11. Rescued 11

"Agent Barton, still the biggest pain in my ass on the payroll, I see," Fury said, strolling into the room.

Clint had barely had time to register the fact that Phil Coulson, or his double, or something, was alive and looking at him, before Fury showed up. Clint's brain snapped everything together: Hill's surprise at seeing the dogs, and the how she backed away from them; Fury's distinct lack of asking about the dogs, or even Clint for that matter, over the prior four months; Hill's call to Fury as soon as the dogs picked up Phil's scent and ran off with Clint behind them.

"You motherfucking asshole!" Clint stepped forward to throw a punch, but Donut let out an uncertain mew. Clint breathed in heavily through clinched teeth and took a moment to resettle her in the sling. The dogs were straining at their leashes in his other hand, their noses aimed at Phil's bed, but Clint kept them on just enough leash for their feet to touch the floor. "You're lucky I have Donut and the Cor-mmandos with me, Sir, because otherwise we'd be committing some property damage in the hallways right now. You self-righteous fucker," he added at the end because it needed to be said, since Fury had given Phil's eulogy at his funeral.

Fury held up in hands in mock defeat. "Get it out of your system, Barton. Nothing I didn't expect to hear from you eventually."

"Eventually?" Clint snorted. It had been four months and Phil was obviously fully conscious and not-very-dead.

Fury shrugged. "Eventually."

Clint was rethinking the idea of beating Fury to the ground when Fury sighed and gave him what was a truly frightening expression of kindness.

"Look at him, Barton."

Clint turned around. Phil looked back at him. He was lucid and aware, tracking movement around the room and sometimes glancing at the dogs. But otherwise, his expression was completely lacking any recognition.

"Phil?"

Phil didn't react to his name, staring intently at the dogs for a few moments.

Clint turned back to Fury. "What the fuck did you do to him?"

"Hallway." Fury turned and walked out. Clint had to literally drag the dogs out, which actually took a lot more full-body strength than he had expected.

When he finally got to the point where one of the doctors could slam the door shut behind him, both he and the dogs were panting in frustration and worry. "Sorry guys, I'll get you back in there in a sec." They looked up at him mournfully. Clint looked at Fury.

"He was dead for nearly five minutes. We don't even know why he woke up, or how; and after that it was still touch and go for few days. He lapsed into a coma after the third operation and only woke up three weeks ago with full cognitive function but complete amnesia. We assumed brain damage at first, but the MRIs all come back base-line normal for him."

"You could have told me at any time, you bastard."

Fury ignored the epithet. "I could have. But his health was not—is not—our biggest worry." Fury crossed his arms and stopped there.

Clint growled along with the dogs. "Care to elaborate, Sir?"

"Magic."

Clint cringed and both hands went to cover Donut protectively, pulling the dogs in closer as the movement yanked on their leashes.

"We'd ask Thor, but he's been incommunicado. There's a specialist, Dr. Strange, who we brought in but all he can confirm is that whatever affects Agent Coulson stems from the tesseract. Which, need I remind you, isn't here either," Fury snapped. "We're throwing our best people at it. I figured it was better to wait to know what we were dealing with before telling you."

Clint adjusted Donut until she stopped whining, then let out the leashes to give the dogs some space. They paced nervously, practically braiding their leashes together, glancing at the door to Phil's treatment room every half-second. Fury let Clint fuss, standing still and glaring at him.

Clint took a deep breath and looked straight back at him. "You're a lying fuck, Sir."

"Excuse me?"

"If you were throwing your best people at it, Banner and Stark would already be here. And I know they aren't, because Tony can keep secrets from anyone but the team, and Bruce is an easy read." Clint frowned, thinking, then pulled out his Starkfōne.

"Barton, put that phone away."

Fury looked ready to tackle him, so instead of placing a call Clint punched in the emergency code that would send JAVIS his location and get the remaining Avengers assembled. "They're on their way. And if you try anything that hurts my cat, I will gut you myself."

Nodding, Fury stepped back. Clint knew it was just a short reprieve, and that Fury was already 2/3 of the way to figuring out a new plan. Fury never retreated, he just came in from a different angle.

"You're going to complicate things for him, Barton," Fury said.

"No, I'm complicating them for you. Because what I know, Sir, what I know is that this isn't about Phil's health. This is about magic and the power behind it. You were holding him in an attempt to get at that; get the tesseract back, or just tap it, I don't know. Hell, I bet you don't know. But that's why you didn't call on Stark or Banner, because they would pitch a fit and then tell Captain America." Clint tucked the phone in the sling next to Donut, who started gnawing on a corner of it. He gave Fury a mocking salute. "Good try, though."

"Always too smart for your own fucking good." Fury smiled approvingly at him, but Clint didn't trust that.

"Damn straight. Now if you'll excuse me, my dogs are upset and want to see Phil again." He turned and opened the door, walking in around the triage going on for the doctor he had head-slammed earlier, and a nurse checking Phil's vitals who was very careful not to look at Clint.

With their short legs, the dogs could not see up to the bed, so they formed a line down the free side, front paws on the bottom of the mattress and their noses poking up through the bed rail, straining to sniff and see the occupant. Phil looked at them curiously.

"Yours?"

Clint blinked at the question, taking in Phil's appearance fully for the first time. He was pale and skinny, his hair buzzed off and the skin around his eyes sunken and gray. His skin had the sallow complexion of the truly ill, and his lips were chapped. There was a nastrogastic intubation (and Clint hated the fact that he knew that particular piece of medical terminology far too intimately) line going up his nose, feeding him thick white muck from an IV bag hanging on a stand. But he looked interested, if tired, and waited patiently for Clint to answer.

"Yeah. I guess. No. Actually, no sir, they're yours."

Phil glanced at their curious noses. The dogs had not moved and Clint wondered just how long they planned to hold the pose…until their back legs gave out, he supposed.

The door opened behind them and Natasha walked through, dragging a person in a lab coat, her arm wrapped around his neck. The guy looked dazed but clung to Natasha's arm in order to keep up with her and not be strangled. She stopped and stared at Phil for one long, shocked moment.

"Hello?" Phil asked, his eyebrows raised.

Natasha pulled herself together and looked at Clint. "Can you believe I didn't have clearance to get here? I had to use this guy's biometrics."

"Well, that's annoying," Clint said, grinning.

Natasha nodded. "Very." She dropped her prisoner like a stone, and he stayed there, gagging for air.

Fury appeared in the doorway, surveying the damage, but before he could say anything, the nurse gasped.

"Incipient episode!" She yelled, hitting an alarm button on the machines.

The room was awash with even more people and the dogs started barking furiously, but all Clint could see was the blue, blue light shining from Phil's eyes.