Phil Coulson wakes up in a hospital bed. Well, damn.

In which there either is or isn't a cellist.

He grew up reading about heroes, and when he was old enough to enlist he showed up to the recruiting office and signed on the dotted line, at least half because he needed to convince himself that there were still people in the world who fit into that category.

He never considered becoming one of them.

"I don't lie to Barton."

"He lies to you."

"Not very well. Not as well as you do."

He shoots Clint Barton in the thigh in an alleyway in Alphabet City, too close to District X for comfort. He uses his tie as a tourniquet and helps Barton to his feet and wonders if Barton always talks this much.

It’s a party and Coulson is a wallflower. He’s wallflowering like a motherfucker, like it’s his job and maybe it is, sometimes, when there are Avengers avenging and he’s got to coordinate attacks and retreats but it’s a fucking retirement party and Clint’s going to make sure Coulson enjoys himself.

In which the Avengers take advantage of some unexpected downtime around Tony's pool and several of Clint's tattoos are discussed. Including the one just over his heart.

If a top secret file on Phil Coulson and Clint Barton's relationship existed, it would look something like this.

Day 214 on the campaign trail of Steve Rogers for President. Twenty-sixteen's turning out to be a hell of a year.

Tony has ideas about his role after the inauguration.

Agent Coulson captures Loki, in the form of a cat. And then he decides to keep him.

Phil would just like to state for the record that this was all Tony Stark's fault. (Seven increasingly chaotic days in the life of Phil Coulson.)