((Parts 1-3 are included in the file on AO3, and all previous parts are included on my fic page.))
“Dinner time, short persons!”
Phil looked up from the massive jigsaw puzzle that he and DJ were working on. It was a fantastic thing, with hundreds of pieces, and he wasn’t sure how DJ had coaxed him into helping with it. But they’d made a lot of progress, the huge pile of pieces spread out and sorted by color and shape. They’d even managed to assemble a good portion of the interior, but Phil realized he had no idea how long they’d been working at it.
Judging by the way that his stomach growled when he caught the scent of the bowls on Tony’s tray, it had been a while.
DJ rolled over onto his back, his folded up legs going with him. His hands went up in the air, and his fingers made grabby motions in mid-air. Tony rolled his eyes, but he was smiling, bracing his tray on one hip. “Sit up like a civilized person, you monkey.”
Whining, DJ rolled back into a sitting position, his hands still out. He gave Tony a pleading look. Tony ruffled his hair with one battered hand. “He needs to eat. You okay with him taking a break?” he asked Phil.
“Sure,” Phil said, and DJ grinned at him. He bounced up and grabbed Phil’s sleeve, tugging him towards the child sized table at the base of the tree.
Tony held out the bowl after DJ had settled into his seat. “Do we remember how to chew today?” he asked. DJ nodded, and Tony laughed. He handed it over, and DJ curled himself around the bowl of stew, fragrant with garlic and onion and filled with chunks of carrots and potato. Tony looked at Phil. “You hungry? Do you want something to eat?” he asked, giving Phil a faint smile.
Phil glanced at DJ, who looked up from his bowl and gave Phil an enthusiastic nod. There was stew on both of his cheeks and maybe some in his hair. Tony didn’t seem to care, and DJ definitely didn’t. “Yes, please,” Phil said, trying to ignore how his stomach ached. If Tony noticed, he didn’t say anything, he just handed the other bowl to Phil. Phil took it with a murmured thank you. Tony nodded and put a glass of milk in front of each of them.
“There is bread, as well.”
The man in the doorway was huge. He would’ve been scary, if not for his wide grin, the basket of sliced bread in his hand, and the fact that he was wearing a pink apron. He held out the steaming basket. “Should you care for a piece, that is.”
DJ was up and running almost before he could finish the words. He got all the way up to his feet, going full tilt, and before he managed more than two steps, he crashed back to the ground. He hit hard, his body slamming into the wood. Before Phil could do more than make a pained sound of sympathy, DJ was scrambling back up.
“He… Does that a lot,” Tony said, and he was smiling, but it didn’t reach his eyes. He glanced at Phil. “No one here hurts him. He just moves a little faster than he should.”
Phil nodded, digging his spoon into his stew. “My sister Jessie’s the same way,” he said, taking a huge bite. It was warm and comforting, in the way that food should be, and he dug in.
Tony scratched his jaw. He looked tired. “Yeah? Any hints as to how to keep him for knocking his own teeth out?”
“Carrying her everywhere works pretty good for me,” Phil admitted, and Tony laughed. Some bit of strain that Phil hadn’t realized that he was still carrying bled out of him.
“Do not,” the blonde man said, trying to sound stern, even as DJ threw himself up, grabbing for the bread. The man grinned at his rather inept attempts “Have you no manners?” He scooped DJ up with one massive arm, laughing as the boy tried to reach across his chest for the bread.
“You know he doesn’t.” Tony straightened up. “DJ. Enough.” DJ stopped, his eyes going towards Tony. He grinned, and pointed at Phil. Tony’s lips twitched. “Oh, you were just getting some for Phil? No one believes you. You are a carb monster.”
“He has a healthy appetite, something to be celebrated and encouraged.” The huge blonde man lowered DJ back to the ground and handed him two pieces of bread. “He also has a very kind heart, does he not?” he asked Phil.
Phil nodded, and took the piece of bread that DJ offered him. It was still warm. “Thank you.”
“This is Thor,” Tony said, hooking a thumb in the man’s direction. “Thor, this is Phil.”
“Hi,” Phil said, looking up, way, way up.
Thor offered him a big hand, and Phil took it, trying his best not to wince as those huge fingers closed around his hand. But the man’s grip was controlled and gentle, his handshake firm. “May I join both of you?” he asked, and his eyes were warm and kind.
DJ was already back at his meal, but he nodded. Phil followed his lead, and Thor sank down, cross-legged beside them at the table. DJ pushed his bowl in Thor’s direction, and Thor nodded. “Thank you.” He ripped a piece of bread in half and dipped it into DJ’s bowl. “It is kind of you to share, but you need to eat the rest.”
DJ nodded, apparently satisfied with that. Phil’s head tipped to the side. “Aren’t you hungry?” he asked Thor.
“We already ate,” Tony said. “Figured we’d let you two play for a bit, the whole group in the kitchen can be-” he wobbled a hand in mid-air. “A little overwhelming.”
Thor was finishing his gravy soaked bread, and Phil leaned forward. “So why didn’t you just tell him that?”
“He knows. But he offered it to be kind, and one does not reject an offering of food, especially not in the home of your host,” Thor said with a smile. “I would not dishonor him that way.”
Phil dug his spoon into his stew. “He’s, what, four?”
“And still, despite his age, worthy of respect, is he not?” Thor stood. Almost as soon as he was at his full height, he leaned over, bracing his hands on his knees. “Finish your meal, then perhaps we will have some time to play before bed.”
“He needs a bath,” Tony said, and DJ made a face. Tony hid his smile behind one hand. “After dinner, we’ll play for an hour, then bath and bed.” DJ pointed at Phil, and Tony nodded. “Phil, too. We’ve got a guest bedroom set up for him. And no, he can’t stay in your room, Deej.”
DJ pouted, and Phil managed a smile. “It’s okay,” he told DJ. “I’ll be fine on my own.”
But his stomach was churning a little when he went back to his meal.
*
Phil stared at himself in the bathroom mirror. His face was familiar. Normal. He took a deep breath, and tried to remember who he should be. But the only face he could remember was the one that was in front of him, pink cheeked in the steamy air, with dark hair damp and sticking out in all directions.
The mirror was fogged up, the shower as hot as he could stand it, and he reached out to wipe it clean. But as he did, he realized that there was another handprint, already there. Phil stopped, his lips parting as he stared at it. And wondered if it was his. If he’d left it there yesterday, or the day before. For some reason, that felt right.
He reached out and lay his hand against the fogged up corner of the mirror, one hand there against the glass, right in the center of the handprint. His fingers were spread as wide as he could get them, and still, when he pulled his hand away, the print left behind was so small compared to the other one.
The small one looked right, no matter what anyone else said. He looked down at his palms, flexing his fingers, and wondered if he’d recognize his hands when he woke up in the morning. He tried not to be afraid, but the idea of his own hands being foreign, being unrecognizable, was terrifying.
He wondered if they’d call his mother, if he asked.
There was a light knock on the door. “Phil? You okay?”
Phil hopped down from the stool, heading for the door. The shirt and jersey shorts he was wearing was too big, and he thought he knew why they’d given them to him. He opened the door, looking up at Clint.
“I’m not supposed to be like this, am I?” he asked, point-blank, and Clint froze.
His mouth opened, and Phil’s hands went to fists at his sides. “Don’t lie to me,” he said. “I heard some of it. I heard… Enough.” His chin came up. “So tell me the truth. I’m not supposed to be like this, am I?”
Clint sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Look, I’m not good at this shit, can’t we just-”
Phil felt his eyes sting, and dug his teeth into his cheek. “Neither am I,” he said. “But I don’t know what’s going on, and I don’t like that.”
“No. You don’t.” Clint’s eyes darted up, his jaw muscles pulling tight. “Look, want something to drink? I got cocoa.”
It seemed stupid, but Phil nodded anyway. “Yeah. Okay.”
He followed Clint through the halls, not really paying attention to where they were going, what doors they passed through. The kitchen that they ended up in was bigger than the first one he’d seen here, and he wondered how many rooms there were to this place, how big of a world that he’d ended up in.
He took a seat at the table, and the chair was too big, too hard. It was made of some weird metal, and he shifted, trying to find a comfortable way to sit as Clint pulled milk from the fridge and cocoa powder from one of the glistening cabinet doors. “Everything here looks like it’s on a space ship,” Phil said. He wiggled on his seat again. “Or a submarine.”
“You get used to it.” Clint stopped, shook his head. “I mean, I have gotten used to it. It’s-” He turned on the burner with a gesture that seemed a little too sharp. “It took me a while, though, so I can see why you might be a little, you know, weirded out by it. Tony takes ‘modernism’ to a whole new level.”
“Am I going to go back, back to normal, I mean?” Phil asked, his voice soft. He could hear the fear there, and he waited for Clint to feed him the lies that adults always pulled out at times like this. That everything was going to be all right, that he didn’t need to worry, that everything would work out.
“I don’t know,” Clint said. Phil’s head jerked up, staring at him, and Clint gave him a lopsided smile over his shoulder. “Sorry.”
Phil shook his head. “No, I- Thanks.” His fingers picked at the fabric of the tablecloth. “I don’t like being lied to,” he admitted. “It’s lousy.”
“Yeah, it is,” Clint said. He rubbed a hand over his mouth. “You never-” He stopped, shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said, and for a minute or so, he just stirred the liquid in his pan. After a few minutes of silence, he reaching for a mug. He poured the steaming liquid into the cup with a practiced hand.. “I don’t know very much, actually, but smarter people than me think you’ll be just fine tomorrow, okay?”
Phil’s eyes retreated to the tablecloth, still worrying the fabric between his fingers, the ragged edge of his nail scraping against the threads. “What if I’m not?” he asked.
“Then your parents will come for you, and they will still love you,” Clint said, his voice rock steady. He set the cup down in front of Phil. “Your sisters will still love you. Your family does still love you, okay?”
“Okay,” Phil said, and he wasn’t sure why, but he believed Clint. He reached for the cup, but he didn’t take a drink, he just stared down at the dark surface of the liquid. The heat of the cup eased into his fingers, and he clung to that. “If I don’t…” He paused. “If I’m still like this in the morning, will I ever see any of you again?” he whispered. “DJ? Or Tony and Thor? Or Steve or Natasha or Bruce?” He glanced up. “Or you?”
Clint took a seat, silent now. His head was down, his hands knotted together between his knees. He took a breath, and Phil watched his back rise, and fall, with it. When Clint looked up, his eyes were calm and there was a faint smile on his face. “I don’t know what’ll happen,” he said. “A big part of that will be up to your parents, Phil. But we’re stubborn people, everyone here’s a real pain in the a-” He stopped, shook his head. “We’re a thorn in the side of a lot of people,” he said. “And we don’t forget our friends.”
He stood up. “Tomorrow, you might not even remember this. But if you wake up and nothing’s changed, I think you will grow up with Captain America firmly in your corner, okay?”
Phil chewed on his lower lip. “How about you?”
Clint glanced at him. “What about me?”
Phil frowned at him. “Will you be, you know, in my corner?”
That won him a quick smile. “Philip J. Coulson, I will always be in your corner.”
Phil drew his knees up, bracing his heels on the edge of his seat, and he ducked his head down. “You love me, don’t you?” He looked up. “The adult me, I mean. The me I’m supposed to be.” Clint froze. His tongue flicked out, wetting his lips, and Phil leaned forward, his hands coming down hard on the table, the thump of his fists too soft for his liking. He repeated the gesture, frustrated. “Don’t lie!” he said, and he wanted to be angry, but it came out as a plea. “Don’t. That’s not fair. I’m-” His eyes stung, and he squeezed them shut, struggling against the need to just breakdown like a baby.
“Yeah. I do.”
Phil’s head jerked up. Clint was smiling at him, a lopsided little smile. “We all do, Phil, but I love you in a different way, but I guess you know that.” He shifted in his seat, leaning his folded arms on the edge of the table. “Don’t you?”
Phil rubbed the back of his hand over his nose, trying not to sniffle. “Yeah.”
Clint’s eyes slid away, his mouth tight. “You, I mean-” He sighed. “Sorry.”
“Captain America didn’t know my code,” Phil said. “You did.”
Clint’s smile was lopsided, and strained. “Yeah, well, you don’t need it so much anymore. You don’t have to-”
“I told you, didn’t I?” Phil asked.
Clint stilled. “Yes. You did.”
Phil took a deep breath. “I trust you.”
Clint chuckled, just a little, a soft little exhale of breath. “You didn’t when you told me that,” he said, and his head fell forward. He rubbed a broad hand over the back of his neck. “You barely knew me.”
“If I told you that code, then I trusted you,” Phil told him. He paused. Reached for his mug again. “You made the stew today, didn’t you?”
Clint stood up. “Yeah, I did. Recognized it, huh?”
“It’s my mom’s recipe.” Phil took a cautious sip of his cocoa. It was warm and sweet, creamy and rich against his tongue, and he swallowed it gratefully. “Mostly.”
“Your mom won’t tell me the secret ingredient,” Clint said. He poured himself a cup of cocoa and leaned up against the counter, sipping it. “And neither would you.”
Phil grinned. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Phil leaned back over his cup, both hands clinging to it. “It’s winter squash.”
Clint stopped, cup halfway to his mouth. “What?”
“She cooks up a winter squash, cooks it up real good, and then mashes it and mixes it into the stew.” Phil took a long gulp of his cocoa, ignoring how it scorched his tongue. “Makes it a little sweeter and darkens up the gravy.” Clint was staring at him, his mouth gaping open just a little. Phil grinned. “Mom’s tricky.”
“Yeah.” Clint grinned back. “Yes, she is.”
Phil shifted in his chair. “Clint?”
“Yeah?”
Phil glanced up. “Do I really live here?”
“You really live here,” Clint said, his lips twitching.
He considered that, allowed himself to believe it. “Why?”
Clint winced, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand. His head tipped forward. “There were some, uh, incidents, I guess you can say, and the boss decided it was better if you were here to, well, you’re kind of…” His voice trailed away, and he huffed out a sigh. “This is where we live, because it’s safe, and because we want to, and because Tony’s really lousy at being alone, so…” He turned to the sink and turned on the tap. He ran his cup under the flow of water, rolling it between his hands. “You kinda got stuck.”
Phil finished his cocoa. “I live with superheroes. That’s really cool.” He lived with Captain America. He wasn’t quite sure he believed that. But it was a nice lie, if it was a lie. He pushed his chair back and walked over to Clint’s side. Clint reached for his empty cup, and Phil held it out of reach. “I can do it.”
Clint stepped aside. “Okay.”
Phil reached up for the dish soap. “Do I belong here?”
He heard Clint crossing to the stove. “What do you mean, do you belong here?”
Phil concentrated on not dropping the slippery mug. “Never mind.” He shouldn’t ask questions when he didn’t want to know the answers. He knew better than that.
“Phil?”
He looked up, to find Clint smiling at him, that odd, lopsided smile that he’d started to recognize. “You are the most heroic person I’ve ever met,” Clint said.
Phil rolled his eyes, ignoring the way that his cheeks heated. “Now, I know that’s a lie,” he grumbled. It was a kinda nice lie, though. A kind lie.”
Clint leaned against the counter just next to him. “You’ve saved the world. Or, you will.”
Phil’s fingers slipped on the mug, and Clint snagged it before it could clatter into the sink. He barely noticed. “Really?”
Clint grinned. “Three times. That I know of.”
He considered that. “I think you’re lying.”
“You think that a lot.” Clint’s hand settled on Phil’s head, and the way he ruffled Phil’s hair was comforting and oddly familiar. “You’re wrong about it a lot, too.”
Phil took a deep breath. “Does Natasha live here, too?”
“Yeah.”
“She’s kinda terrifying.”
“You’re right about that, not going to lie.” Clint reached for a dish towel, and Phil got to it first, handing it over. “Don’t worry. You’re her favorite.”
“Really?”
“Would I lie to you, Phillip?”
Phil thought about that. “Yes.”
“Not as often as you think.” Clint hooked a thumb towards the door. “Bedtime.”
He nodded. “Clint? If I’m… Still like this tomorrow? Will you call my mom?”
“I promise.”