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It had started during physical therapy and counseling after his injury. Not his Loki, spear-through-the-chest injury. He’d actually taken a piece of rebar through his foot during an extraction. It was the first major injury of his career with SHIELD, which was pretty impressive considering he’d been working in the field for more than two years when it happened.
“Get some exercise. Non-PT exercise,” his physical therapist had said.
“You should really try to make connections with people outside of work. I know it can be difficult with the type of life you lead, but I think you would benefit,” his psychologist said.
“If you don’t get the fuck out of your office I’m going to have your security clearance revoked,” Director Fury had said.
Somehow, all that had led to dancing.
Phil had never expected to find a community that not only wouldn’t press, but genuinely wouldn’t care to find out that he was a secret agent in his ‘regular’ life. He never thought he would encounter a group who wasn’t worried if they didn’t see him for months, didn’t think his generally reserved demeanour was aloofness, and no matter what, they were always, always pleased to see him.
He started out in ballroom classes, tried tango (both Argentine and Ballroom), and finally settled on swing. He liked the nostalgia, the light-hearted no-commitment interactions, and the music. He moved quickly from East Coast to Lindy Hop, but eventually settled on Balboa as a favorite. The crowd was a little older, a little more sedate, and even with a foot that sometimes ached, he could keep up. He could dress up in anything short of a tux and tails and not be noticed, or he could come in a sweater and jeans and be equally innocuous.
At the end of a long day, he could lock his side arm away in the safe in his office, pull out his shoe bag, and let the coiled stress go. He’d walk the ten or twelve blocks to a cocktail bar (you couldn’t beat SHIELD parking rates in Manhattan) and with each step, feel the weight of Agent Coulson shed off his shoulders. By the time he got to the waitress checking IDs and taking payments of the cover charge, he was a different man.
When he had started, he was painfully aware of his lack of skill. In a way it was freeing, being so bad. His job and his life demanded competence and constant vigilance. The freedom to mess up, to experiment, and to generally not be good at something was unfamiliar and in its own way, heady. He found himself smiling, unguarded and self-deprecating, when the instructor corrected his posture. She fit herself into his embrace like she belonged in his arms, and he blushed and didn't admit to himself how much he sometimes longed for human contact.
After that it was pure addiction. Dancers often said how newbies would get bitten with the dance bug, or infected with dancing, and the comparison was apt. It was like a fever under his skin some days, the need to move and let his heart beat with a rhythm outside his own body. He danced in Korea on a night off, asking partners with pantomime and his limited grasp of the language. He found a club in Berlin. While he was in Portland for a three month observation op he fit in with the scene there and became a regular before ghosting out with the end of his assignment.
If only for three and a half minutes at a time, he could drop his burden, quiet his mind, and exist only within the confines of his muscles and movement. When the helicarrier became operational and he started getting longer and longer postings on the floating base, he didn't recognize the crawling, slow strangle of depression until it was wrapped thoroughly about him and dragging him under. He tried sparring more, taking small flight missions, anything to get a similar fix, but he finally caved and asked for a week off, getting dropped off in Germany.
He took the train to Sweden and spent a week learning from the masters, sleeping in a bunk room with forty others, and dancing through the brief summer night to see the sun rise over the treetops at a dance camp. He practiced his Russian and soaked in the feeling of being that other Phil who could smile freely, who could be bad at something, and who could reel a stranger in for a hug if the mood struck.
Barton frowned appraisingly at him when he returned to the helicarrier. "Did you get laid?" Barton asked.
"That's hardly of your business," Phil replied easily. The offer had been there, but somehow the appeal of clandestine semi-public sex hadn't been there for him. The langid, relaxed air that Barton was picking up on was entirely due to dancing and dancers.
Phil moved from overseeing individuals on active operations, to overseeing the overseers for active operations. With the move he found himself in semi-permanent residence in New York, and he settled even more deeply into his secret life. His physical awareness had always served him well on the dance floor, but with regular partners to work with and a schedule that largely accommodated nights off (provided something hadn't gone pear-shaped) he only improved. He got a reputation for being a teddy bear; he was courteous, comfortable, considerate, and a lovely dancer. He was well-loved, on and off the floor.
And then the Battle of New York happened. Questionable medical technology, and a transfusion of what may or may not have been Captain America's super-serum laced blood was the only thing that kept him from never waking up. Rehab was painful and took longer than anybody would have liked. He'd returned from his 'vacation' but was still not active duty when he started going out dancing again.
There were faces missing. The death toll in Manhattan was nothing like they had feared, but it was still substantial. He was practically mobbed when he appeared. With his arm still supported in a sling on his off hours he no doubt made a pitiful picture.
"We thought you were dead - nobody had heard from you!"
"Phil don't do that to us, jesus fuck. Give someone your phone number so we won't worry like that."
"What happened?"
Phil squeezed the people who had gone in for a hug before seeing the sling, and disentangled himself, honestly overwhelmed. "Sorry?" he tried.
"Sorry nothing, mister," Fran, one of his regular partners replied, holding out her phone. "Gimmie your digits so you can't disappear like that. We put a photo of you on the memorial wall, seriously."
"I didn't—" know you cared? Think you'd worry? He couldn't think of a way to finish his statement that wouldn't sound inhuman or pitiful so he just stopped.
Everyone had to come by and touch him, say something to him, reaffirm to themselves that he was real. He had to explain over and over again that he'd been thrown into some debris and taken a jagged piece of something through his shoulder. He had to show off the bandages. And even not really recovered, he had to dance. Follows were understanding, cuddling up close against his good side and keeping it simple for his benefit. Even so, he laughed during one dance until he'd nearly re-injured himself. He'd missed this. He'd missed these people.
The Avengers were still pissed as hell at him. Barton wasn't speaking to him and Romanoff was communicating exclusively in non-english profanity and meaningful, deadly looks. Fury wanted him out of SHIELD until some internal reorganization and shakedowns were completed, and Hill seemed to think he would break at any moment. The dancers — his dancers — were just happy he wasn't dead. They had no idea he had been the last human to stand between Loki and opening a vortex into the other side of space. They didn't care about his sacrifice, and they didn't even really care that he’d been gone without anybody knowing if he was dead or alive. They were just happy he was there to hug close and move with.
He was out of the sling and working his stamina back to what he thought of as normal when Fran got his attention with a hand on his upper arm. He was approaching fighting weight again after his time spent in the hospital, and so he had indulged his inner fashionista and put on a three piece suit that fit properly once more. Fran was a sort of unofficial welcoming committee. A born extrovert she reveled in meeting new people and welcoming them into the community. If it was a follow she was welcoming, there was a high chance she would pass them off to Phil for a gentle introduction to the floor.
"Philip, darling, this is Darcy. She's just moved from—"
"Nuh-uh!" Darcy interrupted as Phil turned. "You fucker! You stole my iPod! My tunes!" she lamented, an accusatory finger pointed in his face.
Phil took two surprised steps back. His guard had been down and the unexpected verbal assault was jarring. He blinked, and blinked again. "Miss Lewis?" he asked.
"Don't you miss-anything me mister man-in-black."
"I take it you two have met?" Fran tried to break into the conversation.
"Miss Lewis and I are acquainted," Phil admitted, falling out of his Other Phil persona and into Agent Coulson of SHIELD in a few jarring moments. Fran blinked in surprise. Phil took a hold of Darcy's arm and led her to a more private alcove.
"Get your hands off me!" she hissed, pulling her elbow out of his grip with a jerk and a twist. "What the hell, dude? I thought you were dead! Selvig told me you were dead. The fuck."
"Aah, of course. The science units weren't informed of the Director's little fib."
"Is there a problem?" The door man broke in, looking pointedly at Phil's hand hovering over Darcy's arm, and the general distress evident on Darcy's face.
"I thought this fucker was dead!" Darcy practically shouted at the doorman, who stepped. "Who does that? Just, oh, sorry, forgot to tell everyone I wasn't actually dead! Seriously, who?!"
The doorman backed up to his station, obviously deciding he had misread the situation. Tears were gathering in Darcy's eyes. Phil went into damage control mode. He guided her to sit down on a bench and got a bottle of water, cracking the seal and putting it in her hands. Her knees were shaking. "I'm sorry," she said into the water bottle. "I'm just not very good at this whole coming back from the dead thing."
"It wasn't a cakewalk on my end either," Phil told her. "How did you find me?"
She drank half of the rest of the bottle before answering. "Stark put Jane up in the not-really-burned-down part of his tower and I tagged along. I was trying to get out of the damage zone for a while is all, and I'd done this in New Mexico, so I figured... Wait, what were you doing here?"
Phil raised his eyebrows at her, glancing around the floor. Couples were dancing in mincing steps to a blazing fast rendition of Happy Feet. "For real?" she asked. He nodded, silently. "You can dance?"
"I think that was why Fran was introducing us. Yes."
"Wow, I was a total ass. I mean, you did steal my iPod which by the way I never got another one of, but I guess almost dying kinda zeroes out the balance maybe?"
"If you're done with the water, would you like to dance?" Phil asked, Happy Feet ending and transitioning into a slower Man from Mars with an excellent Artie Shaw soundalike.
"For real?" Darcy asked suspiciously.
"We can discuss gag orders regarding my off-hours activity after the song," Phil replied with a mild smirk, a shadow of Other Phil's ebullient grin showing through to let Darcy know he was mostly kidding.