Archive of Our Own

Phil’s an ex-US Army Ranger. A decorated ex-US Army Ranger whose career spanned over twenty years, three continents and most countries you can think of (and probably a few you can’t). He learned to “crawl”, “walk” and “run” to earn the coveted Ranger Tab and tan beret which he has worn with pride all through his journey up the ranks; from his humble beginnings as a Corporal in the 1st Rangers Battalion to Platoon Sergeant with the 75th Ranger Regiment. He has participated in combat jumps to secure airfields, provided security for JOSC operations, fast-roped from helicopters to give support on ground missions and taken part in his fair share of personnel and special equipment recovery. Remember the rescue in Afghanistan of genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist Tony Stark? Well...

If someone had told sixteen year old wiseass Phil that he would go on to have an accomplished career in the Rangers, he’d have snorted derisively, taken another draw of his cigarette (or joint) and continued with his plan to boost a sweet 1970 Chevrolet Chevelle SS he had his eye on all with an amused smirk playing on his lips. Long gone was the little boy who wanted to become Captain America and save the world from tyranny. Teenage Phil had a frighteningly intelligent mind that could run rings around his high school teachers but more often than not he chose to apply that intellect to somewhat more challenging extracurricular activities such as the previously mentioned auto-theft. His meticulous attention to detail and careful planning were the main reasons he and his equally delinquent friends had never been caught.

However whether you believe in it or not, luck tends to run out eventually and a couple of years later, when Phil’s left him lying face down on the sidewalk with his wrist held in a painful armlock and a knee pressed between his shoulder blades by some scary-as-fuck army guy, he was given a choice - “Army or jail, you punk ass motherfucker?” As it turned out, Mr Scary-as-fuck made a good call, the army and Phil were apparently a perfect fit. He finally discovered a challenge that made him want to improve himself and not just something to do for shits and giggles. Basic combat training was tough enough to focus his mind and push his body until he volunteered for Airborne School; that required a set of large ones. And as for Ranger School...well, damn it near killed him but he took the motto “Rangers lead the way” to heart and never looked back.

So, yeah, older and wiser Phil was career Army. Until he suddenly wasn't. He’d joined up three days short of his nineteenth birthday and was honourably discharged six days shy of his forty-fourth after a number of months recuperating in an Army hospital. Two IED blasts claimed the lives of four members of his squad and invalided another three, including himself, out of the Rangers. The others remained in the 75th - ‘Sua Sponte’ - ‘Of their own accord’. For Phil however, it was the first time in his adult life he couldn’t fulfil the Regimental motto and for a long time, he was lost. He could no longer lead the way. It wasn’t until the arrival of a service dog named Agent that the ex-Army Ranger was able to get back on his feet.

***

Phil can feel a pair of eyes burning into his head. It doesn't give him that crawling feeling on the back of his neck but it is becoming a tad uncomfortable. He tries to ignore it but deep down he knows it isn’t going to stop any time soon and any thoughts of sleeping in are rapidly evaporating. Slowly he cracks opened an eyelid, just the merest slit, to catch the gaze of the shaggy-haired beauty standing at the side of his bed with her chin resting on the pillow, her nose about two inches away from his. His action prompts a lazy tail wag from her; Agent knows full-well he’s awake so she makes indignant grumbling noises at him in protest.

Giving up the pretence, Phil opens his eyes and stares back at her without blinking. The tail wag becomes more enthusiastic working its way up to a full butt wiggle. She pushes her nose closer so that they’re almost touching. Phil’s jaw muscles are clenched and his lips are pressed together in a tight line as he tries not to smile. Most dogs would look away from those intense blue eyes but Agent just holds his gaze and waits. Finally, he can't hold back any longer and a wide grin breaks out across his face. With a whine, the dog leaps onto the bed pouncing on Phil who quickly curls into a ball to protect his crotch; it wouldn’t be the first time he’d received an accidental (and painful) paw to the balls during a play-fight with Agent. He bursts out laughing and tries to duck back under the covers but she isn’t having it and bats him with her front paws whining excitedly.

Still laughing, he holds his arms open and she nuzzles against his shoulder making happy chuffing noises as he ruffles the hair of her neck with his good hand, pulling her in for a hug. The stump of his other arm rests awkwardly against her back and for a moment he tenses up as he catches a glimpse of it; even now on occasion it has the ability to shake him. As though sensing his discomfort, Agent rolls onto her back paws in the air in a very unladylike pose for belly rubs; her sweet nature and daft antics push his feelings away for now. Some days can still be difficult, painfully so, but before Agent, he’d likely have become crippled by overwhelming anxiety and depression which would have left him bedridden for days, or reaching for a bottle...if not worse. Without doubt, Agent is good for him, giving his mind something to focus on instead of revisiting the past, providing him with a sense of pride again.

After planting a quick kiss on her nose he gives her the sign for “food” and she springs off the bed to head for the kitchen, tail wagging. He pulls on a hoodie then follows her downstairs. His limp is more pronounced in the mornings; his leg and hip are painful and stiff until he’s been up for a while. His prosthetic waits until he’s had a shower. He’s adapted to doing most things without it especially first thing in the morning.

While she impatiently nudges his thigh with her head, making noisy air chomps, he tries to ignore her cold, wet nose tapping against his leg (not easy coz it’s cold...and wet) and measures kibble into her clean dish. As she enthusiastically devours her breakfast, he pours fresh water into her drinking bowl and puts on a pot of coffee for himself. Their morning routine has begun.

Phil’s home is just a few blocks from their favourite park and come rain or shine - and more often than not, snow - they usually arrive before 07:30 making good use of the leash free hours. For the first few weeks, Phil’s leg and hip would have been burning with agony and they couldn’t get as far he’d have liked. It was frustrating and often left him shaking with effort. But his determination (some might say stubbornness) prevailed and he stuck with it, slowly building up his stamina until he could walk there, exercise Agent and wander back home through another part of the park.

Today is no exception. It’s a nice day, bright and sunny when they arrive at Nethermead, one of the open areas where they often play fetch. Phil slips off Agent’s service vest then signals for her to sit. He knows she should really wear the vest at all times when they’re out in case something happens to him but he feels that Agent deserves some time off too, so when she’s exercising he removes it. He unfastens her leash and takes the ball from his jacket pocket and launches it into the air sending it as far up the meadow as he can. Agent tenses beside him watching its progress and as soon as he gives her the release signal she tears after it, her tail wagging furiously behind her. Phil watches her with a smile on his face.

They’ve been playing fetch for maybe twenty minutes when Phil gets that crawling sensation on the back of his neck. He’s being watched. His senses go into high alert and the next time Agent returns, he gives her a different command which tells her "game ended" to which she drops the ball and sits. He gives her a strained smile and ruffles the hair of her chin as he re-attaches her leash. When she stands again he slips on her vest making sure it’s secure but not too tight. She gets another pat then he nods and the two of them head off along the path away from the perceived danger.

A short distance away Phil veers off and doubles back to the exercise area always making sure he’s out of the line of sight where he felt someone’s eyes on him. As they get near he slows and sweeps his hardened gaze across the area using his twenty plus years of active service to speculate who the most likely person is. He narrows it down to three: two men and a woman.

One of the men, an African American in a well-tailored suit, is dismissed when he breaks into a wide smile and is joined by a woman whom he takes into his arms and hugs in a tight embrace. She laughs and they kiss affectionately then passionately. Phil drops his head forward and averts his eyes not because he’s embarrassed by their display but to give them privacy. Abruptly they break apart perhaps realising where they are and walk off hand in hand grinning happily, lovingly at each other. He had been watching for the arrival of his lover.

Satisfied with his reasoning for the dismissal of the first, he now focusses his attention on the two that are left. As he studies her more intently, it would appear the woman doesn’t seem to be looking at anything or anyone specifically; apparently she’s just taking in the scenery. She’s dressed in hiking pants and sturdy walking boots with a light jacket and carries a small rucksack. After a few moments she walks away at a steady pace but in no particular rush. She certainly has the build and appearance of someone who does a lot of outdoor activities and might even be here to spend the day touring the park. Nevertheless Phil commits her face to memory.

The second man, blonde and muscular across the chest and shoulders, is dressed similarly to the woman with cargos in place of the hiking pants. He also has an SLR camera slung over his shoulder as well as a rucksack although on second thoughts perhaps it's a camera bag. He appears to be carefully watching people with dogs but he’s being completely open about it and not acting furtively.

As Phil observes him, he approaches two women with a Bassett hound that barks and wags its tail at him. It bounces on its front paws with every woof making its ears flap up and down;  the corner of Phil’s mouth turns up in a little half-smile despite his unease. The man speaks to them and they nod enthusiastically; Phil admires the easy charm he displays.

Holding his camera to prevent it from swinging into the Bassett, he crouches down in front of the excitable beast and lets it sniff his hand before scratching it under the chin; the dog wags its tail enthusiastically. Phil also approves. So many people touch a dog’s face or head or don’t let it scent them first which can be so intimidating for the animal.

The man moves back a little, dropping down on one knee, and lays the bag on the ground. He lifts his camera aiming it at the Bassett and takes a few shots. Once he seems satisfied he stands, gives the dog another pet under its chin and chats again to the two women showing them the photos he’s taken. They grin at him, one laying her hand on his forearm as she replies, clearly flirting, before they stroll away with their dog who trots on ahead ears flapping with every bounce.

The man watches them go with a broad smile then walks off in a different direction. Phil’s almost sorry he does. He’d liked to have watched him a little longer. He rolls his eyes at himself realising this makes him no better than the person that was staring at him in the first place, the person Phil now believes to be the dog photographer. He's the most likely and if it is him there appears to have been no malicious intent as uncomfortable as it’s made him.

Although he’s still feeling anxious, the fight or flight response is beginning to ease off as the ‘threat’ appears to be over. Now he’s mostly irritated - largely with himself for overreacting. He had thought this side of him was getting better - and for the most part it is - but with more than half a lifetime of being constantly wary of people and vigilant of his surroundings along with having first hand experience of the worse that can happen when something’s missed, it’s difficult not to react defensively when he feels threatened. With a sigh he scratches Agent behind her ear and this time they head for home.

Although he’s a lot calmer by the time they reach his house, Phil’s senses are still hyper alert and when he unlocks his front door pushing it open, he knows immediately someone's inside. Agent confirms it when she lifts her nose as she scents the air giving a tug on her leash.

“Jesus, Marcus. Stop breaking into my house,” Phil calls from the entryway as he releases Agent from her vest. She bounds through to welcome the ‘intruder’ as he removes his jacket and hangs it up beside hers.

“Jesus, Cheese. Stop making it so easy. Oh hey, baby! At least you’re pleased to see me, huh? Yes you are. I know you are, baby.”

Phil smirks and shakes his head at his friend’s cooing voice which he uses even with Agent being deaf. He knows when he reaches his living room the pair of them will be fawning over each other fit to make him barf. It’s a sight however that will never been witnessed outside of Phil’s house. After all Nick Fury aka Marcus Johnston, Phil’s old Army Rangers CO, has a certain reputation to maintain and rolling around the floor with a shaggy dog making kissy noises would destroy that in seconds.

In truth though, he’s glad Fury’s there. He really needs to see a familiar face right now. Faces. The moment he smells the aroma of strong, rich coffee he knows his old friend didn’t arrive on his own.

“Morning, Hill,” he calls through to the kitchen/diner at the back of his house.

“How d’you know she was here?” mumbles Fury trying to avoid a gross face bath from Agent’s tongue.

“Coffee,” is the other man’s one word reply.

“How d’you know that wasn’t me being all nice?”

“You can’t make coffee for shit. It always smells like boiled socks.”

“Fuck you, asshole!”

“In your dreams, sweatheart.”

Their good-natured banter continues until another close friend arrives beside Phil. She acknowledges him with a smile and a nod.

“Coulson.”

For a moment they stand shoulder to shoulder watching the 6’2” man trying to intimidate the gentle service dog when in actual fact the gentle service dog is reducing the 6’2” man to a pile of mush.

“Sad isn’t it?”

He nods.

“Little bit,” he agrees crossing his arms over his chest.

Phil doesn’t bother to mention he was doing the same thing a few hours earlier; but then he doesn’t have the same reputation to uphold anymore. He can feel Hill's eyes on him as she gives him a sideways-glance. Today it seems is a day for studying him. He nudges her with his shoulder and drops his arms turning slightly towards her to let her know it’s okay to touch him.

“You look like shit,” she tells him in no uncertain terms pulling him into her arms for a gentle hug. She frowns at the tightness across his shoulders and back. Something’s wrong. Before she can ask, there’s an “oof” then a “motherfucker” as Fury curls into a ball on the floor. He’s obviously received the infamous, patented ‘paw to the balls’ that only a dog can deliver.

“Feeling better now though,” Phil deadpans leaning into the hug and looking over Hill’s shoulder at the tangled mess of man and dog on the floor.

“Fucking hilarious,” comes an indignant groan from the pile of mush. They ignore him.

Along with the tightness in his body, she can feel through his shirt that his temperature’s also elevated, another indicator that something’s not right. She holds him at arm’s length and lets him know she’s aware of his situation. “You’re also hot. What’s wrong?”

Trying to make light of her concern, Phil ducks his head and looks up at her with a smirk playing across his lips. “Last time someone called me hot, pretty sure it wasn’t followed up with ‘what’s wrong’.”

“Yeah, well. I’m not trying to get into your pants. So what gives, Coulson?”

Again, Phil tries to deflect. “Coffee smells good,” he says hopefully.

Hill’s not having any of it and fixes him with a glare. He‘s known her for too long now for it to have any effect but bless her, she still tries.

“Stop deflecting. Coffee can wait.”

“No it can’t,” protests the pile of mush. They ignore him.

Phil sighs and drops his head forward. The muscles in his jaw are clenched and his previous good humour at being with two people he trusts fades just a little. Hill feels kind of crappy for forcing the issue, she wouldn't ordinarily, but she knows it’s not good for him to bottle things up when he's on edge like this.

“Someone was watching me in the park. I over-reacted.” He shrugs.

On hearing Phil’s words, Fury holds up a clenched fist in a “stop” gesture. Agent immediately sits to attention. She understands the game’s over now but she pants happily anyway, her tongue lolling out the side of her mouth. It was fun while it lasted.

“Are we going to be seeing this on YouTube later?” he asks giving the dog a last pat before carefully getting to his feet; his junk’s still a tad tender. Agent trots over to greet Hill before she joins Phil and presses against his leg. This welcome is a lot more sedate but no less cheerful and the woman happily fusses over the dog. Apparently butt rubs are her speciality.

Phil huffs out a small laugh at Fury’s question and shakes his head. He doesn’t elaborate however. His hand goes to its default position of his dog’s head to scratch behind her ear. He’s definitely holding something back.

“Maybe now’s a good time for that coffee,” Hill suggests and lets Phil lead the way through to the kitchen/dining area. She and Fury sit at the old oak table, worn and faded from years of use and being scrubbed clean while Phil heads over to the coffee machine and pours three mugs of strong, black liquid life adding cream and sugar into his. Carefully, he balances the mugs and carries them over to the table setting them down in the middle beside a paper bag full of cannoli (thank you Hill) then takes his seat. It’s a tell that Phil takes one of the pastries and plays with it in front of him rather than cramming it into his face as he usually would.

“Sitrep, Coulson,” orders Fury, gruff but not unkind.

Phil sighs resigned to the fact that his friends are not going to let it go. As always, his report is succinct and to the point as he recounts the events although now, sitting in his kitchen, it really sounds like he over-reacted. Being ex-military the other two understand how unnerving having someone’s eyes on you can be when you do expect never mind when you don't, but for someone suffering from PTSD those feelings can be magnified into overwhelming proportions. Neither of them make light of it.

“How do you feel now?” asks Fury taking a mouthful of coffee.

Phil slouches in his chair and studies his pastry which is becoming a pulpy mess and shrugs. “Better than when it was happening. Still a bit anxious. Maybe a bit pissed too.”

“At?”

“Mostly me. A little at the guy. But it’s not his problem, it’s mine.”

“Is it a problem?”

“You know what I mean.” There’s a flash of irritation. Phil’s muscles are bunching in his jaw again and his brow is furrowed into a deep frown. Although he’s still leaning back in his chair, his shoulders and back have gone tense and his right hand is curled into a fist.

Fury can tell by the other man’s posture that he’s keeping his anger and frustration in check but barely. He nods thoughtfully and backs off taking a bite of cannoli instead of asking any more questions. He flicks his eyes across to Hill who gives the barest of nods that she agrees he’s probably spoken enough for now. Phil by nature is reluctant to talk about himself; he’s a much better listener and adviser, but therapy has helped him open up when he needs to, like now. She goes back to the search on her Starkpad.

Agent rests her head on Phil’s thigh and nudges him with her chin breaking him out of his thoughts. He finally takes a drink from his coffee mug and eats a piece of smooshed cannoli then goes back to stroking her ear gently.

Silently Hill passes her Starkpad to Phil; all the cool kids have one but he doubts many of them have the face of the guy from the park on it. He snaps his head up to look at her. She's smirking. Thedogblogger. It's a blog site that the guy apparently runs where he posts his photos along with a snippet of information about the dogs. His eyes dart to Fury who has his poker-face on but the eyebrow over his good eye is raised in amusement. His friends are assholes.

“How did you…?”

“When you said dog photographer it rang a bell. I’m guessing by your reaction that’s him.”

He nods. It's a beautiful picture of the guy. Someone's captured an image of him with a soft expression that seems to be filled with wonder and joy as he tenderly pets four tiny puppies nestled in another person's hands. Before he realises it’s happened, the corner of Phil’s mouth has turned up in a gentle smile and the strain that was pulling at his eyes and mouth seems to lessen making his own features soften.

“Jeez, Coulson! Is the puppies or the guy causing that reaction?” asks Hill with a grin that's full of mischief.

He’s genuinely not certain of the answer to that question however he has a good idea thedogblogger is at the head of the queue. As much as he was unsettled by what happened earlier he didn’t get any bad feelings from the guy himself - it was the sense of being watched that unnerved him. In fact, as he took the time to observe the photographer working, his feelings of unease lessened. The man seemed, on the surface at least, like a good person. Someone Phil could get to know, maybe even... Okay, he’s not sure if he wants to get into that with himself right now...or ever.

Changing the topic of conversation, Phil puts the Starkpad down and narrows his eyes at the other two. “So...moving on. Why did you two feel the need to break into my house this time?”

Hill coughs something that sounds suspiciously like “deflecting” into her hand and he shoots her a disdainful glance. At the same time, he can feel the heat rising in his face and he’s pretty sure the tips of his ears are beginning to glow. Fuck! There’s no way either of them are going to miss that.

Fury gives him an evil grin. “Well fuck, Cheese! You like him.”

“As in like him, like him,” Hill clarifies unhelpfully.

Phil rolls his eyes and looks over the top of his glasses at Hill who attempts to give him an innocent look in return. Did he say his friends are assholes?

“What are you? Five? Why are you both here?”

Fury barks out a laugh ready to tease his friend further but he relents; Phil’s becoming relaxed enough again to snark which is a good thing so instead he tells him the actual reason for the visit.

“Another job.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Really? So soon.”

Hill slides a package over to him skillfully avoiding the decimated pastry. He pins it with his left hand then picks it up and tips it over with his right. The contents, a pen drive and building blueprints, fall onto the table top.

“Same as before?” he asks sitting straighter, his eyes becoming sharp and alive.

“Bigger.”

Phil nods thoughtfully.

“How long do I have?” He picks up the pen drive and taps it against the tabletop.

“Three days.”

Three days of planning, assessing and managing risks, and working out how to beat a high-end security system - all things Phil excels at. A throwback to his days as a teenager boosting cars. Multinational banks and executive office buildings however are a little more upscale never mind lucrative.

His face breaks into a grin. They’re also the best friends he could ask for.

***

It's almost a week later before he sees the photographer in that area of the park again. This time he sees him coming and tries to work up the nerve to speak to him but as the other man nears and stops in the same place as before, Phil’s courage fails him. He signals Agent back and abruptly they leave.

Phil curses himself for even thinking about speaking to the photographer. They have nothing in common. Thedogblogger - Clint Barton according to the blog - is young, attractive and confident and would have absolutely no interest in someone like him; a washed-up, damaged ex-Army Ranger with PTSD. What was he even thinking!

***

“So what’s stopping you? And so help me god, if you raise that fucking prosthetic and wave it at me, I will come over there, remove it and stick it so far up y’ass that you won’t need some blogger’s dick to make your eyes pop outta y’head.”

Phil winces and freezes in mid-lift of his left hand before quickly laying it back on the kitchen counter. Nonchalantly he continues with the morning ‘let’s-break-into-Phil’s-house’ coffee ritual. Hill drops her head onto the table mock-banging it a couple of times on the solid wooden surface. Fury just sits there and smirks.

Finally raising her head again, Maria glares at Fury before turning to Phil. “What Captain Eyepatch is trying to say with all the sensitivity of a grenade up the ass is, you won’t know until you speak to him.”

“That’s what I said !” Fury protests aiming for righteous indignation in his tone when actually he sounds like a petulant child.

Hill rolls her eyes at him. “With all due respect, sir - shut the hell up.”

Fury goes back to smirking.

“Can we perhaps stop talking about shoving things up asses, mine or anyone else’s,” Phil requests with as much dignity as he can muster under the circumstances. He puts the mugs on the table next to the bag of bearclaws (thank you Fury) silently wishing he hadn’t mentioned his aborted attempt at approaching thedogblogger in the park a few days earlier. Or at least waiting until Hill was on her own.

“Look, Phil, if you speak to him and it goes well, then fantastic - we’re here for you and you can tell us all about it. You pay for the beer and takeout.”

Phil huffs out a small laugh.

“But not in too much detail. I don’t need to know the ass stuff.” Fury adds, taking a mouthful of coffee. Both Hill and Coulson roll their eyes this time. He’s deliberately being obtuse to keep Phil grounded. He’s genuinely full of sympathy for his friend’s plight but Hill and he have found it’s better if one of them plays good guy to the other’s asshole - so to speak - when they’re trying to encourage him to talk. It keeps things from getting too serious and Phil from quite possibly losing his shit.

After giving him another withering look, Hill continues. “If you speak to him and it goes tits up - we’re still here for you. But Captain Sensitive will pay for the beer and takeout.”

The pair look to Fury waiting for some words of ass-dome. None are forthcoming. It’s difficult to talk with half a bearclaw in your mouth. He stops chomping on the pastry for a moment and stares at them challenging one or both to make a comment. Neither does. The chomping resumes.

Phil reaches for a bearclaw and takes a bite chewing it thoughtfully. Hill and Fury exchange glances. The fact that Phil is even contemplating speaking to a stranger is a major breakthrough in itself but they know better than to high-five at this stage. They also know not to push him to far, too fast. He’ll do it if and when he’s ready. He just needs the reassurance that they’ll be there for him either way.

“So...I gather the latest job was a success,” Phil mentions. The sizeable deposit of funds to his bank account has already indicated as much but it’s a reasonable change of subject.

Following his lead, Hill flashes him a quick grin and nods. “It all went like clockwork. Those recommendations you made solved a few niggling issues not to mention a few potentials we missed completely. Needless to say, the client was suitably impressed. You decided what you’re going to do with your ill-gotten gains?”

“Get better locks,” he quips then grimaces. Forgot to add the sugar.

“Aww! C’mon, Phil! We're your friends,” Fury whines as Phil gets up to add some.

“Really? Normal friends use a key. Or wait until the owner’s around before they, y’know, enter someone’s home. Better yet... normal friends wait until they’re actually invited.”

"Never said we were normal."

Phil raises an eyebrow. It could be a warning; it could be amusement. Even Fury can't always tell.

"Oh, so you gonna shoot me...again? Punk ass motherfucker!” Fury growls but it’s with affection rather than animosity.

"Jesus, Marcus! It was one time!" Phil grins at him. “Besides, you knew what I was when you recruited me. Scary-as-fuck army guy.”

The other man raises his mug in salute. “That I did, Cheese. That I did.”

***

So much time has gone by since Phil's failed attempt at speaking with thedogblogger that he's pretty much resigned to the fact he's not going to see the guy again. So of course that's when he comes into view for the first time in weeks. Phil’s thought a lot about what Fury and Hill said, actually more Hill than Fury, and this time he’s determined he’s going to talk to him. 

He gives Agent the release signal and she trots over to Clint. Phil stands back and watches for a moment. He sees the photographer looking down as Agent nudges his leg with her nose and nods at the smile Clint gives her before he offers the back of his hand for the dog to sniff. She wags her tail and he hunkers down beside her giving a quick glance round as he rubs under her chin.

Phil takes his dog’s acceptance of the other man as his cue and with a calmness that belies the churning in his gut, he walks over just in time to hear him ask, “Hey beautiful. Where’s your pop, huh?”

The corner of his mouth quirks up in a smile when Clint calls her beautiful. That’s...really kinda sweet.

He squares his shoulders and takes a deep breath, releasing it slowly. He hopes his gravelly voice won’t be too off-putting; the downside of not speaking too often. Okay...so here goes nothing / everything.

“Here. She wanted to come say hi.”

Aaand he’s blown it already. The guy starts and looks like he’s about to shit himself. Maybe approach by stealth was not the best option but it’s another hard habit to break. He looks down into the photographer’s eyes. And holy fuck what incredible eyes he has! Blue, green, grey… No one colour, instead a kaleidoscope of swirling shades. Embarrassingly his dick goes half-hard and twitches right at the younger man’s eye level. Thankfully he’s staring at Phil’s face and not his crotch. Small mercies.

After what seems like an eternity Clint replies, “Uhhh...hi?”

Phil tries not to look too amused. Apparently thedogblogger is as shy as he is. Or he’s scared him so badly he can no longer form coherent sentences. Excellent job, Coulson.

“So you’ve decided I’m not some kind of weird stalker then?”

So he can do the whole sentence thing. Wait...what? Stalker? For a few seconds, Phil can feel the smile slip from his face. And what does that make him considering he’s the one who’s been watching and waiting and biding his time. Over thinking, Coulson. Move on.

He tips his head to the side and seeing the shocked  ‘what-the-fuck-have-I-just-said’ look on Clint’s face, gives him a warm smile. It appears he’s not the only who occasionally speaks without thinking one and he finds that strangely comforting.

“I’ve not decided anything yet,” Phil teases then points to his dog. “It’s Agent who makes the snap decisions in our relationship.”

The photographer lets out a small laugh and rubs the back of his neck in a way that Phil finds incredibly endearing. He can feel his stomach roll over. No one person should be this attractive. He’s not sure what it is about this man; his sincerity, his easy charm, his affinity with dogs...his amazing eyes and a smile that does things to him he'd rather not talk about in public... Okay, dial it back, Coulson. And say something before you freak him out.

But before he can open his mouth, the photographer speaks first. “Well thank you for the confidence, Agent.”

Once again Phil's impressed by Clint's way with dogs as he gives her another pat before standing. They’re now more or less at eye level and it’s a very nice level to be at. He feels another burst of anticipation run through him and he's surprised by the intensity of it. Agent is once more by his side and he goes to default with his hand on her head scratching behind her ear. Ear!

“She won’t hear you. She’s deaf.” The news causes thedogblogger to frown thoughtfully which Phil also finds rather attractive. What is wrong with him?

“That’s unusual for a service dog, isn’t it?”

“Unheard of.” Phil’s not entirely sure why he’s talking to Clint like he’s Hill or Fury but the photographer seems to accept the puns fairly well and going by the raised eyebrow, apparently he too thinks Phil’s humour sucks. Awesome!

“She and I will get on just fine then,” he tells Phil and turns his head so that the older man can see his hearing aid. Oh. Okay then. He nods but doesn’t pass comment.

“I’m Clint by the way.” He holds out his hand.

This is a huge moment for Phil. He doesn’t like to be touched - hates it in fact. Another’s touch is usually associated with pain; deep, intense and terrifying. However after a lifetime goes by and he finally does take Clint’s hand in his, albeit with a leather glove between them, he finds the contact with the photographer surprisingly welcome and it feels...good, safe. He can’t remember a time in recent years when he could say that with any honesty; Hill’s hugs aside.

He dips his head and looks up at Clint, feeling his face beginning to blush. He must look like such a dork. “Phil.”

The younger man seems to take in his stride though and continues to speak telling him that he’s not really a stalker, he actually runs a blog.

“Thedogblogger .” Ah fuck! Now he’ll definitely think he’s the stalker. Phil shrugs when he sees Clint’s surprised look and adds, “I asked around.”

Oh yeah... that’s much worse!

“So you’ve been asking about me?”

“Just to find out what sort of weird stalker you are.” What the actual fuck, Coulson!

But from the amused look on Clint’s face, Phil believes instead of being insulted, he seems to find the response reasonably funny.

“So…?”

He knows Clint’s asking what he thinks of his blog but what the hell, he's feeling unexpectedly mischievous, so using only facial expressions and a half-smile, he makes Clint ask him outright what he wants to know. He loves that Clint plays along with him, finding it (and him) more than a little charming until the photographer goes quiet and does that self-conscious touch to the back of his neck. Then things get real. Very real.

He wants to take Agent’s picture and get her story. But the way Clint asks, Phil understands that's not all he means; he wants to get to know Phil too.

This...it’s… Phil’s not sure he can handle something like that. It’s too personal. It’s too soon. It’s too fucking frightening. His hand drops to Agent’s head, grounding him once again. He barely hears Clint hurriedly asking him to think about it and talking about a next time. But he can’t. He wants to. So much. But he can’t. This was wrong. It was unfair. He can’t allow Clint to get involved with him. He’s got nothing to give him. He’s too damaged. He’s too fucked up.

“I’m not so sure that’s a good idea. I...I’m not someone people generally want to be around long enough to get to know.” He does his best to ignore the hurt look on Clint’s face even though it’s tearing him apart inside. “Goodbye, Clint. Good luck with the blog. You really do a great job with it; it’s... Agent’s favourite."

And with a sad smile, he turns and limps away with Agent by his side. He doesn’t look back. Too scared of what he might see. Or perhaps of what he won't.

***

“Crashed and burned, Maria. Fucking crashed and burned.”

“Phil?”

She’s calm and controlled but underneath she’s worried. She knows immediately something’s wrong; his voice sounds as rough as hell. And he called her Maria. She's Hill; he only calls her Maria to annoy her or when something’s up. Really up.

“Phil…have you been drinking?”

There's a pause on the line before he replies quietly, “No. But I want to. A lot.”

Shit! It’s been almost two two years since Phil had his last drink. When he drinks, he can hurt himself. The last time it was a broken hand involving a visit to the ER. A boxer’s fracture after punching a wall which, for a one-handed guy, was several weeks of utter frustration and self-loathing until he could remove the splint. The hole in the wall is still there, left as a reminder. But obviously something bad has happened to make him want go there again.

“Talk to me, Phil.”

There’s silence on the other end of the line and she’s just about to hang up and head over when Phil speaks. His voice is subdued and so very sad.

“I fucked up, Maria. I spoke to Clint today. Thedogblogger guy,” he clarifies thinking she won't know who he means. He's right, she’d forgotten his real name.

No problem. She will find him and she will hurt him. Badly.

“It wasn’t him, so please don’t go breaking him.”

Damn! How does he do that? Okay. So the problem isn't the photographer guy which means it's Phil. It’s not that he hasn’t had relationships since his hospitalisation. She knows he’s had several brief affairs of varying lengths, none however lasted more than a couple of months...

The first had been Ron who, not realising who Fury and Hill were, had the misfortune of telling them that he wasn’t really all that into Phil; the main reason he was with him, why worked in hospitals in general and with veterans in particular, was because of his access to “stumpers”. They satisfied his acrotomophilia and could be a really great fuck. To this day Hill has no idea what Fury said (read did ) but the guy was never seen by Phil or the hospital again having apparently resigned following a “family emergency” out of state. It had come as a complete surprise and had stung for a while but in time, Phil got over the fact he left without saying goodbye.

There had been a couple of genuinely nice guys - along with one who was positive he could “cure” Phil - but after the first or second nightmare or a sudden terrifying flashback or his flinching when he was touched unexpectedly, they realised they couldn’t handle someone with PTSD and had ended things. That had hurt a lot more.

Needless to say, Phil’s confidence in himself when it comes to relationships is pretty non-existent these days.

“Talk to me, Phil,” she says again. It’s a gentle voice but commanding all the same and she knows it will work. It should, she learned it from him years before.

With a sigh, he gives in and tells her about his time in the park with Clint right up to the point when he walked away with Agent...here he pauses for a moment to remember. His eyes close and his jaw clenches as he recalls the wounded expression on Clint’s face. When he does finish, Hill holds back a sigh of her own; he sounds so lost, so defeated.

“Oh, Phil. I wish you could see you like we see you.”

He snorts derisively.

“I’m serious, asshole. You might not think you’re much of a catch but I know a dozen people who’ll tell you differently. And I’m pretty sure this dog blogger guy would say the same thing. You two were flirting, Phil!”

“Yeah, I’m such an awesome guy sitting here fighting off the urge to buy a bottle of liquor and drink the whole damn thing right here, right now.”

“I’m coming over…”

“No!” It comes out harsher than he intends which he immediately regrets. Right now he needs the distraction but he doesn’t want to fuck up her whole night. More gently he says, “Talk to me, Maria. Just talk to me for a while. Please.”

She does and for a couple of hours Phil’s mind is taken off the booze and the desperate thirst that’s burning his mouth and throat.

Eventually he knows he can make it through the rest of the night on his own and he lets the conversation run its natural course. When there’s a slight pause he thanks Hill for being there for him...again. She assures him she always will be just as she knows he’s there for her.

Just before she hangs up she tells him, “Oh and for the record, Coulson, I never said you were awesome. I love you but that would be a stretch...even for me.”

This time the snort he gives is amused rather than full of contempt. Hill smiles as she puts the phone down.

***

Phil hasn’t seen Clint in the park for a month. Either he’s been on assignment somewhere or he’s so pissed at Phil he’s keeping to another part of the park to avoid him. So when he catches sight of thedogbogger heading towards Lullwater Bridge, his heart races. Making up his mind, Phil grabs hold of his fears and takes a chance. He takes a detour to the Smorgasburg and picks up a couple of black coffees putting cream and sugar in his pocket then heads back to the bridge.

The photographer’s still there. He appears to be lost in thought and for a few seconds Phil considers walking away. Instead he makes his way to the younger man and stands nearby to wait. After a moment, he can tell by Clint’s body language he’s become aware someone’s standing beside him.

He ducks his head and with a half-smile playing on his lips, says carefully, “I didn’t know what you take but I guessed you’re a coffee guy.”

Clint turns to face where Phil’s standing and looks down at the coffee carrier he’s holding out to him. Without hesitating, he takes one of the takeaway cups and, snapping off the lid, takes a sip. Not only is it still warm, it’s black and strong...just the way he likes it.

He leans against the rail and with a tilt of his head and a grin that’s already wide and trying to spread over the rest of his face, he looks at the older man who’s shyly returning his gaze.

“So you decided I’m not some weird stalker then?”

“I haven’t decided anything yet...but I’d...like the chance to try.”

Clint holds out his free hand, "Hi. I'm Clint, thedogblogger."

Phil puts the tray down and takes Clint's hand in his own. "Phil, and I guess I'm The Dog Soldier."