Lights

"We should take Clint along," Tony says, casual and over breakfast. He takes a sip of coffee before clarifying. "To Vegas."

It's a terrible idea. Phil doesn't say so, because Tony's contrary enough to get stubborn in the face of even mild criticism. "Why are you giving lectures in Vegas," he asks instead, "in the first place? Why can't you stick to the usual circuit?"

"The usual academic circuit? What am I supposed to do after the talk? And before the talk?" He gestures with his coffee cup, like he's toasting Phil. "Take a nostalgic walk around a college town? What are you worried about? It's not like people won't come. Probably more people will come." Then he changes tack and goes to, "Bruce needs company. And he likes Clint. Right, Bruce?"

Bruce stills. Then his gaze slides to Phil and back to Tony, cautiously. Maybe a little suspiciously. Phil can't blame him. He feels the same way about Tony switching gears.

"Sure," Bruce says, "but I'm not sure he's that interested in alternate propulsion systems."

"Let's keep it that way," Phil says.

"I'm not sure Clint's interested in anything," Tony says, "right now. Other than hiding out downstairs and hiding out downstairs. Maybe with a little bit of hiding out downstairs to break up the monotony."

He's not wrong. Phil's a bit surprised that he's noticed. Tony's not always great on the noticing things front, and Clint hasn't exactly been underfoot, making himself obvious or impinging on Tony's space. He's been as easy for Tony to ignore and forget as a board meeting, really.

"And it's not like he can give us the slip," Tony goes on. "Now that you've got him radio collared. So to speak. So why keep him under house arrest?"

"He can go up on the roof if he wants some fresh air. Or ride along with Pepper. Or you can take him with you to some meetings and have him serve the coffee. He's getting pretty good at pouring drinks."

"Or," Tony says, "we can take him to Vegas and he can pour drinks there, where the drinking is fun, and we can follow up with a show."

"That's what I'm afraid of."

Tony scowls and knocks back his coffee. "Haha, Phil. You're uninvited from my after party."

"You don't need an after party."

"Bruce, explain to Agent why it doesn't matter if we need a party, so long as we want a party. And we want a party, Coulson."

Bruce frowns. Waits until he's sure he'll get away with not answering, then turns his attention back to the pile of papers he has next to his plate and leafs to the next page. Turning the paper with a sharp, emphatic rustle. It's not defiant, exactly, but it is pointed.

"Nobody likes anything around here," Tony complains.

-----

"Maybe it's a good idea," is Steve's opinion. Phil gives him a look.

"He's not doing anything here," Steve says, a little defensively. A little cautiously too, like he thinks Phil might be about to bring up his involvement in Clint's escape attempt and pin responsibility on him.

Phil sighs and leans back against Tony's bar, where there's a clutter of screwdrivers and spray cans of machine grease, but nothing to show what Tony had been working on. "Sure. So think what he could get up to in Vegas."

Steve looks away. Rubs the back of his neck in an oddly self-conscious gesture Phil still can't interpret. It's a tell, but he's not sure of what. Guilt. Worry, maybe. It shows up at odd times. "Tony's calming down," Steve says. "I don't think he's in a mood to make trouble. And Clint--" He shrugs. Makes a helpless, open palmed gesture, both hands held out in front of him for a second before he drops them again.

"His initiative’s taken a blow," Phil finishes for him. "I know. I still don't think sending him out of state with Tony is the answer." His attitude might change given the opportunity to make new stupid decisions, for one. And there's no telling what Clint might do under pressure, or if he feels cornered. He's resourceful enough that his unpredictability is a real potential hazard.

"You're not going along?" Steve asks.

"Of course I'm going along. You're going along. We're all going along. It'll be a big family trip."

"That'll ruin it for Bruce. He likes to get away from the family."

"Bruce won't die if he has to give up mathematician sleepover camp this one time."

It comes out snappish. Sharper than he'd meant it to, and Steve smiles politely, the way he does when he's not sure how to handle Phil. Like when Phil's spilling his bad mood everywhere. "My leg hurts," Phil tells him, by way of excuse, lying as cover up. It's pretty low. A cheap dodge. "It's fine. Stick with Tony. Someone's got to keep an eye on him. Just make sure to raid the minibar before he can."

"Maybe Clint can tell you what Bruce gets up to," Steve offers, smile a little more genuine. "If you're curious."

"You don't know?"

"I'm not sure I want to." Steve gives him a meaningful look.

Phil considers that and Steve's sort of wary expression, and lets his breath out in a puff. A sort of half-laugh. "He drinks a lot of coffee and doesn't come back to sleep," he tells Steve. "But he stays out of trouble, and he's there when I need him, so I try not to notice."

"He says he's working."

Phil mm-s. Then says, "If that's true, I'm a little disappointed in him."

Steve laughs, only slightly amused, then drops it. Shifts his feet a little, preparing to move on to a new topic, then opens his mouth. Phil holds up a hand to stop him. Says, "How about you stay out of trouble and we don't talk about it again, deal?"

"That's not going to fix Clint."

"Vegas is going to fix Clint," Phil says. "Apparently. Take the deal, Steve."

-----

Vegas isn't going to fix Clint. The idea isn't even a lazy, responsibility dodging patch job. Tony seems to think he's come up with an actual solution, which is a bit worrisome. Operating from guilt hasn't tended to bring Tony's most sterling results, and trying to use money and flash to fix his missteps hasn't either. Still, it's not so bad to hit the road--Bruce won't fly, and Phil's not inclined to try to make him--and have some time to just play the radio and eat greasy truck-stop food and keep a half-eye on Clint in the backseat, where Phil's got him cuffed by one wrist to the seat.

Clint's bearing it pretty easily. Balancing drink or snack or entertainment against a knee, switching hands when he has to. Adapting naturally to the lack of reach he has on one side, without comment or complaint. He's familiar with the precaution, that means. Is probably familiar with harsher precautions, giving Phil no trouble when they make stops. Efficient and obedient about eating and restrooms and staying put while Phil stretches his knee a bit.

He's not really making conversation though, not even with Bruce, and not even when Phil tries to give them moments of relative privacy. Clint's not really bouncing back the way Phil had expected, and that worries him. Makes him wonder if he's misjudged Clint's character. If there was maybe less rebellion and hard headedness there than he'd counted on. Less resilience. There's nothing he can do about it now though, other than relinquish control of the radio, let Bruce and Clint order whatever they want, and see if some soft handling will stabilize Clint. If a little coddling will bring him around.

At least Bruce seems happy enough. Taking advantage of the lax discipline and loosely enforced schedule to read over breakfast, take long showers, and generally dawdle. With no Tony to keep up with, Phil can't really hold it against him. He's kind of enjoying the leisurely pace himself. Kind of enjoying letting Tony be Happy and Pepper's problem for a while. They're probably already in Vegas, along with Steve, already settled into the penthouse and looking for distraction. Phil's phone hasn't gone off, so he puts no news down to good news and concentrates on enjoying the drive and Bruce's mellow song choices and the fact that Clint's slowly lulling into bored relaxation, head resting against the window as he passively watches the scenery go by.

A month ago Phil would have suspected he was just biding his time, waiting for Phil to lower his guard. Now he almost wishes Clint would try something. His quiet compliance is like a weight in Phil's chest. He's never broken anyone before, and he really doesn't want to start with Clint. And not just because of how it'll effect Tony, to have signed off on Phil's decision to plant the tracker.

Bruce is also checking the rearview every so often, Phil notices. Glancing from his book or from fiddling with the radio tuner to keep tabs not just on Clint, but the entire contents of the car and the road behind them. Peaceful and paranoid at the same time, and it makes Phil smile a little because it's taken a while for the peace to outweigh the paranoid, but they're as close they're probably going to get now, with long stretches going by where Bruce doesn't even look up. Concerns about Clint aside, it's not too bad a start to the week.

Even concerns about Tony seem to be a temporary non-issue, because when they finally get to Vegas and to the penthouse suite Pepper's booked them all into, they find Tony out in the attached rooftop garden, drinking coffee and going over lecture notes like a responsible, professional adult.

"Gotta free Bruce up to party," he says, when he notices Phil looking at him in amusement. "Or whatever wild shit he gets up to on these shindigs."

"Physics," Bruce says, from inside, checking the place out like a cat in a new apartment.

"Physics," Tony repeats, and wiggles his eyebrows at Phil, grinning briefly before going back to his tablet. He's dressed in a hotel bathrobe and slippers even though it's the middle of the afternoon. Phil wonders if he's even showered or if he's been there drinking the same pot of coffee since breakfast.

"Where's Steve?"

"With Happy."

"Where's Happy?"

"I don't know. Guarding an elevator or something. Relax, Coulson. Take a load off, check out the fruit basket, raid the mini bar. There's nothing in there but seltzer and juice though and let me tell you I'm just shocked at how understocked this place is, considering it's got like a zillion stars."

Phil doesn't react, other than to lean a little in the doorway.

"You're not supposed to be babysitting me, you know. If I wanted that, I'd get like, I don't know. Models. Sexy maids." He pauses, looks up to frown into the distance, then back down to the screen he's working on. "If Pepper would let me get sexy maids. She never likes any of my ideas anymore."

"Tony--"

"But she got us tickets to a show, so I guess her ideas a go."

It'll be good for Tony to go do something normal. Go out for dinner. Spend some time not holed up with his work and his robots, and maybe even talking about something other than work and robots and alternative energy solutions. Hopefully thinking about something other than Yinsen and guilt, and Clint and guilt, and weapons sold and resold until they ended up in the wrong hands and guilt.

"I hope it's a musical," Phil says.

"You monster."

"I hope she makes you dress up."

Tony looks down at himself. "Why? You don't think I can go like this?" Then continues straight into, "Happy's coming for security. You think you'll need Steve more than Steve wants to see a kickline?"

Phil's not sure what Steve's feelings on that are, but he could also do with some entertainment that has nothing to do with escapes or meltdowns. "Take him. We'll hang out here, order room service, listen to the quiet."

"It's Vegas." Tony looks up, scandalized.

"Then we'll hang out here, order room service, and watch the lights," Phil says, nodding towards the parapet of the little garden. "Maybe go down to the spa, if no one manages to set themself on fire." To soak his leg in a hot tub. The long drive hasn't done him any favors and a dull ache is extending down to his calf and up his thigh. And maybe a massage after, even though Phil's wary of letting anyone near his leg who isn't specially trained in not fucking up old injuries.

Or he could call someone in. Tony's got anyone they might need on call, anywhere they might need someone to be on call. It's a surreal level of luxury, even after all this time. Really, it's a wonder Tony's as normal as he is.

"Stop smiling at me," Tony grouches. "It's dinner and a show, it's not like we're going to prom."

It takes Phil a second to catch back up. "You'll let me take pictures before you go anyway, right?"

"Haha." Tony taps his screen twice. "I'm not even sure I'm going to shave before we go."

"Be nice to Pepper."

"When she lets me have sexy maids."

She let you have Clint and Steve, Phil doesn't say, because he knows when he's being baited. Instead he straightens back up, carefully shifting weight back onto his leg, not smooth enough that Tony doesn't notice.

"Take a load off, Phil. I saved you the room with the view."

They all have a view, but Tony means the master bedroom. It's touching, in the weird Tony way that they can never talk about without everything getting fumbling and awkward.

"Lots of room to hang your suits," Tony adds, just in case he's coming off as nice.

-----

The penthouse is secure, so Phil leaves Bruce and Clint to explore and sort out sleeping arrangements while he stretches out on the king size bed in his shirtsleeves, shoes kicked off sloppily and left wherever they've fallen. The ache in his knee has moved up to his back, his muscles tense from bracing, but he can feel it bleeding it away now that he's lying down. Even his leg feels better, except for the knee itself where it feels like the joint is burning.

"Next time one of you is driving," Phil says, sensing movement. Clint, he thinks, when there's no answer. "Did you get your stuff put away?"

There's a long silence, and then Clint says, "There's a single."

It's a question. Phil can tell more by the hesitant way Clint says it than any inflection. "Fight it out with Bruce if Steve didn't get there first."

Another pause. He can hear Clint shifting his weight, like he's torn between asking something else, and leaving while he's ahead. "I'm not sure what--"

The rules are. That's where he's going. If Phil's still impressed by the level of service and pampering that is travelling and vacationing with Tony, Clint's got to be well out of his depths. Especially with the way discipline and order had gone out the window somewhere around their third diner stop. The loose reins are unnerving him more than they are settling him. Phil stretches a little, feeling something in his back pull, then loosen. "It's been a long drive, Clint. Just pick a room and take a nap or something. We're going to wait for Pepper, get Tony out the door on time, then get dinner, watch movies, and hang around in our socks."

Clint lets his breath out in a huff. Phil adds, "How do you feel about a massage?"

Silence. He's not sure what Clint's making of that. What he's thinking or imagining.

"Or not. It's up to you. Steve's probably going to go with Tony and Pepper." It's so much like a vacation, Phil can almost feel his blood pressure dropping just in anticipation.

"Up to me, huh?" Clint echoes. There's a snort he's leaving off the end of it. Phil can tell just from his tone. From how flat and unsarcastic it is. He's definitely learning from Bruce.

"Why don't you go order yourself some food? See if Tony's eaten. Then you can help Bruce steal all the little soaps and drive up Tony's minibar bill."

"There's nothing in there but ginger ale," Clint says, unthinking, then adds, "Sir."

It's a slip, but it's a slip in the right direction. Clint's lack of caution means he's relaxing a little. Not as on-guard as he'd been. "Then drive up Tony's room service bill."

This time Clint does make a little scoffing noise, disbelieving but also with a little laugh in it. Maybe imagining Tony's offense at them ordering beer and whiskeys while at the same time cutting him off. "Just give me a couple hours, okay?" Phil says. "Some of use aren't as young as we used to be."

Silence. Noise from the hall. Then Clint reports, "Bruce has the single."

"That's what you get for wasting time talking"

There's the sound of movement. Clint shifting. Hesitating. He doesn't say anything and after a few seconds is gone, leaving the room feeling big and empty again, as quiet as if Phil was alone in the penthouse.

It's great. It also lasts for long enough that he nods off and only blinks awake hours later, to the sound of voices shouting down up and down the hall. The light outside his window has dimmed to late evening murk, the sky sunset yellow and orange. His knee is stiff, but his back feels better.

Out in the living area, Steve and Happy are dressed up in what Phil thinks of as bodyguard formalwear. Looking like awkward SHIELD agents in their bowties and dress shirts, while Pepper shouts something about shoes from the corner bedroom.

"Running late." Steve explains.

"I don't want to know. Enjoy your ballet."

"I hope it's not ballet," Happy says.

"I'd trade you, but I'm a little lacking in the speed and chasing department today."

"I also hope there won't be speed and chasing."

"Just laying low and dinner," Steve adds, and offers Phil a smile that's either wry or meant to be reassuring and failing.

"Good," Phil says. "That's all I want. Just peace and quiet until Tony decides to blow up a stage or something."

"Bruce says it's looking good for having an actual lecture. He's very excited. He thinks they might get to a real Q and A section."

"Let's hope," Phil says, as Tony finally emerges with his tie still undone and carrying one shoe, talking at Pepper over his shoulder while he hunts around for the other.

-----

Tony doesn't blow anything up. The days leading up to his weekend of talks are quiet and lazy and mostly involve him and Pepper going out in a strangely domestic, low-key way considering where they are. The lectures go just as well. Organized and structured and under control, and there's no sudden houseparty afterwards either. Just Bruce rechecking notes, while Clint hangs around the rooftop garden, watching the street below and helping Steve and Happy taste-test their way through the hotel menu. Phil would thank Tony for the peace, if he didn't think it would come out wrong, but for once it's like things are normal and like they're normal.

Which is why Phil probably shouldn't have been surprised when everything goes to shit.

It happens on Sunday, right after the last talk, and while Bruce is still inside gathering up his notes and shutting down computers. Making sure they have all their material back, and chatting with his fellow academics while Tony ignores clean-up and professional niceties to go have pictures taken out front, while Phil keeps Clint by his side, or with Pepper, depending on which of them is most safely away from the cameras.

Clint's not an idiot. Phil's sure he knows he's somewhere between being guarded and sheltered, but if the idea bothers him, he's not showing any sign of it. Following close on Phil's heels as he heads down the hall under the convention space, the noise of the crowd above muted into a distant hum as everyone finds their way out to the lobby and eventually the street.

Phil's about to say something about Clint doing really well, and about wanting dinner and a drink, when the building shudders around them, shudders again, and then alarms start going off.

Clint moves before Phil can, grabbing his arm and bolting for the exit, dragging him along even though Phil's instincts are to go back inside, to Bruce. He's yelling at Clint about it, shouting "Let go!" and "Bruce is inside!" and swearing, when they're suddenly washed in cool night air, and then in hot air, and then in dust, and then everything washes away in a torrent of gravel and impact, and the next thing Phil knows, he's on the ground with his mouth full of grit and his eyes watering.

"Fuck. Fuck, Clint. Are you okay?"

There's nothing for a second, and then he hears Clint spit, spit again, then ask, "What the hell?"

"Something--"

There's yelling. Screaming. Sirens and someone shouting over and over again, calling out without waiting for an answer. Hysterical.

"What blew up?" Phil finishes, and tries to get up. It takes a few tries to realize that he's not making much headway, and that it's not because of lack of coordination or the wind being knocked out of him, but because he's half-pinned under rubble. "Damn."

They're out in the street. Clint had dragged him out a fire exit, but that exit and the facade that had been above it are also out in the street now, turned inside out and blown across the road and sidewalk. Phil's back hurts, and he can hear Clint panting harshly nearby and from above. Still on his feet. "You okay?" Phil asks again, makes another attempt to wriggle free then winces and stops. "Clint?"

"Yeah." A pause while Clint checks himself over, then confirms, "Yeah, I'm good," and then the dust settles enough that Phil can see him rubbing at his face and wiping his mouth on a sleeve that's as filthy as the rest of him. He's covered in a film of grit, turning him grayish from head to foot. Even his hair is coated in the stuff, looking stiff and windblown as he glances sideways and down at Phil, then adds, "Sir."

Which is when Phil notices that his sidearm's been thrown free of its holster and is lying in the street between them.

Clint doesn't move. He's been keeping an eye on the weapon the whole time.

The building shudders again, and something else crashes inside.

"Oh fuck," Clint says.

Pepper, Phil thinks, Pepper had been heading out for publicity shots with Tony. They should both have been outside already, back on the red carpet to sign things and pose and look beautiful. Steve and Happy would have been with them, but Bruce had been--"Bruce is inside."

"Oh, fuck," Clint says again, low and with feeling. Eyes going from the gun to the building, and back to the gun.

He could kill Phil. If Tony's down or trapped, there'll be no one to activate the tracker. Maybe no one to know that Clint had survived the blast. If he saves himself a bullet, and takes Phil out with a brick or a chunk of wall, the death won't even look suspicious. It's the perfect opportunity to disappear, or at least the perfect opportunity to get a head start. Clint might not be able to remove the tracker, but it's possible he's still got contacts who can disable it, and with the time it'll take for his disappearance to be noticed, he might even make it. Considering the longshot he'd taken before, he's got to be thinking it, even with the risk involved.

"Clint."

Clint picks the gun up. From around the front of the building, there's the popping sound of gunfire. Phil hopes that's Steve and Happy firing and not being fired at.

Clint makes sure the gun is loaded and adjusts his grip. Even after all the time he's been away from weapons, he's good. Phil can tell just by the confident, practiced way he's holding the thing, like he's more comfortable now, with a weapon in his hands, than any time before. Like his skin fits better, now that he's armed. It makes Phil think of the dangerous and caution stamped over Clint's file.

"Clint, listen to me." The rubble shifts when Phil tries to wriggle free again. He's not trapped, but it's going to take him some time to work himself loose. "You have to find Bruce."

Clint's eyes flick back the way they'd come. His expression turns doubtful, then questioning, then carefully blank.

"He's okay," Phil promises. "But someone has to get to him." Before things get worse. Really, really worse. "Get him someplace safe."

He shifts again. His knee more than twinges. It feels like it's wrenched to hell, and something wet is trickling down the back of his neck. Clint looks bruised as well. Something's scraped his face and his shirt is torn at the elbow. He'd been thrown down too, then. Maybe that's part of what's slowing him down, keeping him from adding everything up and taking his chances.

That or he's worried about Bruce. Or he's shaken enough that he's falling back on old training. The way he's responding to Phil's tone makes him think that's a distinct possibility.

"How can he possibly--" Clint starts then, asks, "How do I get in?"

Phil tries to shift his leg. It hurts like fuck. "Just go, Clint. Figure it out. Don't get caught with that gun."

There's people coming. Rescue or fire or just the crowd moving away from the chaos at the front entrance. "Go."

Clint hesitates, shifts his weight and looks up the street almost with longing, then heads back the way they'd come, picking his way back inside and to where they'd last seen Bruce.

Around front, there's a rushing noise, a cascade of concrete and glass and a lot of shouting blending together, and then something zips upwards, bright, flashing red and gold in the evening light as it shoots around the building in a tight arc.

Tony in the suit. Thank god he's okay.

And he's scouting the building, which means Pepper's most likely okay, and probably Steve and Happy too. Hopefully they'd all been too far outside to be caught in the blast or collapse that had followed. If any of them were hurt, Tony wouldn’t be circling the higher floors, looking for danger zones and ferrying people down, a couple at a time, hovering to scan for those at highest risk.

Or he would, Phil thinks, because there's more likely to be on-scene help for anyone who'd been on the ground, and Tony's not a man to put his own feelings first if someone else is in real, immediate danger. In the suit, Tony's not at all a spoiled, insufferable socialite, but a selfless hero, and the man Phil always sees, somewhere under all the sulking and the bravado and the attitude. The man Tony could be--would be--if he wasn't carrying around all the things Tony carried around.

It makes Phil hurt, somewhere down in his chest, to be a part of it. This--Tony, the things Tony does, the way he's helping--is the sort of thing Phil used to imagine, as a boy. The sort of thing he'd imagined he was joining, back when he's signed with the military and later with SHIELD, and then gotten himself shot in the name of foreign policy and national interest and secrets he didn't have the clearance to be fully let in on. It's a joke on him that what he'd been looking for had come in the form of shit-talking, trouble-making, erratic pain-in-the-ass Tony Stark. As far from any image of hero Phil would have dreamt up when he was young.

It's even hard to see it now, some days, but it's still terrible and unfair that the media and large sections of the public are likely to see Tony through that same lens. See the trouble and the trouble making, and assume that the trouble that follows Tony must be his doing and his responsibility. They're going to blame him for being a target, for drawing chaos, for bringing it with him to a city that isn't his own. Phil can practically see the headlines; Tony Stark destroys Vegas, and not, Ironman rescues dozens at great risk to self.

Because there is risk. Whoever had set the explosives was clearly targeting Tony, and he's not exactly hidden, in bright gold against the side of the building, a target in the clear. Even in the armor he's not exactly safe, and Phil hopes to god that Steve and Happy are in a position to provide cover fire if needed.

He wishes Clint didn't have his gun, so he could help too, if it came to that. Or at least, so he could defend himself. Phil shifts his legs, one and then the other. Slowly easing himself free. Gritting his teeth as pull himself forward on his elbow, a painful inch at a time, feeling rubble shift around him until he's loose. Until enough weight is off his legs that he can pull free and roll onto his back, and then slowly push himself into a sitting position. He'd fucking kill for a hand up and a walking stick.

And for Rhodey. Phil would probably go a few steps further than just kill if it would guarantee Rhodey to show up in the next minute, with the War Machine armor, ready to help and fight and protect Tony the way Phil sure as hell can't right now.

It takes another few minutes for Phil to get to his feet, and by then the fire department is there and Tony's switching between hovering around in case he's needed, and helping to move the larger pieces of debris. The marquee sign's come down, missing half the letters of Tonight: Tony Stark and the entire line with his lecture topic. It's big. Phil hopes no one's been crushed, but he's sure the explosion in the lobby had claimed victims either way.

"Coulson?"

It's Happy, covered in dust the way Clint had been, his gun out and his expression serious, but with his bowtie still secure.

"Where's Steve?" Phil asks him.

"With Ms. Potts. They're okay. You look great."

Phil looks down at himself. His pants are torn, and his tie pulled askew, and he's bleeding onto his shirt. He dabs at his face with a sleeve, trying to find the wound. Where ever it is, he can't feel it. There's a streak of rust across Happy's jaw, like he's wiped at an injury himself. Or wiped his face after touching someone injured.

"I think I'm all here," Phil agrees. "You okay?"

"Where're the others?"

"Bruce was inside."

Happy's still looking at him, face serious and calm. He looks like an honest to god bodyguard instead of Tony's kind of goofy friend. They're all so changeable, when disaster strikes. They're all so good, when they're afraid and in danger and have jobs to do.

"I sent Clint after him," Phil says.

"Oh god," Happy says. "Does he--Did you warn him?"

He'd said something. He'd told Clint--"No. No, I just told him to get Bruce out."

Happy looks like he's going to ask something else, but then he just says, "Okay. Okay, I'm on it." And then he's yelling for a medic and tucking his gun into his jacket and running the way Phil had come, yelling into his radio.

It's dangerous, Phil wants to tell him, except Happy already knows that, and a second later Tony's landing nearby and shouting at Steve to do something, faceplate up, and eyes huge and dark.

"God, my head hurts," Phil says, becoming aware of it now that he knows they're all alive. He's lightheaded, all of a sudden.

"No kidding," Tony remarks. His eyes flick over Phil like when he's taking stock of a project. Doing a damage check. "Go with Pepper. She'll find you an icepack. Maybe a helmet. Jesus, Coulson."

"Bruce was--"

"Inside. I heard. Hang tight, okay? We have to get him before he gets Clint."