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Thirty minutes before the military plane landed, Phil Coulson got a coded message from the ground: asset retrieved, courtesy of the Impossible Missions Force, and he owed Ethan Hunt a drink. The message didn't give any damn details about the state of the asset, but Hunt wouldn't call in a debt if Clint Barton wasn't alive and in reasonably okay shape.
For the first time in several hours Phil felt like he could take a full breath. He rubbed both hands against his face, settled back on the uncomfortable bench seat, and let himself close his eyes until the wheels touched ground. He didn't doze. He was still too anxious for that. But he needed time to regroup, to calm his jittery nerves, to slot the pieces of his life back together and keep them aligned until he could bring Clint Barton home from this far side of the world.
After landing, it was thirty-three long miles to Cairo in a borrowed car, followed by a ridiculous amount of Friday night traffic. He listened to talk radio in Arabic and argued back in French just to keep himself busy. Finally he reached an old hotel off Al-Alfi Street. The thick, cloying smell of the city followed Phil into the marble lobby, into the elevator, and to the last suite on the sixth floor. One of Hunt's team, a slim woman with sleek dark hair, answered the door with a gun in hand.
"Ethan got called out," she said, after verifying his identity. "Will's with your friend."
Like many buildings in Cairo, the hotel's shabby exterior hid the luxury renovations inside. The rooms had dark wood, expensive carpeting, and modern conveniences. The last bedroom down a short hall was dark and cool, with blackout curtains pulled tight and a flat screen TV silently playing a BBC news broadcast. Phil's attention went immediately to the four poster bed, the man in it, and the man beside it. It was a shock, as usual, to see two Clint Bartons side by side. Or one Clint Barton and one Will Brandt. Identical twins. Both of them brilliant and courageous, even though Clint tended to hide his intellect and Will preferred brainpower over physical force whenever possible.
Luckily their jobs and interests usually kept them on separate sides of the world, because Phil wasn't ready for a double dose of stress every day. Clint's missions for S.H.I.E.L.D. and the Avengers had Phil reaching for antacids often enough. It took fortitude to watch your lover regularly hurl himself off buildings or into the path of danger. He didn't want to think about how often Will's life was endangered, too, working with crazy Ethan Hunt and the rest of IMF.
Today's worry was all for Clint, however. He was sleeping flat on his back, his sunburned face a stark contrast to the white pillow. A bag of saline dripped through an IV tube into his right arm. On his left arm was a blood pressure cuff. A digital thermometer sat on the nightstand, along with a bucket of ice and bottles of water. A damp cloth was spread on Clint's bare chest. The lamp was turned low and Will, sitting in an armchair, looked exhausted in the pool of light. His tie was loose, the top button of his Oxford shirt unbuttoned.
"His temperature was one hundred four when we found him," Will said, his voice clipped. He didn't even glance at Phil. A sure sign that he was furious. "He had a seizure in the car on the way back and another when we got him in the bathtub."
Phil put down his briefcase and took off his business jacket. He understood Will's anger. Shared it, too, but this was not the time for lengthy explanations. "This case was not our finest hour."
"It was a fuck up," Will growled. "Leaving an agent stranded in the desert, no exit strategy?"
"There was a strategy," Phil replied. "It didn't work. Thank you for stepping in."
Will made a disgruntled noise.
Clint's eyes fluttered open. "What are you two arguing about?' he asked, hoarse and raspy. It was lovely to hear.
Will held up the water bottle and bumped a straw against his brother's mouth. "Drink."
It was clear that every swallow was an effort. While he drank, Clint focused on Phil. Somehow he conjured up a weak smile. "You made it."
Phil didn't smile back. "I was only six thousand miles away."
Will made that noise again. Clint's free hand fumbled for Will's hand and brushed it. Despite all the years they'd spent apart, they were still adept at communicating in very few words.
"Take a break," Clint said.
A moment of hesitation, and then Will pushed back the chair and left the room.
When they were alone Clint said, "You'd better kiss me," and Phil did, soft and careful. Clint didn't like that. He wrapped his hand around the back of Phil's head and pulled him down for a harder, deeper connection. Phil tasted sand and salt on Clint's lips, and he pulled back reluctantly.
"I'm not an invalid," Clint said.
Phil smoothed the lines around Clint's eyes with gentle strokes. "Straight up, how do you feel?"
"Better now."
Phil tested his forehead. "Still overheated."
"Will's a mother hen," Clint said. "Older brother by two whole minutes. It goes to his head."
Phil sat on the edge of the bed. "It's not mother henning when you have seizures."
Clint scoffed. "More like the hiccups."
"Forgive me for not being feeling reassured until we get you checked out by Medical."
Clint yawned. Already his eyes were half-lidded with fatigue, and he probably wasn't going to stay awake much longer. "When do we leave?"
"Tomorrow noon, if you're able."
"By tomorrow noon I'll have so many liquids in me I could swim home," Clint mumbled.
Phil waited. Another sixty seconds and Clint was out. Phil allowed himself the luxury of stroking Clint's short hair and twining their fingers together against the sheet. Each touch was a confirmation that the inevitable unhappy ending of their lives – for Phil had no illusions that they would die of old age in their beds one day - had been forestalled once again. Phil folded his arm on the mattress, bowed forward, and rested his head. The windows of the hotel had been soundproofed but he could still hear the faint hum of traffic.
A soft knock woke him sometime later. Benji Dunn opened the door and poked his head in. Phil knew him from a joint operation back when Benji was still a technician and not a field agent. He'd grown balder since then. Phil supposed they both had.
Benji said, "Hello, nice to see you. Food's here, if you're hungry."
Phil glanced at the clock. He had no idea how long he'd been sleeping but his neck was sore. "No, I'm fine," he said, without thinking about it, because he didn't want to leave the bedside for even a few minutes. The growl of his stomach, though, was loud enough that Benji blanched.
"I'll bring you a plate," Benji said helpfully. "No use in you keeling over from hunger."
The smell of the food would linger in the bedroom, and Clint's stomach might not take kindly to that. Phil reluctantly pulled himself up and followed Benji. The dining room table was covered with takeout containers of lentil soup, lamb stew, lava beans, grilled chicken, and flatbread with tomatoes and cucumbers. Will and the other agent, Jane, were digging into their meals in a way that suggested they hadn't eaten in days.
Benji passed a white plate to Phil. "Take all you want, there's plenty."
Jane glanced up. "The mahshi's a little spicy."
"I like spicy," Phil said, though these days he was prone to heartburn if he indulged too much. Another limitation of middle age. He was feeling every long year in his bones tonight. But he didn't need Jane or anyone else to know that.
Will deliberately forked more mahshi onto his plate and took a big bite. Spicy be damned.
Phil sat and ate. Benji was full of comfortable, easy chatter and it was easy to let him fill the air. Jane glanced occasionally at Will and at least once Phil thought she kicked him under the table, but Will didn't respond. And Phil didn't mind, really, because after all the worry and jet lag and sleep deprivation, he was happy to avoid more discussions about how badly SHIELD had screwed up. Phil trusted that Nick Fury was causing heads to roll back in New York, and Phil would inflict his own careful, calculated modifications to personnel and policy when they returned.
Seizures. Hyperthermia. An hour or less, maybe, and it wouldn't matter if the Avengers themselves had plucked Clint from the desert. He wasn't Captain America, able to heal himself. He wasn't Iron Man, protected by extreme technology. He was only human, and he had knotted Phil's heart up with invisible, unbreakable strings.
Phil put his fork down, no longer able to stomach a bite.
" – and of course Stark Technologies is the leader in uncooled focal plane arrays, I'd love to get a peak at how they're integrating the sensors on robotic platforms – " Benji was saying, blithely, just as a solid thump sounded in Clint's bedroom.
Without hesitation, Phil pushed open the ajar door. He didn't mean to use extra force, but it hit the wall anyway. Clint scurried from an undignified heap on the floor to the furthest corner in the room. He crouched defensively, the water bottle held out like a weapon. The bottle might have been funny but for the wildness in Clint's eyes and the way his hand shook. Blood trailed down his arm from where he'd ripped out the IV.
"Stand down, Agent Barton," Phil snapped, using his command tone of voice. "You're safe here."
Clint stared at him without recognition. Phil knew what it was like to wake up disoriented, to not know where you were or what jeopardy was facing you, to be so completely lost that the only sensible reaction was violent self-defense. But he also knew that coddling wouldn't work, and that Clint needed a lifeline to cut through the confusion and haze.
Will bumped up against Phil's back, ready to rush forward. Phil extended his left arm and held him at bay. He figured he had only a few seconds before Will decided to break his arm.
"Stand down," Phil repeated. "That's an order. You're in Egypt, you're safe, and there's dinner on the table if you're hungry."
Clint blinked. Sagged backward so that the wall took his weight. Said, tentatively, "Phil," and that was Phil's cue to approach carefully. Will stayed in the doorway, watching with Jane and Benji right behind him.
"You back with us?" Phil asked, crouching a few feet away. His knees protested the move with a creak, but he barely noticed.
Clint rested his head against the curtain and closed his eyes. "Sure. What's for dinner?"
Phil looked up to Will and silently asked for help. Will came forward. Together they got Clint up and situated back in bed, and Will fixed the IV. Clint stayed conscious but mostly quiet, no quips or wisecracks, his tired gaze mostly on Phil.
"We are going to fly back tomorrow, get you cleared, and take a week's vacation somewhere nice and cold," Phil promised. "I know a nice little SHIELD station in Alaska that's overdue for a supply run."
"You hate snow," Clint murmured.
"I hate snow when smart-alec agents stuff it down the back of my coat," Phil agreed. The less said about that incident, the better.
On the other side of the bed, Will threatened, "Rip this IV out again and I'm going to superglue it in."
Clint didn't look impressed. "You've got mahshi between your teeth."
Will frowned and retreated to the adjacent bathroom. Phil kissed Clint soundly and said, "Don't touch the IV, Agent Barton."
"It pinches," Clint complained.
"I'll make it worth your while," Phil promised.
Another kiss, this one full of promise. Phil was forming many, many plans for that little station in the Denali National Wilderness. Clint made a happy noise that guaranteed he was thinking about something other than the needle in his arm. A win-win situation, Phil decided, except for the part about the long, tedious trip they'd have to make to the airport, and the long flight home, and the debriefing and medical clearance. But those were tomorrow's problems.
Will cleared his throat. Phil had forgotten he was nearby.
"Do you want the rest of your dinner?" Will asked Phil. A peace offering, of sorts. "I'll sit with Sleepy Beauty."
Clint snorted. "If I'm Sleeping Beauty, you're the dwarf Grumpy."
"Wrong fairy tale," Will said. He was already leaving, but the look he gave Phil was much kinder than it had been before.
Phil brushed his lips over Clint's and stretched out on the bed beside him. "You'll always be my Prince Charming," he said, and they settled down together.
The End