To Love Is To Destroy

Chapter 10

Phil stood outside the hospital room, his palms on the cool metal that bordered the window. He was quiet, unobtrusive, and best of all, alone. The blinds hadn’t been pulled, and he watched Stefan sleep, his eyes closed and hollow in his face. While not one hundred percent, when he compared the wounds that Skye had pulled from the registry to a normal human’s recovery time, he knew Stefan would be back on his feet within a couple more days.

 The serum that flowed through his veins had done much the same thing, even though he hadn’t known exactly what GH235 was. He still despaired about the deep bruising on Stefan’s face. The bones had been broken, and the doctors had reset, having to rebreak in several places because Stefan’s bones were too thick and healed too fast. He remembered the aftermath of the defrost, how Stefan had only taken a few hours to come back to normal temperature, how he’d slept, but with the ease of someone lying in a comfortable bed.

Here, he could see the stress lines, the bruising, the rapidly healing cuts. He hadn’t been there, hadn’t seen the infection that had eaten SHIELD from the inside out. He swallowed.

He had a duty to Stefan Roosevelt to ensure this never happened again. As Director, Phil Coulson could see it through. He still hadn’t gone through all the files on the little datacube Fury had given him – and he was damn happy Fury was alive, though he owed him an asskicking. He had so much work to do.

And yet, here he was.

He was so caught up in his contemplation, he didn’t hear the footsteps on the linoleum behind him. He did, however, feel the heavy hand that dropped to his shoulder.

“Hey—“ The voice was rough, tired, and Phil tensed to avoid sending the guy through the plate glass in front of him. He wouldn’t blow his cover like that. “Who are you?”

Phil turned, and the young man’s eyes widened at the white collar Phil wore around his throat. He stepped back, dropping his hands loosely at his sides. Still prepared. Soldier? Maybe retired. Phil’s eyes catalogued what he knew. This young man was in the clips from the takedown of the tricarriers. Something…Wilson. Sam Wilson.

So Stefan had friends here after all. Phil was pleased with that development, though he’d been expecting Natasha. She’d have probably put him through the plate glass, however.

“Father Chambers,” Phil said, his natural Boston accent slipping through. He maintained his cover, smiling and holding out a hand for Sam to take. “I’m on loan from the Boston Diocese to Baltimore to man the chapel. Father McClannan is out ill – nasty whooping cough outbreak, and the ICU needs its spiritual healing to speed along science, don’t you think?”

“More of a Baptist revival man myself,” Sam said, shaking his hand with a firm grip. “What brings you by, Father?”

“Well, I was making my rounds,” Phil said. He turned and regarded the sleeping Stefan. “I heard tell from Ms. Nancy at the station that the young man asked for a rosary. I thought I’d come by and offer him what comfort I could. I see, however, that the Lord is doing his own brand of healing with good sleep. I would hate to disturb, and I would also hate to poke my nose in where it’s not wanted, you see. Some patients, I’ve discovered, are devout only when their survival is at stake.”

“Yeah, no atheists in foxholes,” Sam said, stepping up beside him. “He’s in and out.”

“I see,” Phil said. “Are his injuries that grave?”

“Mostly,” Sam said. “He’s doing well, though.”

Phil nodded. “That’s excellent to hear. I hope he feels better soon. What happened to him?”

“Motorcycle accident,” Sam said, and Phil could taste the lie on him, could see the way Sam’s lips pulled with distaste as they formed around the words. As an interrogator, he’d seen it time and time again, but others might not. That was good. Sam was prepared. “We’re lucky he had his helmet on.”

Phil found himself liking Sam Wilson more and more as he clucked his tongue in sympathy. This was a good man, and an even better friend. He reached into his pocket, pulling a rosary of wooden beads from within and held them out to him.

“He’s lucky indeed. If he asks for one again, give him these, with my wishes for a speedy recovery.”

“Of course,” Sam said, wrapping his hand around the beads and slithering the string into his palm, the cross dangling from his palm like a promise. “I’ll be sure to tell him you stopped by.”

“Oh, don’t trouble yourself. If Father McClannan keeps feeling poorly the way he does, I’m sure you’ll see more of me.” Phil smiled, his bland agent smile warmed a little as his eyes crinkled at the corners. “Have a lovely day.”

Phil made a show of making his rounds as Sam excused himself to go back into Stefan’s room. He noted with satisfaction that the beads made it into the garbage outside the door and when he turned to sign out at the nurse’s station half an hour later, the blinds to the room were drawn.

Phil found himself liking Sam Wilson quite a bit.

[ One Week Prior ]

Anna ducked behind the desk, the windows already frosted to give an illusion of privacy, so the movement of blinds wouldn’t be noticed. Amara crouched with her, Clint on the other side, his breathing fast.

“What’s the game plan?” Amara asked, her eyes flat as she looked to Anna.

“As of right now, as senior officer, I’m taking responsibility for this op,” she replied, her voice low. “Agent Kota, have you got your sidearm?”

“No,” Amara replied. “Left it because I didn’t think being shot at was gonna be a thing today.”

That earned a bitter chuckle from Clint, who was already rolling the leg of his jeans up. Anna looked over, and watched Clint withdraw thin, flexible pieces of fiberglass from a sheath on his leg.

“Is that…”

“Compound bow,” Clint grunted. “Not my preferred choice, but it was either that or come unarmed. Don’t go anywhere without m’tools.”

“I am so, so glad,” she said, pulling her Heckler and Koch .45 Compact from her drawer. She rooted around, and found another pistol, her spare Walther PPK that she kept for extreme emergencies. She tossed it and the spare clip to Amara, who released the safety. “Aim for the head, you’re not gonna punch through body armor with that.”

“You’re the boss,” Amara said, her finger off the trigger.

Shots exploded around them, the low braaat of semi-automatic machinegun fire making her heart leap into her throat. Screams echoed and were silenced abruptly.

“We need to make it to the roof,” she said. “They came in on choppers. I can get us out – I’m licensed to fly.”

“The civilians—“ Amara winced as screaming and gunfire erupted again.

“Are already dead,” Anna replied in a tight voice. “What the hell kind of op is this?”

“S’not an op,” Clint said. “This is a smear campaign.”

“What?” Anna felt numb, her tongue going thick.

“They’re wearin’ SHIELD jumpsuits,” Clint said. “I saw before shots started. They’re jackbooted assholes in SHIELD issue body armor. They’re doing this so people will report on it. SHIELD shooting up a hospital? Pretty soon we’re gonna be Public Enemy Number One.”

“s**t,” Amara said, glancing at the shadows that flickered around the frosted glass of the office. The figures weren’t getting closer, but Anna knew it was only a matter of time until a full-scale search and execution began. “Roof?”

“Yeah,” she said. “How many arrows do you have?”

“As many as it takes,” Clint said, his jaw hardening. Anna could have hugged him, but it was a breach of emergency protocol.

“Good. Anything special?”

“Nets. Sticky glue. Boomerang.”

“Why the hell would you need a boomerang arrow?” Amara asked.

“Don’t disrespect the boomerang arrow, kid,” he said, and then winced as if from memory. “Flash bangs, too. Teargas, tasers.”

“Where are you keeping all of those?” Anna asked.

“’M not,” he said. “I can make ‘em on the fly now.”

When Anna gave him an incredulous look, he sighed.

“I know Iron Man. I’m an Avenger, y’know.” He strung the bow and it hummed to life.

“Good afternoon, Mister Barton.” Anna looked around, and realized it was coming from the bow. She blinked, bemused.

“Hey. Uh.”

“JARVIS, sir,” the little electronic voice prompted.

“Right, JARVIS, sorry,” Clint said. “How many arrows can you make?”

“With the current nanite version installed, I can create five per minute of any of the 63 uploaded and specified arrow designs, sir,” JARVIS replied.

“And you don’t run out?”

“No, sir, the arrows themselves are self-replicating,” JARVIS said.

“Holy s**t,” Amara said.

“Indeed.” The AI seemed almost smug. “Shall I begin creation?”

“Yeah. Gimme two of the flash bangs. Did Stark work out the neurotoxin delivery system?” he asked.

“No, sir, the stun arrows are still a no-go. We cannot find a dendrotoxin that will not permanently injure or disable a target.”

“Damn,” he muttered, fingering an arrow that appeared in a glittering sprinkle of light. Almost like fairy dust, Anna realized those must be the nanites working. “Your boss still got me on speed dial?”

“Apologies, sir. Mister Stark is currently ‘off grid’.”

“Right. He tried to flush out a terrorist by himself. Remind me to bug him how that went,” Clint muttered. Anna vaguely remembered the fuss the Mandarin had caused earlier last year. “Looks like we’re on our own until I can get to the encrypted radio transmitters in the choppers.”

Anna hushed them all. Boots crunched over broken glass, moving closer.

“Check the offices. Make sure no one’s left alive. Rumlow’s orders.”

“Rumlow?” Clint muttered. “What a basketcase.”

Anna tensed as the handle of the door turned.

“Stay down,” he murmured. “Cover your ears.”

The door opened, the operatives peering around the door jamb. They were using standard SWAT tactics, moving carefully. Clint flicked the cap off the stun arrow and slid it beneath their feet.

“What—“ The rest was lost in a blinding flash and a high pitched whine as the arrow detonated. Clint grabbed Anna’s hand, Amara’s hand clutched onto the back of her belted pantsuit.

Clint barged out of the office on the other side, firing the second flash bang into the crowd of SHIELD agents. Screams were heard, but they kept moving. Anna shook out her head, her ears still ringing.

“What are you doing?” Amara cried as gunfire erupted around them. They dove for cover, skidding around a corner.

“Not much of a plan, but I got us out of the pen,” he said. “Which way’re the stairs. JARVIS. I need three glue arrows.”

Anna pointed. “That way, to the right.”

“Good.” Clint fired the glue arrows, and a heavy, sticky adhesive coated the floor. “You get the chopper ready. I’ll be right behind you.”

“The hell you will,” she snapped. “We all get out alive. Together. None of this lone hero crap.”

Clint sighed. “Fine. Come on.”

They sprinted for the stairs.

“And that’s why we need every contact anyone has – if they’re still good,” Phil said, regarding the team. Trip nodded thoughtfully, wiping his hands on a rag.

Trip picked up his phone and dialed out on a secure line. “I can get you what I need, I think. Sit tight while I make a couple of phone calls.”

Phil blinked slowly, but settled back, Billy standing at his flank.

“He’s…not going to transmit our coordinates is he?” he asked, fiddling with his lanyard.

“No,” Phil replied. “Skye’s got us on ghost frequencies. We’re on lockdown and nothing gets out without her approval.”

Skye gave the thumbs up from where she was sitting hunched over her laptop on the hood of the tactical vehicle, chewing a protein bar between furious bursts of typing. Billy tried not to look too interested in what she was doing.

“Director, sir.” Phil held up a hand, and Billy lapsed into an uneasy silence as Trip’s call connected.

“Maman?” he asked, with a fluid, elegant accent. This was Parisian French, something Phil hadn’t heard in a long time. Agent Triplett was in fact raised there, but it didn’t occur to him that there would still be family living there. “Maman, il est bon d'entendre ta voix, aussi. J'ai besoin d'une faveur. Non, je vais bien. Nous n'étions pas au Triskell. Non, maman, pas de blessures. Pas pour moi en tout cas. Un de mon équipe a été grièvement blessé. Non, maman, il va bien se passer, nous le pensons.”

“Translation?”

Mama, it's good to hear your voice, too. I need a favor. No, I'm all right. We weren't at the Triskelion. No, mama, no injuries. Not for me anyway. One of my team was badly hurt. No, mama, he's going to be okay, we think.

“Mother and son,” Phil murmured. “Do me a favor, Agent Koenig.”

“Sir?”

“Go help Agent Simmons and Agent May check the reserves of food, medical supplies, and fuel. We have two Quins, a chopper, and the BUS to our names. I’d like to keep them flying for as long as possible.”

“But…yes, sir.” Summarily dismissed, Billy shuffled toward the elevator with a last glance back at them. At least Agent Koenig knew when he was being too hands on, Phil mused. Phil waited, trying not to listen too closely.

Trip sighed.

“Mama, I need the Family.” There was a flurry of rapid-fire French that made everyone flinch from the volume of it. “Not like that, Mama. I need information, dead drops. Places we can lie low.”

“And what makes us able to trust any of your team if what you say is true, Antoine?”

“Because Phil Coulson saved my bacon at the HUB,” he said. “I’d have a HYDRA smile carved in my Adam’s apple if it weren’t for him. Mama…he’s the real deal. He’s…he’s like the Cap.”

The line was quiet. Not a sound. Phil swore Trip was holding his breath. Then he released it, the quiet words coming forth and making his smile widen a little.

“Thank you, Mama. I’ll let him know.”

Trip closed the call on his phone and turned to Phil.

“You’ll get what you need,” he said. “And you’re coming to dinner.”

“Noted,” he said. “I owe you, Trip.”

“Remember that when you sign my paychecks.”

“As soon as I can afford to,” he said, and Trip grinned at him.

“Hey, Bossman,” Skye said, flopping down on the couch in his office. “You, uh, might wanna see this.”

Phil looked up, putting his pen down.

“And by the way, do I get to call you DC now?” she asked.

“Not in public,” he sighed.

“Anywho,” she said, flitting from subject to subject like a hummingbird. “Did a sweep of the electronics. What I can’t jury rig would’ve fallen to Fitz, but…”

“Yeah,” Phil said. He didn’t touch on their poor comrade, sleeping in a medically induced coma down in the bay.

“Bonus, though, we have proper encrypted internet now,” she said. “I even have eyes on the Pentagon, in case you wanted to watch the Black Widow tear the Secretary of Defense a new asshole.”

“Poor Hagel,” Phil murmured. He scrubbed a hand over his face, his sleeve riding up over his bandage.

“You checked on that lately?” she asked suddenly, zoning in on it. “I know you don’t like looking at it, not knowing…but…”

Phil looked down at his wrapped wrist. He didn’t even like glancing at it anymore. It was strange – he’d spent the bulk of his life waiting for his soul mate, and now that his mark was coming in, he almost didn’t want to know.

“I didn’t…look.” He was quiet for a moment, regarding the thick bandage around his wrist.

“I get that,” she said, tucking herself closer to her knees, resting her chin on her folded arms. Sometimes, Phil got the impression that she was more comfortable in the BUS than she let on. A mouse curled up in her hidey hole, tight spaces her forte. She blinked big brown eyes up at him, and he sighed.

“I don’t think I want to know,” he admitted. “What kind of future do they have? With the life I lead? I could be—“

“Look, if the word dead leaves your mouth I’m liable to throw something at you. That’s not an option now or ever,” Skye said. Phil’s lips clamped shut over the sentence, and she nodded. “You never know unless you try. What about Holly?”

“What about her? She thinks I’m dead. Quite literally ended a relationship on a sour note,” he said. “She’s never going to be the same, even with us stopping Daniels. She’s…better off.”

Skye frowned. “But she could be the one.”

“She could also have been mourning me for years now. The anniversary is coming up. Two years.”

“You’re sure you really don’t want to know?” she asked.

“Just…for now, let me have the mystery,” he said. “I don’t want to know right now. I have far too much to deal with taking the Toolbox apart and learning everything it has to offer.”

She nodded. “Deal. But when we get some breathing room, you’ve gotta consider it.”

“We’re SHIELD,” Phil said, a wry smile twisting his lips. “We don’t get breathing room.”

She grinned. “True.”

He changed gears, to get both their minds off things. “Did you do as I asked?”

“The encrypted signal?” she asked. “Yeah. I did the pattern you said, too. They’d have to be listening for it to know what it was. It’s hidden under a staticky microfrequency.”

“That’s the point. Only six people know what the sequence sounds like, and what it means.”

“What’s it for?” she asked.

“It’s a beacon,” he said. “We’re alone in the water. We need the help, and these people…I trust them.”

“Well, the Playground is pretty far out,” she said. “Billy said there’s not much within range.”

“Also the point,” Phil said. “The Playground isn’t for everyone. But I do want to start building up our support base again. SHIELD needs its backbone, and that means people.”

She nodded. “Should I add anything to it?”

“You added our coordinates, right?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“Then we’re good. The people I’m trying to contact know what to do with coordinates.”

“So…we wait?”

“We wait,” he confirmed. “We have enough supplies to last us for years – thank god for Fury and his foresight – but we also need to be alert and proactive. I won’t pretend we got all of HYDRA, and neither should you. We should start rooting out the cells, but our first step is to reestablish contact with our sister bases.”

She nodded, standing and stretching with a fluid movement. “Oh, I found the person you wanted me to find.”

She laid a file on his desk, and he flipped it open. As he read the first line, he had to stop, and read it again.

“This can’t be right,” he said.

“She’s the only one matching what you gave me,” she said. “Why?”

“Because Patricia Carhold looked forty-five when I saw her a year ago.” Phil was pale, and he met Skye’s eyes with a worried expression. “Tell Melinda to get the BUS up and running.”

Skye didn’t argue.

Clint looked around the stairwell, making sure their way was clear. He motioned for the others, and Anna and Amara joined him, weapons at the ready.

“The choppers are going to be heavily guarded,” Anna whispered.

“Well, we’re gonna fix that,” he said. He held up a thin arrow, one that might even be considered as a lightning rod. “Can you get us into the air in a couple minutes?”

“I can,” she said. “You’re not gonna do anything stupid, are you?”

“Maybe.” He grinned. “It’ll be fun and you can scold me later, Doc. Just get us chocks up and we’ll be good to go.”

She sighed. “All right. Give me cover and we’ll be gone before you know it.”

Amara peered around the jamb, silently counting.

“We’ve got close to twenty guys out there,” she said. “Can we?”

“Yeah. Just like fuckin’ Budapest all over again.” Clint nocked the arrow and stepped around the corner. “Hey, fellas. Got a light?”

The arrow struck true, a bolt of electricity arcing between them, their bodies dancing and jerking to the stimulus. Anna didn’t allow herself to watch the macabre display, instead darting for the Blackhawk that rested on the helipad. It took roughly five minutes for the chopper to warm, and she had, at most, four and a half. She hurried through the pre-flight routine, tossing a headset on as Amara rearmed herself with a spare AR-15 in the back. Clint stood between them and the door, covering their escape.

“How long?” Amara called.

“Three minutes,” Anna said. The engines made a low whine, and that was sure to garner attention.

“Shit.”

“Yeah.” Anna went through the checklist in her head, checking the droop stops as Clint prepped more arrows. They were gonna make it. They were gonna make it.

A canister rolled between Clint’s feet, and a bright flash of light blinded her.

“Shit.” Amara was away, darting for Clint who was screaming brokenly. She sprayed the doorway with bullets before she hoisted the man, throwing his arm over her shoulder and dragging him back to the chopper. “We need to get out of here, Doc!”

“Doing my best,” she muttered, warming the guns. She was able to hop the chopper to the side, to put Amara and Clint out of harm’s way. The sight of the M60 submachine guns spinning up kept the remainder at bay. “How’s he doing?”

“He’s unconscious,” she yelled. “We need to go!”

Anna pulled back the stick, and thank god, the chopper lifted off without stalling. Shots rang out and Anna let them have a burst of automatic fire, sending bodies in SHIELD uniforms sprawling.

She leaned back, realizing she was shaking. Ten, twenty, thirty minutes passed, and she swallowed. Bursts of chatter filled the radio, talking about everyone going down at once. Some operators were disbelieving.

The Fridge can’t be gone. The Raft too? Bullshit. Is this a prank?

But the Cube—

Don’t try coming to Holyoake. We’re overrun—

HYDRA—

Everything’s gone—

No word from the Triskelion—

–the tricarriers are down—

–Pierce is HYDRA—

–Cap is dead—

“Where to?” Amara said, pulling on a headset at last. “We can’t take him to another hospital. They’re obviously gonna be looking for us.”

“I have an idea,” she said. “I’m going to scan SHIELD channels for encrypted transmissions. We’ve got procedures in place for something like this – my old mentor taught me.”

She swallowed a bit as she remembered Phil showing her how to scan for the right frequency.

Anna tuned the radio out, moving from the common comms to the coded frequencies, her head singing the notes of the old encryption code. A series of beeps, it let select agents know that there was a safe channel and even if there was a message. She dialed along the waves. Nothing.

Undeterred, she kept going, switching to older channels she remembered.

“What’s that noise?” Amara asked. Anna dialed back, her fingers shaking as she kept the chopper level.

“Something I shouldn’t be hearing,” she said softly. It was the exact phrasing. The beeps were staticky but calming in their familiarity.

[Secure Channel Alpha Charlie One-Niner-Niner.]

Morse code. She hummed the beeps to herself, making sure she was translating right.

[This is the last bastion. We are transmitting on coded frequencies. There is a base that is secure. If you are seeking shelter, head to 60°34′02″N 140°24′10″W. The passphrase is “Wield the SHIELD.”] The code repeated the same singsongy tone, and Anna began to grin. Some things, it was good to have the old guard.

In her case, having a CO who was a huge vintage spy nerd came in handy.

“Is that good?”

“It’s better than good,” Anna said, turning the chopper northwest. “It’s the best news we could have hoped for.”

Phil Coulson was alive and well, and he was leading the resistance.

“Phil,” Patricia said, leaning back on the pillows. Phil sat next to the bed, and took her hand in his. “It’s been years. Marcus knows better than to pull these pranks with me.”

“Deep Shadow conditions,” Phil said, his voice hushed. “It had to be believable.”

“Does Stefan know?” she asked.

Phil shook his head, his lips thinned. “And he won’t. You saw the news about DC?”

Patricia nodded slowly. It was hard, seeing her like this. Her hand was thin, the skin like paper. He held it between his two palms, and he’d never seen her look…small. That was the problem. She looked small. She’d never been small, not once in his entire life. She was usually bursting with life and larger than all of them, despite Nick topping her by head and shoulders. She’d always seemed to dwarf them with her light.

Now she lay, brittle and frail in the hospice bed. Her heartbeat was faint, fluttering like a bird’s, and her eyes were sunken. She looked every inch of her ninety-six years, and it was disconcerting. Phil cast his eyes around the room. Generic. Nothing at all like the heavy, rich wood paneling of her London flat. It smelled faintly of death and antiseptic.

He hated it.

“What happened?” he asked.

Her eyes darted to the door. “Well, you know how your brother Marcus rooted that snake out of the garden.”

Someone was listening. Phil swallowed, but his facial mesh was in place, pulled to the side only to reassure Patricia. He looked like he could be her son, his face vaguely resembling hers, pitted with acne scars and deeply wrinkled. He nodded.

“Yeah, he had to go to a lot of trouble to get it out. Killed it with a spade.”

“You need to be careful of those. It seems like more show up when you take care of the one.” Patricia met his eyes, tapping out the real message on his palms. “I had a bit of a bad fall trying to get away.”

[HYDRA. Got the drop on me.]

His jaw jumped. “I’ve told you to be careful about that, Mum.”

[How many?]

[Just the one.] “Well, it’s lovely having you visit anyway.” [That’s all they need. They’ve slithered up. I don’t expect to last much longer. Did Marcus…?]

[I have the Toolbox.] “Of course, Mum. Wild horses couldn’t drag me away.” [Have you contacted Stefan?]

Her tapping slowed, and she took several deep breaths, as though gathering her strength.

[No. He’d walk right into it and I can’t have that. I’m not going to make it out of this one. The night nurse is HYDRA. She won’t let me leave. Right now her orders are to observe.]

“You taking care of that wife of yours?” she asked.

[Nan, you’ve gotta hold on. I can swing the BUS around—]

[Phillip.]

Phil’s eyes prickled. “She’s doing well. We miss you at home.”

“I know.”

[I can’t do this alone.]

[You’re going to have to, boy. Be brave for me.]

“I’ll bring the kids by when we’ve got a weekend free,” he said, his voice thick. “You know we love you, right?”

“I know,” she said.

He stood, kissing the part in her thinning hair. She grabbed his bandaged wrist, and for a split second, she was the Iron Lady again, her grip firm and her eyes clear. [You need to keep going. Live, Phillip. That’s the biggest slap in the face you can give them right now.]

“I’ll be back as soon as I can, Mum,” he whispered. She nodded, her eyes closing as she sank back into the pillows, weak and frail.

“Bossman,” Skye called. Phil turned, his attention going right to her maps. “We’ve got a chopper incoming. Looks like it’s sweeping the area.”

“SHIELD issue?” he asked.

“Looks like a SHIELD logo,” she said, pulling up pictures of the outer compound.

“Can we see the pilot?” he asked.

“Nope. Looks like they’ve got their face covered for the cold. Mountain’s kinda nippy.” She glanced up at him. “We gonna let them in?”

“Page Trip and Melinda. I want a strike team to greet them.” Phil moved to the door. “Have them meet me in the armory.”

“Aye-aye,” she said, giving a lazy salute.

Stefan woke with Natasha sitting on his ankles. He grumbled, wanting nothing more than to turn over and sleep off the rest of his aches and pains, but he opened one eye, searching her out in the dimness of the hospital room.

“It’s early,” he said. “Five more minutes.”

“I’m only here for five minutes,” she said. He sat up a bit, scrubbing at his face and yawning. “Just something interesting I thought you’d like to see.”

She tossed a tablet onto his lap and he picked it up. A document, from the looks of it.

“I was doing some digging,” she said. “Guess who I hit with my shovel.”

“I’m not sure I follow,” Stefan said.

“Coulson.” Natasha tapped the screen.

“So it’s an old report of Coulson’s.” Stefan squinted at it. “And?”

“Well, yes, technically it’s an old report if you consider last month old.” Natasha said. Seeing she had his attention now, she slipped off the bed to stand beside it. “Wonder what else they’re keeping from us.”

Stefan frowned. “And this was in the infodump?”

“Yeah,” she said. “Incident report. Looks like he was cleaning up in Greenwich.”

“England?” Stefan asked, tracing the loops of Phil’s signature with his fingers. “Patricia said he was a company man…”

“So company he faked his own death to make us dance,” she said. Her voice was a touch bitter. Stefan remembered her telling him about how Phil had been the one to rope her and Clint into Strike Team Delta. “He might as well wear the suit to bed.”

Stefan frowned. “You think he had something to do with this HYDRA business?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “But I do know that dead men tell no tales. I wonder if reborn men do. I’m going to uncover his current whereabouts and get back to you. I think we should find out.”

Stefan nodded slowly. “I’d like to talk to him, at least.”

He sighed, rubbing his face. His bandage was still wrapped in place, and he almost didn’t want to remove it at this point. He was…afraid of the letters on his arm. The half-legible scribble was frightening, the unknown, and he put it from his mind. There was so much going on, it was barely a blip on his radar.

“Have you heard from Patricia?” he asked.

“Not since SHIELD went dark,” Natasha said. “Want me to check on her?”

“If you would. I’m going to be out by the end of the week.”

“Sam said as much. He’s getting ready for the road trip. Bucky?”

Stefan nodded. “I’ve gotta find him.”

“Good luck,” she said. “You’ll need it if he doesn’t want to be found.”

They’d circled the coordinates eight times before she spotted the base’s helipad in the shadow of Mount Logan.

Anna brought the Blackhawk in for a landing, the whipping wind generated by the blades kicking up snow in all directions. It helped that the helipad materialized underneath her. SHIELD’s stealth technology at work, she mused, unless you were the one searching.

Wheels on the ground now, she turned off the chopper, the whine of the engine dying to a faint ticking as a trio of bundled up agents ascended a ramp to meet them. She put her hand to her leg holster, her H&K heavy in her palm.

“Exit the vehicle with your hands up,” the voice on the loudspeaker crackled. Anna’s eyes roved over the agents, armed with various rifles, and she picked up the mic for her own loudspeaker.

“Look, let’s do this the easy way. My name is Agent Anna Marks of SHIELD,” she said. “I have two passengers, one of whom is priority wounded. Your passphrase is ‘Wield the SHIELD.’ I’m going to come out, I’m armed with my personal sidearm. I need to speak with your commander.”

Even as she climbed out of the chopper, one of the agents was crunching through the snow toward her. The other two were moving to the passenger side, where Amara had slid open the door and had laid her rifle aside, her hands in the air.

The agent in front of her studied her for a minute, his rifle on his hip. It looked like some sort of energy weapon, but Anna didn’t question it.

“Good to see you retained a little bit of what I taught you,” Phil said, pulling his mask down and his goggles up.

“Yeah,” she said, nodding slowly. “But I’m still not tying my shoes like I’m trying to snazz up my LA Lights in high school.”

He was grinning like a loon, and she let her professional façade drop for the first time since California. She sobbed brokenly and threw her arms around him. He patted her shoulder, swaying in place with her.

“You did good, kid. Who’ve you got for me?”

“Agent Amara Kota,” she murmured. She composed herself and straightened. “And Agent Clint Barton. Both patients of mine.”

“Barton?!” Phil’s eyes widened. He squeezed her shoulder, bringing her fuzzy focus back to him. “How long have you been in the air?”

“Better part of eight hours. We stopped a couple of places and siphoned fuel – HYDRA nipped at our heels until I crossed Washington. Barton’s wounded. He was hit point blank with a HYDRA flash bang.” She swayed on her feet. “Permission to stand down?”

“Granted,” he said. “Get inside. You’ll meet Agent Koenig just inside the door. He’ll point you to the living facilities.”

“Thank you, sir. It’s good to have you back.”

“It’s good to be back.” He beamed at her. “You did well. Rest and relaxation. We’ve got hot food. It’s mostly MRE’s, but we’re doing pretty well considering.”

She shuffled toward the entrance, her dress flats slipping in the snow even as the other agents worked to get Clint into medical. She could hear him throwing up behind her, and was grateful he was at least alive. They were all alive. They’d made it.

The shorter agent (Koenig, his name was Koenig) did indeed meet her at the door.

“Welcome to the Playground, Agent,” he said. “Lanyards will be distributed on a case-by-case basis.”

Her teeth were chattering. She looked at him, incredulous as she shook like a leaf.

“I’d rather have a hot shower and forty winks, thanks.”

“I—right, of course,” he said. He turned, pointing. “Down the hall, to the right. The first seven rooms should be locked, you can have your pick of the others. Names are on the doors.”

He looked her over.

“Size four?” he asked.

“Excuse me?”

“Figure you want something warmer than that. I was gonna pop to requisitions and get you some clothes.”

“Four, yes,” she said, swaying. “Thank you.”

“No problem.” He peered at her. “You’re not gonna throw up, are you?”

“Not until I’ve had some sleep, I think.” She moved to head deeper into the complex. “Thanks, Koenig.”

“You’re welcome,” he said.

Phil sat up, rubbing sleep from his face. He was exhausted. More than four hours at a time wouldn’t cease the buzzing in his brain, and his fingers itched. He looked at the side table in his quarters, where a glass of water and his pen knife sat. He picked up the small blade and rose, moving to the wall.

The pattern was soothing. It was something he could do to silence the hum, the ethereal not-noise that plagued his dreams. He began to scratch.

The bandage around his arm slipped away, and in his haze of patterns and numbers that seemed to stretch into the infinite, he didn’t notice that the black smudgy lines had coalesced.

The name tattooed on pale flesh rippled as his hand worked, the tendon making it dance like a prophecy.