Chapter Text
Phil Sullivan opens his eyes and stares at the muted pink walls and the china set and the cold reality that nothing changes. He sinks to the floor, wraps his arms around his knees, and cries.
Sometime later, he hears the door open and looks up. “Oh, my dear,” Margie says softly, stepping towards him. “Oh, oh, my dear.” She kneels down, stretching her pink skirt. “We asked too much of you, didn’t we, sweetheart?” she mutters, laying a comforting hand on his knee.
Phil can do nothing but stare numbly. She puts a finger under his chin and smiles. “Now I’m all for a good cry under normal circumstances,” she says kindly, “but I’m afraid there’s something we ought to be doing right now, and crying will get in the way of it.”
“I can’t go back,” Phil croaks out, strangling himself on the words. The thought terrifies him, another blank apartment and empty life--
“Shhh, sweetie. All in good time. There’s something I want you to see.” Margie rises to her feet, expertly dusting off her skirt. When Phil doesn’t move, she looks down at him. “Up you go, come on,” she says, her brisk tone not quite matching the twinkle in her eye. “We haven’t got all day.” She turns and marches out of the door.
Phil has never left the confines of the tiny, pleasant room. He walks out after her and into a colossal hall, wide and tall with walls of white marble. Sunlight streams through the glass in the high ceiling, casting a shimmer over the polished floor. When they reach a grand oak door, Margie stops and puts a finger to her lips. Winking, she slowly pulls the door open.
The buzzing of a crowd of voices filters in from the room. At Margie’s gesture, Phil moves closer and peeks in. It’s a huge courtroom, open and marble like the hallway. The galley is crammed with standing crowd of spectators, blocking Phil’s view of the justices’ bench.
“Order! Order!” A man calls, and Phil hears the banging of a gavel. “I must protest, sir, this is highly irregular.”
“No shit,” and Phil jumps at that beautiful, impossible voice, “but you really didn’t make the regular option easy to find, so this is all I’ve got left.”
Phil pushes his way through the crowd until he has a clear view. Clinton Francis Barton is standing defiantly in front of a tall dais where five men and women in black robes are sitting. He’s wearing his only good suit, and the sight is so achingly familiar that Phil has to remind himself to breathe. Phil can feel Margie move into place behind him, but he can’t tear his eyes away from Clint.
The justice in the center, an old man with deep brown skin, stares down at Clint angrily. “How dare you show such disrespect!”
Clint shrugs. “You guys make the decisions, and you decided not to give me tact. You did, however, give me one hell of a stubborn streak, so I’m going to be here for a while.”
A thin, bird-like woman on the far left leans forward. “I’m afraid your efforts have been in vain, Mr. Barton,” she says in a shrill voice. “We decided on this case over a century ago, and we will not reverse our decision.”
“Yeah, no, I’m not here for that,” Clint says, and the courtroom erupts again in. The old man bangs his gavel, and the galley quiets down. Clint gives the justices a smirk. “That case was about the wrongful death of Philip Crawford, a four-year-old boy born in 1908. I’m talking about Philip Coulson, who was never, you know, technically born.”
The old man sputters, but the justice to his right places a hand on his arm. She’s small with a shaved head and tawny skin, and she smiles down at Clint with an expression Phil can’t read. “I believe you should tell us a little more, Mr. Barton.”
At that, Clint appears to calm down. “I have a, uh--” He reaches into a pocket and drags out several pieces of paper folded over each other. “I’m not the best at public speaking, so I wrote it down, if that’s okay.”
The woman nods kindly. “Please proceed, Mr. Barton.”
“Right.” Clint unfolds his papers and reads. “Phil Coulson didn’t have a real life. That’s the way you guys wanted it. He was put on Earth with nothing, no purpose, no family. He was supposed to wait around, alone, for the ten seconds he would be useful. But despite all that, despite the fact that the literal universe was against him, he found a way to be the best man I’ve ever known.
“Phil Coulson wasn’t given a purpose, but that doesn’t mean he wasn’t important. I don’t know if you guys approve of all that SHIELD does, I don’t know if I do, but in his twenty years at SHIELD Phil Coulson has proven himself to be, above all, a good man. He never took a life when it could be avoided, he never left an agent behind, and he frequently put himself in harm’s way to protect civilians. I can count at least twenty people I know personally who are alive today because of Phil Coulson. One of them is me. So if adding up good deeds is something you guys are into, then I guess you have to count mine with Phil’s. But even if you don’t, it’s obvious that the world is a better place because Phil Coulson lived in it.
“Phil Coulson wasn’t given a family, but he still had such a capacity to love. Once he decided he cared for you, that was it. He would be by your side until the very end. He had this deadpan sense of humor that would brighten our day a little bit, and a loyalty that would continue to surprise us. As for me, I know that I am a better person because Phil loved me.” Clint breaks off from his papers and takes a deep breath. After a moment, he looks up. “Uh, for the record I think I should state that Natasha Ro--Natalia Romanova agrees with all that I’ve said. But she didn’t think she’d be too welcome here, so she stayed behind.” Clint fiddles with his papers and begins to read again.
“All that I’ve told you about Phil had nothing to do with his destiny and everything to do with him. He accomplished it without your help. Phil Coulson did not have a real life, after all. Well, I say that if his life didn’t really count then his death shouldn’t either. Give him a real life, a real chance at being the person you never let him be. We know that person, and we want him back. Thank you.”
The galley erupts in noise, shocking Phil. He had forgotten that anyone existed except Clint. A tear rolls down his cheek. When the crowd quiets down, the small justice looks across the bench. “I believe we need to discuss this among ourselves. We’ll take a brief recess.”
The justices stand up gracefully and step into a room off the corner. When the door closes behind them, Phil closes his eyes and breathes. Less than a second later, the door swings back open and the justices file out. Phil turns to Margie, who smiles. “They were in there for a century, dear.”
The justices sit down. The old man in the center crosses his arms, but the small justice next to him is smiling. “It occurs to us,” she says and looks across the galley straight at Phil, “that there’s someone whose opinion we have failed to seek on this matter.”
Margie gently pushes him, and Phil steps forward through the galley. Phil is filled with a sudden apprehension; he doesn’t know if Clint can recognize him. He doesn’t know which Phil he looks like when he’s here, Phil Coulson or Phil Sullivan or maybe who Phil Crawford would have been if a river didn’t get in the way. Then Clint turns around and his eyes meet Phil’s, and none of it matters anymore. Phil walks and can feel something change inside him. He feels strong now, whole, in a way that has nothing to do with the universe or destinies and everything to do with how Clint is staring at him like he won’t ever look away again.
Phil stops in front of the dias, a terrible four feet away from Clint. He takes a shaky breath and looks up at the justices. “Well, Philip,” the shrill woman on the end says, “if you had a choice, what life would you choose?”
Phil pauses. “I really don’t care.” He look towards Clint and gives him a shaky smile. “I choose Clint. And it doesn’t matter what life you stick me in, I’m going to find him.” Clint grins back at him, eyes bright.
When Phil turns back towards the bench, the small justice is smiling at him with an expression Phil can’t quite read. “In that case, Philip, we have a proposal for you. We offer to release you from your obligations and to return you to the life of Philip Coulson. You will have no further contact with this court, and your life will truly be yours.”
One of the other justices speaks up, a young man sitting on the right. “It is important to note that this would be your last life. Once Philip Coulson dies, whenever that may be, you’ll have to confront whatever comes after on your own.”
Phil swallows. “That’s what I want. One life, with Clint.”
“Very well,” the old justice in the center says, straightening up. “Mr. Coulson, Mr. Barton, consider this matter resolved. Court is adjourned.”
Phil looks towards Clint. He's standing there, with his good suit and a haggard expression, and is the most perfect thing Phil's ever seen. “Clint.” He takes two steps forward and buries himself in Clint, clutching at his suit. Clint’s arms come up and wrap around him. “God, Phil.” Phil feels a nose press into his hair.
The sheer enormity of what has just happened hits him, and Phil laughs weakly. “Hi,” he says, tucking himself in closer.
Clint makes a strangled noise. “Hi. God, Phil, this sucked. This sucked so much.”
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. Let me make it up to you. I want to spend years making it up to you.”
“Can we go home? God, how do we go home?”
Home. Phil really likes the sound of that word. “It’s easy,” he whispers. “Just close your eyes.”
***
Once upon a time, an old man died in his sleep. He was buried next to his husband on a sunny October day. The funeral was small, attended by a few elderly men and women. The eulogy was given by a young man in sharp military dress, who spoke of sacrifice and honor but mostly of love.
There was nothing particularly noteworthy about the event. The universe cannot be expected to pay attention to such everyday affairs, after all.