking me, so why don't you drop the act and level with me so I can get back to work?"
Barton shrugs, drops down from his perch on a stack of weapons crates, and says, "They've given you all his duties, and they've given Blake his rank." (This is true. Sitwell thinks that that's slightly unfair.) "I just thought someone ought to, you know, remember."
"Barton," Sitwell sighs, and it's not because he doesn't agree with the younger agent. He does, and what's more, he thinks that some of the people in command could stand to hear it first-hand. It's just that this still isn't what Barton is here for and Sitwell doesn't want to spend his morning dancing around whatever issue Barton has today.
"I don't like Agent Blake," says Barton, from behind a wall of crates.
That's more like it.
"Agent Blake is… difficult to get along with," he replies diplomatically, because he and Blake have been partnered now and regardless of what he thinks of Blake, S.H.I.E.L.D. agents operate from a position of solidarity. He's known Barton for years, though, much longer than he's known Blake, and so he's not going to dismiss Barton's concerns.
"Yeah," comes a wry voice from a different location behind the crates, "tell me about it."
The cargo storage bay doors slide open. Blake walks in, and Barton falls suddenly silent.
"Hi," says Sitwell, for want of a better option. "About half done in here."
"Good morning, Agent C– " Blake begins, cuts himself off. "Agent Sitwell," he mutters into his coffee cup.
Sitwell pretends not to notice. He also pretends not to notice when Barton, far too obviously, leaves.
It's quiet on the rifle range at night.
It's always quiet on the rifle range, though; most of the agents prefer to practice with handguns (more practical, easier to carry, more likely to be used in a firefight) and make up their requisite hours of riflery in larger groups during the days leading up to their recertifications, talking and laughing and defeating the entire purpose of having requisite hours in the first place.
Sitwell ought to object; after all, he is their handler. Instead, he just enjoys the solitude.
Phil was a practised rifleman, but then again, he was practised in everything. Ironic, Sitwell thinks (except it's not really ironic at all, except perhaps in the tragic sense), that the gun Phil eventually used for his final victory was one he hadn't practised on at all.
Sitwell trains at the rifle range for hours, deliberately not thinking about irony.
Another morning (there are always more mornings; Sitwell wonders if Phil ever grew tired of them, then feels horribly guilty for having had the thought), Blake comes in and catches him with his head in his hands, elbows splayed on his desk, shirt rumpled despite the fact that it's not yet even six o'clock.
"Agent Sitwell," says Blake. It ends on a hopeful note, as though getting Sitwell's name right before coffee is some kind of offering of friendship. "You should get some sleep."
"I just had some," is Sitwell's vague reply. He has just had some – about half an hour, actually, between staying up late on the range and dealing with necessary (stupid) paperwork and watering the Japanese peace lily in Phil's office (less stupid, and better company).
Blake says something about fitness for duty, but Sitwell is ignoring him already, and goes on doing so until Blake sets a heavy-sounding object down in front of him. He looks up, and it's a full cup of coffee in one of the official S.H.I.E.L.D. mugs Phil always eschewed in favour of plain white.
After far too long, his brain kicks in enough to prompt a 'thank you' before returning to its semi-dormant state; his chin drops to the forms spread out across his desk and his fingers lock together over the back of his neck. The position is anything but comfortable. He stays in it anyway, and somehow manages to doze despite the pain in his shoulders and the numbness in his arms.
Blake works all morning without disturbing him. The coffee goes cold.
There's a text message waiting for him on his phone when he gets back to his quarters. Only S.H.I.E.L.D. personnel have this number, so it's either important or a mistake.
Jazz, the message says, swing, classical, The Who.
Even after reading it, Sitwell is still surprised to see that it's from Agent Blake. He's also surprised – but pleased – to see that The Who apparently warrant a musical category of their own.
He isn't sure what to send back, though. Blake doesn't outrank him, but he has been here longer, and he has been placed in charge of post-disaster operations. (Phil would have argued that, technically, disaster was averted and so the title is a misnomer; Sitwell privately agrees, but diplomatically defers to Director Fury's stated opinion that 'wherever the Avengers are, that's a disaster.')
Finally, he gives up trying to think of an appropriate response and, instead, turns to the stack of records in the corner of his room. His own albums are neatly sorted in a box under his bed; these ones aren't his (except they are now, because it was in Phil's standing posthumous orders). They aren't his, but he still knows what's in the pile, and he knows there's a rare mono pressing of Sell Out in there.
The text message was a peace offering, and this is going to be his in return.
He has to look up where Blake's quarters are in the system because he has no idea. Phil Coulson was the first of his colleagues to become a person, Clint Barton the second, and Sitwell isn't sure – he's being carefully wary – but there is a chance that one day Blake might be the third.
The third time he hears the music, he's halfway down the corridor to Blake's quarters with an album in his hands that, in every sense except the legal one, still belongs to Phil Coulson.
He doesn't recognize the piece this time, which is weird if he's hallucinating, but the music gets louder as he heads down the hallway and then stops abruptly when he slips the record under Blake's door.
In retrospect, he isn't sure why it took him so long to put the pieces together.
There's no time for him to vanish before Blake opens the door, record in one hand and saxophone in the other. He hesitates, eyes on the man standing resignedly in the middle of the corridor. "Agent Sitwell?"
"I… didn't know you played." He gestures to the saxophone, which takes Blake's eyes off him for a second.
"It's not in my file," Blake replies.
Sitwell feels bad admitting that he hasn't looked. Officially, he shouldn't have access to Blake's file at all. Unofficially, most partners have read one another's files. He's read Phil's. Hell, he's read Barton's.
Blake looks down at the record in his right hand, then at the saxophone in his left. He says, to the saxophone, "You play the trombone."
"Sort of. I guess." Blake's read his file.
"Would you like to…?"
Sitwell catches his meaning a few seconds late, stares at the saxophone as he tries to decide what he ought to say. 'I don't have time to listen to music,' Blake said, but now he's standing in his doorway with a saxophone and an invitation and Sitwell thinks that maybe the rules have changed.
And yes, he would like to.
As he retrieves his trombone from under the bed where he shoved it after his last, disappointing attempt to play, he makes a note to himself to read Agent Blake's file in full tomorrow.