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No one has answers.
One of the staffers has a concussion, one is still groggy from a low sedative injection, and one holds out a small plastic bag, recently removed flex-cuffs still hanging from his pocket.
"Sorry, Director," he says, and lays the small evidence bag in Nick's palm.
The tiny tracking chip, broken in two pieces and gummed with blood, bears the evidence label: COULSON, PHILLIP J.
Nick pockets the chip and approaches the broken window, all jagged edges now, a shred of fabric clinging to a bloodied point of glass. Outside, the trees run a thick perimeter around the facility; the rest of the SHIELD safehouse's staff are out searching the woods.
They won't find him.
He tells the staffers in the room to stay put, and heads for the entrance, keeping his face as calm as he possibly can. One hand stays tucked in the pocket of his trenchcoat, his thumb circling the outline of the microchip formerly embedded in Coulson's right arm.
Nick pushes through the underbrush and into the forest. He knows Phil Coulson, where he would go and why; he can follow him better than anyone.
The problem is, he's not sure how much of the old Phil Coulson is still there.
—
It seemed straightforward enough, when this all started. Send the Medical team away quietly with Coulson barely clinging to life, rally the Avengers with a little help from Coulson's card collection, keep everything together long enough to save the world.
But the Avengers walked away suspicious of Nick and his motives, and Nick expected that. Stark, Rogers, Banner, Thor—they'd already wrapped their heads around being the saviors, the heroes, the best men for the job just for showing up and being assured of their absolute rightness. They all had their shares of gray morality, but oh, no. Nick had to be the fall guy.
And so Nick found himself in the frustrating position of having to keep their precious feelings unbruised, which meant a late night phone call once the medical staff reported Coulson had fully regained consciousness.
"Makes sense," Coulson sighed, after Nick explained the problem and the need to keep him out of sight for a while. "Can't have me walking back in alive and well. Earth's mightiest heroes might throw a tantrum."
"Think of it as a vacation," Nick said. "You'd be out on required medical leave for a few months regardless."
"Well," said Coulson, and Nick suppressed a wince at the sound of Coulson's inward breath, still rasping and unsteady. "It's not too bad."
The reports stacked on Nick's desk said otherwise; said it was bad, it was worse, it was touch-and-go, leaving experimental medical implants stretching and contracting in Coulson's lung, in his heart, in the shredded muscles the spear cleaved through.
Still, Nick had seen Coulson bounce back after rough work. He knew where Coulson's suit hid old scars from bullet wounds. He'd personally threaded stitches in Coulson's back while they were pinned down by enemy fire, years and years ago, while Coulson laughed it off.
So he left it alone, and he watched the reports trickle in from the safehouse where a few handpicked SHIELD personnel watched over Coulson, and he trusted that things would be fine.
—
[1578026] C is walking comfortably, no circulatory issues. Demonstrates no cognitive impairment. Some diminished function in L lung. L arm requires extensive PT. mh assessment positive.
[1528214] Followup surgery. no complication from additional implants to support L respiratory and cardiac function. Cardiac tissue to synthetic ratio now 60-40.
[1558563] C showing improvement in lung function tests.
[1538774] Minor lapse in cardiac implant. C reports experiencing brief dissociation. Referred to mh.c. for assessment.
[1598914] C showing low energy, flatter affect than previous records suggest. Reports no significant symptoms on standard assessment. Followup 2wks.
[1568999] PT setback. mh.c weekly schedule implemented. C questioned Dr.HJN extensively about implants.
[1589073] C has consistently passed stress tests. Request for media materials approved.
[1549130] Incident. Further implants placed to stabilize cardiac function; half of remaining cardiac tissue removed/replaced.
[1519260] C evaluation warrants monitoring. Unable to confirm post-traumatic diagnosis. Suspect that C is purposefully withholding disclosure of symptoms.
[1579314] Inconsistent results on cardiac and lung function tests. PT suspended.
[1559400] C resistant to evaluation.
[1539573] C clear on all mh evals. Affect is normal, mood is greatly improved. C reports positive feelings about recovery and general outlook.
That was the last report, sent three days before the emergency call from the safehouse, and the half-hour Quinjet trip in the middle of the night.
—
Nick can't see two feet in front of his face, but his phone at least gives him enough light not to trip over the forest growth, and the map display points him in the right direction. The safehouse personnel are grid-searching outward towards the distant highways, anticipating an escape; Nick has other ideas.
Half a mile from the water, he realizes he's not even sure what he'll say if he's right about this.
A quarter mile out, he still has nothing.
He pushes past the forest's edge and onto the grass, near the rock face leading down to the ocean. The low wash of waves far below puts a heavy, gripping feeling in the pit of his stomach, but he scans the cliffside slowly, trying to keep focused.
And then, distant and small under the faint light, Nick spots him.
He makes the slow walk without announcing himself, without calling out to Coulson, but he doesn't try to hide, either. Coulson, legs dangling over the edge from the knees, sits hunched over in his worn, soft civilian clothes, not moving or raising his head even as Nick's footsteps come to a stop beside him.
"You're not bleeding out or anything, are you?" Nick asks, trying to sound as dry and casual as possible.
Coulson's right hand pulls up the sleeve covering his left arm, which doesn't move much to help the effort; Nick considers the possibility that it can't. The bandages wrapped securely around his upper arm, covering the former residence of his tracking chip, are all the answer he gives, and all the answer Nick needs.
Nick pushes his heel against the very edge of the cliff, finding it solid, and with a resigned sigh, he sits down next to Coulson, the heels of his boots hanging down to rest against the rock face.
"I'm guessing I couldn't ask you to give me a push, huh?" Coulson says, smiling wryly.
"Not likely," Nick says. He looks down to the surface of the water far below, foam lapping at the rocks. "Not even sure this height would do it."
"Yeah." Coulson picks up a small rock from beside him and gently lobs it out towards the water, where it vanishes in the dark and makes too small a splash to see. "Yeah," he says again, in a heavy sigh that pulls his shoulders down. "I thought it would be higher."
The wind rustles the trees behind them, prickling the skin where Coulson rolled up his sleeve. He's shivering, looking like he's trying not to notice, and noticing and hiding it, and exhausted with hiding it all at once. He looks miserable.
Nick should have something sarcastic to say while he's doing this, but nothing comes while he stands, or while he pulls his arms from the sleeves of his trenchcoat, or while he drapes it slow and heavy over Coulson's shoulders.
"Don't go getting that wet," Nick finally manages, and takes his seat next to Coulson again, finding a faint smile on Coulson's face.
Coulson pulls the coat closer around himself on both sides with only his right hand. With the wind dying out again, Nick notices Coulson's breathing, the way it drags a little, the way the rhythm never quite settles. He wonders what Coulson's heartbeat feels like.
He's trying not to think too hard about that kind of thing.
He's spent years trying not to think too hard about that kind of thing, where Coulson is concerned.
The fact that Maria Hill is running his office and he's sitting on a cliff in the middle of nowhere, without even a second thought the whole way here, has probably given him away.
"So," Nick asks, taking advantage of Coulson's small lift in mood while he has it. "Any particular reason you're out here, or did it just seem like a good idea at the time?"
Coulson slouches under the weight of Nick's coat, shaking his head without saying anything.
Nick waits. He looks down at the waves, out at the trickle of stars across the sky not drowned out by city lights, away along the rock face.
While he's looking away, he pretends not to notice the quiet shuffle beside him or the shoulder that leans against his, pressing the sleeve of his trenchcoat between them like a last line of defense. He lets Coulson slouch against him, listening to the short, weary exhale, like Coulson doesn't even have it in him to sit up anymore.
Nick turns to look, and that's when he sees the small tightening in Coulson's expression, the split-second wince, the hitch in his breathing that doesn't even match the odd rhythms of the implants.
"Where's it hurt?" Nick asks, wary. Coulson shakes his head, swallows quickly. "Coulson."
Then he weighs on Nick, so heavy and unsteady that Nick has to reach out to put an arm around Coulson's waist, easing them both backward and away from the edge while he has the chance. It leaves Coulson resting against him, draped across his front.
"It hurts," Coulson mumbles. "One of the implants. Every few minutes it hurts, right where the..." He has to breathe in, and it rolls back out in a weak, hollow laugh. "Dying's kind of hard to forget."
Nick draws his coat closer around Coulson's shoulders and rests his hand on Coulson's back, like it might hold him together. He knows, even now, his thumb is tracing an ancient line where he sewed stitches all those years ago.
And he knows he's pushed too close, given up too much, because Coulson's right arm is winding around his waist, face buried in Nick's shoulder.
"Coulson," Nick warns, but it's halfhearted.
"I know," says Coulson, even as he's clinging tighter. "Sorry, boss."
Coulson is a half-step out of reality right now, but when he's got his head on straight, they're both going to have to go on living their lives like he never curled himself around Nick on the cliffside, with his uneven heartbeat pounding against the front of Nick's shirt.
And as much as Nick wants to give in, too, as easy as it would be for him to slide his arms around Coulson's shoulders, they both know that for them, this can't end in years of weary, contented nights, or morning coffee over briefing notes.
This ends in ransom notes, and grainy video feeds, and negotiations Nick will never be able to live with.
"Easy, soldier," Nick says quietly, and pulls his coat tighter around Coulson's body, telling himself Coulson's only shaking with cold.
Coulson nods into his shoulder, managing one slow, steady exhale, and then he hesitantly draws his right arm back from Nick's waist, folding it in his lap with the unmoved left.
They resigned themselves to this a long time ago.
"Safehouse medical staff will get you fixed up," Nick says, to save them both from talking about this.
He smiles up at the stars like it's all easy, and that hurts like hell, but Coulson's been playing sure and snarky to Nick's necessary calm for years; he's due for someone to pay it back.
"Won't be pristine," Nick adds wryly, and hears the weak huff of laughter beside him without looking. "Maybe not even excellent. We're all getting old." He raises fingers to his forehead, thumbing thoughtfully above his eyepatch. "But we're good."
There's no response for a few long seconds; Nick starts to worry, but he's still not looking. He waits. He waits, and he waits, and he waits.
And then, unsteady through his breathing, Coulson just says: "Good."
The waves wash steady at the cliffside below, and while he waits for Coulson to get his head together, Nick does his best to sync his breathing to the ocean, instead of the rise and fall of Coulson's chest against his arm.
—
What feels like hours of ocean waves later, Nick finally feels Coulson's head lift from his shoulder.
Without speaking, he helps Coulson to his feet. He watches Coulson shrug out of the heavy coat, then hold its weight out to Nick with his working arm; Couson's eyeline stays low, resting on the trenchcoat, not meeting Nick's.
Nick pulls his coat back on, slow and steady, pretending not to notice the shiver in Coulson's shoulders. He leads Coulson through the woods, steady footsteps behind him all the way.
He doesn't hear the hitch in breathing, or the stumble every so often. Definitely doesn't hear, just once, a muted sound of pain, and an uneven shuffle of feet against the forest floor.
This will always be impossible. Unreachable. Unethical, at best.
They'll pretend Phil Coulson is unbreakable; they won't think about the ocean.
And Nick will forget how it feels to rest his hand over old lines of stitches, each finger stretched out like a radius, drawing a target on Coulson's back.