Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

When Phil emerges from the communications blackout necessary for his current mission, there are dozens of messages waiting for him. This is normal, except that one of them is marked A1. Once upon a time he got those messages for any high priority op that went balls up, but these days operational priorities have been adjusted and no one sends that kind of alert to him unless something has gone wrong with the Avengers. He delegates the remainder of the op to his second in command and arranges a ride with the nearest military base. It isn't an American base, but they listen to reason. He's very good at being reasonable.

He reads the message en route. Fury prefers it when Phil arrives prepared, but there isn’t much detail in the message itself, which means Fury didn't want to risk the information even on secure channels. All Phil knows when the jet lands on the Helicarrier is that thirty-two hours ago there was an encounter with Loki, the ever-present pain in the ass was not secured, and all of the Avengers are alive. The use of that word--alive--in particular, winds Phil's shoulders into knots.

Hill is waiting when he climbs out of the jet. She falls into step beside him as he heads off the deck at a brisk pace. "They're in quarantine," she begins. "Except for Thor, who has been determined to be immune, but he's staying close." Technically, she should have started at the beginning, but Phil doesn't correct her. She knew he needed to know where he was going. "Loki was sighted in San Francisco thirty-five hours ago. The Avengers were assembled and dispatched."

"Do we know what his target was?" Phil asks. His shoes echo on the metal deck of the Helicarrier halls, a sharp contrast to the quiet, rubber-soled boots of the tactical gear that most of the agents are wearing.

"Unconfirmed, but with a high degree of confidence, we believe it was a particle physics research lab," Hill says. "We've been monitoring them for some time, as their work shows a non-trivial similarity to the readings we got from Thor's hammer and the opening of the Biforst. Their readings aren’t as focused as Dr. Foster's, of course. The researchers are unharmed. There was damage to their experimental rig, which is being generously repaired by SHIELD in exchange for the usual considerations."

Phil nods his approval, but he can't help the way his steps quicken as they approach medical. Quarantine. He swallows the lump in his throat. "And the Avengers?"

"The Avengers engaged Loki and withdrew him to a less populated location," Hill continues. "The battle was proceeding favorably when Stark made one of his comments. I'm given to understand it was something along the lines of Loki feeling threatened by intelligence."

"I very much doubt Stark put it like that," Phil deadpans.

Hill's lips quirk. "No. Loki took offense. He said, and this is from Stark's recordings, 'You are hardly removed from mindless beasts. Shall we see how far removed?' There was a flash of light--" there's always a flash of light, Phil thinks wryly "--and all of the Avengers, excepting Thor, reported disorientation and momentary but intense pain. Thor reports that Loki vanished simultaneously with the flash."

Pain isn't enough for a quarantine. "What's developed in addition to the pain?" Phil asks. They're at medical, now. As he and Hill make their way to the quarantine area, the staff hurry out of their way.

"The symptoms are...idiosyncratic," Hill says. Phil raises an eyebrow. She shakes her head. "Just see for yourself."

Thor is standing at the window that makes up one wall of the quarantine room, one arm folded across his chest, the fingers of the other hand resting on his chin. His brow is furrowed, but he doesn't seem as worried as Phil expected him to be. He greets Phil with a nod as Phil turns his gaze towards the team.

Captain America has a tail. Steve Rogers, rather, because he's wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt rather than his costume. Someone has cut a hole in the seat of the pants for the tail, which is long and as blond as the hair on Steve's head. He's sitting on the bottom bunk of one of four sets of bunk beds, staring down at the tail. Every now and then it thumps the mattress, and Steve twitches, as if startled. On closer inspection, Phil can see that he's also sporting a very fine layer of golden fur and that his fingernails have darkened and thickened substantially. Other than that--and the odd way he keeps moving his mouth--he seems healthy.

Banner, on the other hand, looks deathly ill. There's some kind of growth on his forehead, and he's so gray that Phil wonders why he isn't in the ICU. Then Phil realizes that the color isn't due to blood loss, it's pigmentation. Banner’s skin is literally gray. It seems to have developed a pronounced texture as well. His shoulders are slumped and he's chewing, slowly and steadily, on a power bar. He looks like you couldn't move him with a forklift.

Which is in sharp contrast to Stark, who is flitting around the room, picking up small objects and examining them intently before making irritated noises and discarding them. He circles back to one of the bunks regularly, where something is lying disassembled on the sheets. His hair is half feathers and his eyes are bright yellow. Phil frowns. "You let Stark have tech in this condition?"

"He was agitating the others," Hill says. "We made sure not to give him a power source, and they're being monitored in case he tries to make something explosive. He was so disruptive he was even stirring up Romanov and Barton, and they've been almost normal. Giving him something to tinker with calmed him down."

Phil turns his attention to Natasha next, since she's sitting right up front. Given that she is off center of her bunk, but exactly opposite the middle of the observation window, he knows that the placement is deliberate. For a moment she looks unchanged. Then she meets his eyes and he can see the vertical slit pupils. She lifts a hand and gestures at the line of her neck and jaw, where closer inspection reveals scales. When he nods, she pushes back her upper lip and he sees fangs. Display done, she returns to her studied, casual pose.

Given what he's observed so far, Phil is both surprised and unsurprised at the changes in Clint. Unsurprising is the physical. His hair is as full of feathers as Stark's, though his are a light reddish brown. They go startlingly well with his dark blond hair. His eyes are still largely blue, but are ringed in bronze now, and the surface of his hands looks rough.

Surprising to Phil is Clint’s behavior. The others are all demonstrably upset, each in their own way. But Clint, sitting cross-legged on top of the tallest bunk in the room, is as relaxed as Phil has ever seen him. His wrists are resting on his knees, hands dangling loosely, and though his gaze is sharp as he surveys his teammates, his lips are curved up a little.

Despite all the unknowns that remain, Phil feels his shoulders unknot a little at the sight of that smile. He looks over at Thor. "What did Loki do?" Phil asks.

"I know the forms of Loki's magic," Thor says, voice tight and too loud, "but not the spells. I am sorry, Son of Coul, that I cannot tell you more of how our comrades have changed than you can see." Thor waves back at the team and Phil follows the gesture.

Clint looks up, spotting them. He uncrosses his legs, swings them over the side of the bunk, and drops easily to the floor. He's always been light on his feet, but now Phil swears it takes him a moment to realize Clint has actually touched down. He crosses the room in a couple of steps and leans his shoulder against his side of the glass, meeting Phil's gaze and smiling. "Come to spring us, sir?" he asks. "Because I swear, what we got ain't contagious."

The others--save Natasha--all look up then, noticing Phil for the first time and showing varying degrees of hope and embarrassment.

"That's not for you to judge," Phil says. "I need a report from the doctor." He holds Clint's gaze for a long moment, looking for tension. "How do you feel, Agent Barton?"

Clint shrugs one shoulder. "Good."

"I could use a little more detail," Phil says dryly. He doesn't break eye contact. Clint's gaze is piercing, but it always has been. The ring of bronze doesn't change that.

"My vision is better," Clint offers. Phil's eyebrows go up; Clint's vision was spectacularly good to begin with. Clint nods to show he’s thinking the same thing. "I can see farther, in more detail. When something's moving fast, I can see it clearer than before." He lifts a hand and puts it against the glass. There's a shine to the subtle scaly texture that covers his fingers and grows thinner towards his elbows. "My grip strength has increased, and the skin on my hands is tougher. I think I could do without a shooting glove or arm guard, if I wanted."

"Loss of sensitivity?" Phil asks.

"Not that I've noticed. The doctors ran all sorts of tests; they'll tell you more."

"But you feel good?" Phil tilts his head. Clint has always been particular about anyone messing with his hands, arms, and eyes. All three of those are showing changes, but he feels good?

Clint nods. "Especially when I'm up high. I kind of wish the Helicarrier had more windows." Behind Clint, Bruce shudders. "And I gotta tell you, I am craving red meat like nobody's business."

"Have you eaten?" Depending on the doctors' concerns, they might not have wanted to risk food unless absolutely necessary. The Avengers have gone a day or two without eating before, not even always on a mission in the case of Stark and Banner and the way they work until they drop.

Clint nods. "Yeah. Just. Pasta and chicken and salad and shit."

"Not literally shit, I hope," Phil comments, mouth twitching.

Clint laughs, full out. Phil manages not to stare, but it's a near thing. Clint chuckles, he snickers, but he doesn't often laugh like that. He calms after a moment, smiling at Phil. "Not literally, no. We'll be okay, sir. Go talk to the docs." He pushes off the glass window and returns to his bunk, boosting himself up onto the perch with a level of ease Phil knows he didn't have before.

Phil sweeps one last glance over the team before turning away. Steve lets out a distinctly canine whine and promptly goes red. Phil quickly looks away--not that there is much dignity in quarantine at the moment--and sighs at the sight of Tony working on the toilet unit with a screwdriver. Hopefully he'll be able to get them out of there before Stark floods the place.

Hill nods at him and departs now that the situation has been handed over, but Thor walks with him to the infirmary. "I'd like you to comment on the 'forms of magic' you mentioned," Phil says, "but not until after I speak to the doctors."

"Very well," Thor agrees.

The lead physician doesn't seem to know how to start when Phil asks for the team’s status. Phil slides his hands into his pockets and makes himself smile a little. "We're setting new standards for strange every day, doctor," he says, and shrugs. "I doubt your report is going to sound any more unusual than 'it was magic,'" Phil goes on, nodding at Thor, who smiles and tilts his head in concession.

The doctor lets out a breath and a hint of a laugh. "I'm beginning to understand why 'may you live in interesting times,' is a curse," he says, and lauches into his summary. It's obviously a little rehearsed, but Phil doubts the doctor is the only one who has spent a time or two in front of the mirror repeating themselves until they sound less crazy

The Avengers have, it seems, each acquired animal characteristics. Bruce has taken on the features of a rhinoceros. Natasha is showing snakelike traits. Steve is a dog, a golden retriever if the color of the tail isn't just based on his hair. Tony's gone crow, and Clint's codename has gotten more literal.

"The physical changes are relatively minor--"

"Captain America has a tail," Phil interrupts.

"Well, yes," the doctor admits. "But in terms of spectrum from 100 percent human to 100 percent animal, they're really only about 10 percent off human." He follows that up with an exhaustive run down of the physical alterations, most of which Phil has already observed. Steve's body temperature is apparently normal, while Bruce and Natasha are both running substantially cooler and Clint and Tony are running a couple of degrees warmer. Bruce's skin isn't just colored and textured, it's thicker as well. The growth on his head is a partially developed horn. Steve was making that odd motion with his mouth because his tongue has changed. Natasha has venom sacs to go with her fangs. Clint's feet are the same as his hands. Both Tony and Clint have lost some bone density, although not to a dangerous degree, which explains Clint's ease of movement. The list goes on in increasing detail.

When the doctor runs down, Phil nods and says, "Agent Barton suggested a behavioral component?"

"That is...more difficult to quantify." The doctor frowns. "He was the only one who would speak about it in any detail, but he did indicate that he was experiencing hawk-like instincts. He didn't seem to find them problematic, though."

"I noticed he was...less agitated than the others," Phil says. "I wondered if he was covering." Normally he'd be more confident of his ability to judge Clint’s reactions, but there is an outside influence here.

The doctor shakes his head. "No, his willingness to discuss it convinces me that Agent Barton is genuinely unconcerned with the changes. He even figures he know which species he's borrowing from: the Red Tailed Hawk."

Trust Clint to get that specific. "Hmmm. Were you able to come to any conclusions based on his report and your observations?

"Only the most general," the doctor says reluctantly. "The behavioral influence appears to be consistent with their associated animals, but with the exception of Mr. Stark and Agent Barton, they're being easily suppressed. We've been unable to determine why Mr. Stark is so demonstrative; when we talk to him about it his agitation goes through the roof. He's the only one we're really concerned about, in that sense."

Stark is probably the member of the team with the least practice in impulse control, and the most prone to figeting when he's nervous. Phil nods. "Thank you, doctor. I'll want your full report on my desk by the end of the day."

The doctor returns the nod and departs, leaving Phil with Thor. Phil tilts his head towards the retreating doctor. "Does any of that help narrow down the type of magic Loki might have used?"

"Indeed," Thor agrees. "This is mischief magic, rather than one of Loki's greater spells. It is a weaker thing; he could not have transformed them entirely, but to draw out of them the traits of beasts they have some small kinship with, aye, that he could do."

"Any idea on how to return them to normal?" It's clear, now, why security is so high on this information. The Avengers can't be seen in public right now, which leaves a gap in their defenses. Fortunately, even a partial defeat of Loki usually buys them a week or two of quiet from other fronts.

Thor shakes his head. "All that we can do is wait. These traits are a product of Loki's anger, imposed from without. Over time, their true natures will win out."

Phil grimaces. "How much time?"

Thor spreads his hands uncertainly. "It will vary for each of them. But I have not seen such mischief hold fast more than a week."

"It's going to be a long week," Phil sighs.

Fortunately, everyone agrees that further quarantine is unnecessary, though the team is restricted to the Helicarrier. Stark goes to the labs and locks himself in; Phil assigns a rotation of agents to monitor the security feeds, just in case Stark flips or starts hoarding shiny objects. Natasha vanishes, which is actually a good sign; if she felt she was in danger, she wouldn't have left quarantine. They'll see her again when she doesn't feel conspicuous. Banner and Rogers lock themselves into their quarters.

When Clint leaves medical, Phil falls into step next to him. The archer flashes him a smile.

To Phil's surprise, Clint doesn't head for the range. Instead, he makes a beeline for the observation deck, Phil following out of curiousity after Clint doesn’t turn off at the usual hallway. The sigh Clint releases at the sight of the expanse of cloud and the land far below is audible. He walks up to the windows and lays a hand on the glass. "I could feel we were up high," he says, staring out, "but it's good to see it."

"I don't understand why this doesn't bother you," Phil says. "Of all of them, I'd think you'd be the most sensitive to someone screwing with your head. Especially Loki."

Clint tilts his head, a short, sharp movement reminiscent of a bird, but not unfamiliar on Clint. "Maybe that's why," he offers. "I know what it feels like when something alien is forced on you." Phil remembers watching the footage, the staff touching Clint's chest...his stomach churns at the memory, but Clint is already going on. "This isn't like that. I don't think Loki chose the animals for us. I think something in each of us chose them for ourselves."

"I doubt the others would agree."

Clint chuckles and turns to face Phil, leaning his shoulder against the window. "Come on, don't you see it? Steve as man's best friend? Tony as the smart, tool using, raucously social crow? Banner as the armored herbivore, placid until challenged?"

"Natasha as a snake?" Phil challenges.

Clint turns serious. "Fast, deadly, and all too often overlooked."

"And Hawkeye as the hawk," Phil says with a shake of his head. "Wait, excuse me, the Red Tailed Hawk. Where did you get that, by the way?"

Clint grins. "What, you don't think I read up on them before choosing my codename? There are some behavioral clues, but really, the Red Tailed Hawk is the most common in North America, and the one I know most about. Stands to reason."

"So what now?" Phil asks.

Clint makes a thoughtful sound and takes one more look out the window. "Now I'm going to get some real food. Then I want to see if I really can shoot without a glove."

"Mind if I tag along?"

"I'm not going to suddenly snap," Clint says, giving him a sidelong glance.

Phil shrugs. "Everyone else is in hiding. Humor me."

Clint has always been willing to humor him. It's why they work so well together; they give each other room to experiment, to follow a hunch, to figure things out. It's no different now. Real food turns out to be a steak rarer than anything Phil has seen Clint eat before. On the range, they discover that he can, in fact, do without the shooting glove, but that the scaling on the inside of his forearm is too sparse to abandon the arm guard. Clint's eyesight has always been sharp enough not to need a scope for the bow's range, but now he sets it aside for the rifles, as well, at least until the range exceeds a full mile.

Clint doesn't say anything about it, but Phil can see the way his lips curl up when he makes a shot without the scope, the way his shoulders tense when he reports to medical the next day so that they can determine if the traits are fading the way Thor expects. They report no difference from the day before.

Natasha doesn’t appear for the 24 hour check in. The others are all early—the first time any of them have ever appeared in medical early—but when the appointment time comes and goes and Natasha is still absent, the doctor glances at Phil. He simply nods for them to proceed with evaluating the rest of the team and keeps an eye on the door.

The doctors, once they’ve poked and prodded everyone until even Bruce twitches away, pronounce it too early to see any significant change. Tony goes straight back to the lab. Steve slinks out with his tail literally between his legs; Phil has to restrain a smile at the sight. The smile melts away when Banner hangs back long enough to ask for a sedative. “Doctor,” Phil says as the doctor goes to the secure storage to retrieve the medication (sedatives that work on Banner are controlled substances), “are you having trouble?” Banner usually resists being sedated.

He shakes his head. “It’s okay. I can just tell that we’re in the air. It’s…uncomfortable.”

Banner has a habit of understating, especially things involving the Hulk. If he’s uncomfortable enough to ask for a sedative, they may have a problem. “We can transfer you to a ground facility, if necessary,” Phil offers.

“Stark Tower?” Banner asks, with a hopeful glance.

“Would that really help? Living quarters start on the twenty-fifth floor.”

Banner grimaces. “Maybe not. I appreciate the offer, Agent Coulson, but I can stick it out for a few days.”

"Let me know if you change your mind," Phil says, and notes the two doses of sedative the doctor releases; he’ll check in again in two days. "There's no reason to suffer."

Banner leaves and Clint finally hops off the bed where he’s been sitting and slots himself into place next to Phil. “Nat didn’t show,” he says in an undertone, as if he doesn’t want the doctor to hear.

“Natasha knows her own capacity,” Phil says, rolling his shoulders. “She’ll check in when she has something to report.” And when she isn’t so compromised; Natasha doesn’t like showing weakness.

“If she doesn’t show by tomorrow, I’m going looking.” Clint’s gaze is already darting about the medical bay, as if he expects her to spot her hiding behind a cabinet.

Phil frowns. "Did you notice something off about her?"

"No," Clint says, scanning the room again. "I just...it's making my territory feel off."

Phil puts a hand on Clint’s upper arm. Clint’s eyes snap back to him. “Would you like to get some sparring in?”

Clint closes his eyes and lets out a long breath. “Yeah. Sounds good.”

The difference isn't big enough to be obvious, but Phil thinks Clint's reaction time is faster. Or maybe he's just moving faster. Or both. Either way, it's more work than usual to keep up with him. Here, safe in the Helicarrier where there aren’t any unfriendlies or a situation to monitor, Phil lets his focus narrow, blocking out everything but Clint. He tracks Clint's moments, the tension in his muscles, the shifts in his balance.

Contact comes in flurries, hands and feet landing with dull thuds, both of them taking the blows with familiarity. Phil isn't sure how long they've been going when a few small details crystallize in his mind. He releases a careful breath, steps in, hesitates for a second. Clint takes advantage, seizes his wrist, turns and throws Phil over his hip. Phil stays limp, takes the fall, one hand going out before he's even recovered his breath to hook around Clint's ankle and yank. Clint doesn't have as much weight to plant as he used to; he goes down and Phil rolls, pinning him.

For one long moment, Phil looks down at Clint. They're both breathing hard, and Phil's t-shirt is sticking to him with sweat. Clint's gaze is fierce, the ring of bronze only underlining it. He grins; the expression in his eyes doesn't change a bit. Phil's heart pounds; God, Clint is magnificent. "You win," Clint says, but it doesn't sound like a concession at all.

Phil forces himself to move casually as he releases Clint and stands. "Your body weight has changed," he says, holding out a hand for Clint, not that he needs it.

He takes it anyway, letting Phil help him to his feet. "I know. I'm not used to it yet. I didn't want to try sparring with a junior agent first."

And Natasha hasn't been available. "She'll be there tomorrow," Phil says, hoping he's right. If there's more to this than it seems-- He looks at Clint, grinning and bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet, gesturing for Phil to come at him again, and hopes that, for once, everything is as it seems. She should be here, insisting that she isn't part of Clint's 'territory' and trading smirks with Phil when Clint isn't looking and letting him steal food off her plate anyway. He doesn't want to see what it would do to Clint if this changes her in any way that matters.