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Clint is aware of three things when he lets himself into Phil’s apartment Friday evening.
1. There is the Edith Piaf record playing softly on the turntable. (This wouldn’t normally be any different than any other evening except Phil is still at the office for at least another half-hour and the Edith Piaf record is the only one in his collection that Phil refuses to play.)
2. A silver briefcase leans against the coffee table and a suit jacket is folded neatly over the back of the loveseat. (Clint can recognize the stitching as being by Norton & Sons, and thinks it’s crazy that someone can actually afford the bespoke tailor because he’d looked into getting Phil a suit from Saville Row as an anniversary present and his hazard pay from S.H.I.E.L.D. wasn’t enough to make it feasible.)
3. There is a gun pointed directly at Clint’s heart. (The man is in the kitchen, only his head and the Glock 17 extend from behind the wall. Clint gives him points for being strategic.)
Clint does the smart thing and puts his hands up, away from his body because he actually isn’t armed. The man in the kitchen steps out from behind the wall and holsters his gun with a smile. Clint notices he has dimples that make him look almost boyish despite the slicked back hair and tailored suit.
“You must be Clint,” he says, walking up to the marksman. “I’m Arthur, Phil’s younger brother.” Clint puts his hands down and tries to find words. Phil definitely hadn’t told him he was expecting his brother with a killer fashion sense and a weapon to be making dinner that evening, or that he even had any living family to begin with.
“Funny, he didn’t mention you.” Clint replies, and tries to punch Arthur. Arthur blocks it neatly and returns with a left hook that connects with Clint’s jaw and sends him to the floor. Then he pulls the gun again and Clint gets the message.
“We can either spar and probably break Phil’s furniture which would put him in a pissy mood and ruin my surprise homecoming or you can help me with dinner. Your choice.” Arthur says genially though the warmth doesn’t reach his dark eyes. Clint opts for the second choice and takes the offered hand to pull him to his feet.
Arthur is complaining about a work colleague and the goulash is simmering when Clint hears the sound of the front door opening some time later.
“In the kitchen,” Clint calls out. Phil rushes into the kitchen and right past his partner to aim his weapon at his brother. “Hey hey, is this a family thing, pulling guns on one another?” Clint leans against the stove as Phil and Arthur stare at each other. He reaches for the knife that’s still on the cutting board to his right just in case.
“It’s nice to see you again, Phil.” Arthur says, sounding far too calm for a man with a gun in his face. Phil’s mouth twists down.
“I wish I could say the same. Did you even ask?” the older man questions. Arthur’s expression turns sheepish and Phil sighs loudly before setting his gun on the table between them. Clint feels like he’s stepped into the middle of a conversation without being around for the beginning.
“You know if I explained it, we were going to reach this point sooner or later!” Arthur exclaims. His back is straight but Clint is sure if this was another family, the younger man would be slouching in his chair by now. “I’ve found it’s just easier to explain after the fact.”
Phil takes a seat on the other side of the table and moves the chair closest to Clint away from the table with his foot in invitation. The marksman takes a seat between the brothers cautiously. Phil looks angrily at Arthur.
“You’ve been working in the field too long if you think this behavior is anywhere close to acceptable.” Phil chastises firmly. Arthur looks like he wants to argue but clearly decides remaining silent is the better option. His lean fingers drum on the tabletop instead. “I will have words with Nick if I need to.”
“Wait, what? Arthur works for S.H.I.E.L.D. too?” Clint interjects. “How come I’ve never seen him around before?”
It’s Arthur’s turn to grimace but he explains. “I’ve been in deep cover for the past five years, working inside the extralegal community and cultivating sources.” He doesn’t offer any more information and Clint doesn't ask.
“I believe your file says you were on sabbatical,” Phil corrects noncommittally. He turns his head to look at the pot on the stove that's simmering merrily. The smell of paprika invades the kitchen but Clint strangely isn't hungry. “How much time do we have left?”
Arthur shrugs. “More than enough time for an explanation, if you want to handle it. I put us down for only an hour.”
“And I came in ten minutes after,” Phil finishes. “You can let yourself out. Try not to antagonize the civilians. I'll take it from here.” Arthur takes it as his cue to leave, and stands from the table.
“You really should militarize him, Phil. It’s getting more dangerous out there.” He squeezes his brother’s shoulder and smiles at Clint once again as he passes them to the living room.
“Yes, thank you Arthur. I just wasn’t expecting my own brother to be the first.” The younger man shrugs, picks up his jacket and the silver briefcase from the living room. “Stay out,” Phil warns. “And I’ll see you topside.”
“The kick’s the same as always.” Arthur comments. He walks out the door, humming under his breath.
Phil turns to Clint, who is trying to puzzle through the conversation. “Clint, what’s the last thing you remember?”
“I came in and there was Edith Piaf playing on the turntable and Arthur was in the kitchen.” Clint says slowly, not understanding where the questioning was going. “He pulled his gun, we fought and man, your brother is a fast draw,” Clint emphasizes with no small amount of admiration. “He should definitely meet Natasha, they’d probably get along scarily well. Then we started cooking and you came in.”
“Okay,” Phil says patiently. “How did you get here?”
Clint doesn't understand. “I just told you, I walked in-”
Phil cuts him off with a bland look. “Let's try a different approach.” He stands from the table and takes Clint's hand in his. Clint follows him through the apartment to the window in the bedroom that overlooks the street. “What do you see?”
“There are cars, people doing their shopping, the idiot trying to parallel park, which means it's Thursday.” Clint frowns. “Wait, I thought today was Friday. He only comes on Thursday though.” Clint watches as the people on the street turn to look at him and Phil in the window. They all turn their head at the same time and the effect is unsettling. Phil puts a warm hand on Clint's lower back and most of the people go back to what they were doing.
“Yes, today is Friday.” The civilians on the street look angry even though it's impossible that they would have heard Phil's words through the glass. The woman haggling with the hot dog vendor suddenly makes a motion and people start streaming into a building in a single file line. It's Phil's apartment building, Clint realizes with a jolt. His stomach flips because something is very wrong. “This isn't real, Clint.” Clint can suddenly hear people banging on the front door of the apartment and looks at Phil. He's frightened and doesn't know why.
“I'm sorry about this,” Phil apologizes. “My younger brother has spent too long working with Dominic Cobb.” He lifts his Glock 17 and shoots Clint point blank before he can protest.
Clint wakes up, gasping for breath in the bedroom of Phil’s apartment.
He sits up slowly, pulling the needle from the back of his hand with a wince. Phil opens his eyes and stares at the ceiling, not moving from his stretched out position next to Clint. Arthur is nowhere to be seen and Clint has headphones on.They aren’t his. He takes them off, hearing the faint strains of Edith Piaf continue.
“What just happened?” Clint wonders aloud, rubbing the spot where the needle had gone in. Phil reaches over him to pick up the headphones and music player.
“Arthur thought a physical demonstration would work best to explain his line of work.” Phil says brusquely. Clint scrubs a hand over his face. His head hurts like he's recovering from a migraine attack.
“So none of that was real? It sure felt real.” Clint pinches the skin of his inner elbow to check. Phil winds up the lines and coils them neatly back into the silver briefcase. There’s a third line already put up, Clint notices.
“That's the point,” Arthur says. “Shared dreaming is meant to emulate the waking world as closely as possible, so the mark doesn't know the difference.” He stands in the doorway of the bedroom, hands stuffed in his pockets. Phil swings his legs over the edge of the bed and stands.
“Next time, why don't you try explaining the concept before hooking him up to the PASIV?” The older man says curtly.
“Nick wanted to see how he'd react.” Arthur comments quietly and Phil hisses a breath between clenched teeth. “He's got me doing the whole team within the month. There's intel that points to more than a few chemists who manufacture Somnacin being on Osborn's payroll. Nick wants you guys prepared.”
“I’d advise caution with Thor. He’s still an alien, no matter how childlike he appears around Poptarts. Go through Pepper Potts to reach Stark.” Phil warns after a moment’s pause and Arthur nods briskly. Clint looks at his lover with a frown because brother or not, S.H.I.E.L.D. agent or not, Arthur is not part of the Avengers Initiative.
“I was going to check up on Natasha next, since I figured you would want to teach Clint yourself.” Arthur says. Phil’s hand reaching over to cover Clint’s says without words that Phil will definitely be doing that.
“Wait, you know Tasha?” Clint’s brain is trying to make sense of all this new information and latches onto the mention of someone familiar.
The younger man shrugs and smiles. “Nick took both of us under when we joined S.H.I.E.L.D. It’s not improbable that she would come across the dreamsharing techniques in her line of work and this is my line of work.” Arthur crosses the room to pick up the silver briefcase.
“I’ll see you later Phil, Clint.” He waves and Clint hears the front door shut behind him a moment later. It’s similar enough to what happened in the dream that Clint pinches himself again. Phil squeezes his hand.
“You must have questions,” the man says and Clint nods slowly.
He tries to decide where to start. “Dreaming. I didn’t actually die.” Phil smiles.
“No, dying in a dream delivers what those involved in the community call a kick. It’s not dissimilar to the sensation of falling that you experience during REM sleep that wakes you up in the middle of the night. Shared dreaming began as a joint project between the US and British intelligence services, part of what was known as Project Somnacin. Where is something believed to be the safest, if you can’t write it down?”
“In your head.” Clint answers.
“Not anymore, thanks to this technology.” Phil admits grimly. “There are teams of people who perform extractions,” Clint’s eyes widen because he can tell where this is headed, “and some of them are very good at what they do. They design a dream to look like the mark’s memory or a real world that’s slightly off-kilter - you never build straight carbon copies, it’s too easy to disassociate from reality that way - and then introduce themselves in the dream. The mark has secrets, usually hidden in a safe, a bank vault that’s part of the architecture, behind a painting in their house, that’s what the team wants.”
“And they become obscenely rich doing this,” Clint butts in, remembering the bespoke suit on Phil’s little brother.
“The underworld pays well for the best, you know that.” Phil comments blandly and Clint grins. His few years as a mercenary before S.H.I.E.L.D. offered him a job had paid him handsomely, considering the requirements and expectations.
“Okay, so dream teams go in and steal secrets from people’s minds. That’s frightening but there’s some way you can protect yourself, right? That militarization thing that Arthur talked about.”
“There is training you can do that allows your mind to recognize that it’s dreaming. Your projections will be able to protect your mind from extractors. I imagine yours will end up as snipers and armed with recurve bows, no doubt.” Phil says dryly.
Clint laughs. “That doesn’t sound too bad. They’d never miss either. Even in my mind I’m the best.”
“Especially in your mind you’re the best.” Phil retorts dryly and Clint shoots him a mock look of hurt. The man leans over to kiss him briefly.
Clint stood from the bed, pulling Phil up with him. “Strange that sleeping can make you hungry but I am starving! Wonder if that goulash would have tasted good? Can you eat in a dream?” He wanders into the kitchen and stops short of entering it. Edith Piaf is playing again, a different tune than Clint had walked in on.
Clint and Phil both turn to stare at the turntable in the corner. There’s no record on, the needle arm is still raised. The famous chanteuse starts singing and Clint looks at Phil.
“I thought we were awake.”
“I’m going to harm Arthur.”
The music swells and Clint feels like he’s falling backward.
Clint wakes up, gasping for breath in the bedroom of Phil’s apartment.
Phil lays next to him on the bed, blinking slowly as Clint removes another pair of headphones from his lover then himself. Clint kicks him gently with a foot and Phil sits up.
“Real or not real?” Clint’s voice is hushed and the apartment is silent.
Phil rolls off the bed and crouches down to reach for something on the underside of the nightstand. He looks at the object in the palm of his hand - Clint can’t catch a glimpse of it - and closes his eyes for a moment. The relief is almost palpable on his face and Clint lets out a loud breath.
“This is reality.” Phil promises, squeezing Clint’s thigh. “Arthur!” He tucks the object in his pocket, clenching a fist around it, and stands.
“Sorry pet, he stepped out to see that fiery redhead of yours.” A British voice calls back. The unknown stranger being in Phil’s apartment gets Clint moving albeit sluggishly. He arms himself with the throwing knife under his side of the mattress before leaving the bedroom. “He did promise he’d be back in time for dinner though.”
“He can get his own intel for any future job for the foreseeable future. I’m not doing him any favors now.” Phil grouses, stalking past the broad-shouldered man at the stove and straight to where he keeps the bottle of alcohol. Clint stands in the doorway, one hand bracing himself on the door frame. “I presume you were the dreamer for the first level?”
“No,” the man grins widely as Phil pours two generous servings of scotch. “I forged our darling point man on the second level. He held up the first level. I can’t believe you didn’t catch on!” He sounds gleeful at the successful deception and Phil kicks the back of his knee as he passes by. The man catches himself on the oven handle as Clint accepts the alcohol and takes a large sip.
“I’m sorry, who exactly are you?” Clint interjects with narrowed eyes after he swallows. The whiskey’s burn wakes him up slightly but his head is still swimming.
“Oh, I’m Eames.” He sticks out a hand for Clint to shake. Clint gives him an unimpressed look and the man only laughs, returning to stirring what looks like pasta. “Professional con man, forger, thief, and Forger.” Clint thinks he put a capital letter on the last word.
“He’s with my little brother but at least he’s a decent cook.” Eames made an outraged noise and Phil smirked. “And if you ever help him with a stunt like this again, I will burn all your aliases.”
Clint leans against the doorway and concentrates on finishing his drink as the two men talk further about mazes and a girl named Ariadne. He sets the table for three while Phil put together a salad from whatever he found suitable in the fridge and Clint is setting the silverware out when the front door opens. Looks like it would be four then.
Arthur approaches the other three cautiously. “Am I going to get shot if I come closer?”
Phil gives him a glare as he places the salad bowl on the table. His hand squeezes Clint’s shoulder gently as the marksman sat in his usual chair. “It would be too much paperwork and I’d have to get the carpet cleaned afterward. Sit.” Arthur takes a seat at the table opposite Phil as Eames shakes his head.
“Really? You thought two levels would be a good introduction to our world?” The man chuckles and dished out pasta for the four of them. “I thought you were supposed to be the one who thought things through.” Phil’s foot hooks around Clint’s ankle possessively even though the man appears to be trying intently trying to spear a cherry tomato on his plate.
“We don’t have time to gently introduce the concept,” Arthur snaps back. “Nick wants the entire team militarized and one of them is a goddamn alien from Asgard! Do you have any idea how to broach the subject of dreaming with that background? I don’t even know what his mind looks like!”
Phil continues calmly eating his pasta in the face of Arthur’s rant without saying a word. Clint follows his cue and stabs some lettuce with his fork but doesn’t look up. Phil doesn’t speak to his brother for the entire dinner, which leaves the conversation somewhat stilted between the four until Eames takes it upon himself to fill the silence with a loud story about Mombasa, an angry vendor and a scorned woman. Clint finds himself laughing despite the chilly tension between the brothers. Phil’s hand settles on his thigh after Phil finishes eating.
“All right, dinner’s over. You aren’t staying to do the dishes because I know you hate doing dishes,” Phil rapidly forestalls Arthur’s comment as the younger man opens his mouth. “So you and Eames are going to leave the two of us alone. I will consider putting you in my schedule for lunch at some point next week. Do not think about calling me before then.” Arthur shut his mouth and nods. Eames pushed back his chair and stands.
“Phil, thank you for so graciously allowing us to stay for dinner.” Eames proclaims. Clint brushes his hand down Phil’s arm not so accidentally when he reaches over to take his empty plate and gets a soft smile in return.
“Just get out of my apartment, Eames.” Phil says almost fondly. He follows the two dreamers to the door, leaving Clint to start scrubbing the remains of dinner off the plates before putting them in the dishwasher.
They go to bed that night but Clint finds sleep hard to come by. He lies on his back and stares at the shadows on the ceiling cast from the street below. Phil turns on his side to face Clint.
“Go to sleep, Clint. I’m here.” He whispers, touching Clint’s cheek with gentle fingers. It takes a lot longer than it usually does but Clint falls asleep, grasping Phil’s hand in his.