The Dollhouse Protocol

a The Avengers and Dollhouse crossover

Rating: T

Fandoms: The Avengers (post-movie, includes spoilers), Dollhouse

Summary: In which a never-before-been-used protocol is activated and a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent wakes up to a very different life.

Warnings: spoilers for The Avengers 2012 movie, canonical character death

Disclaimer: Neither The Avengers (and the associated movie universe) nor Dollhouse belong to me. No money is being made from this work of fiction.

Notes: Because I couldn't bear to see Agent Phil Coulson die...

Phil Coulson comes to full awareness in an instant and knows immediately that something is different.

Not wrong per se, but definitely different.

He can't immediately identify what it is that makes him so sure that something is different and that is cause for concern. He remains still, eyes closed and breathing steady, and stretches out his other senses. The room is cold, but not uncomfortably so, though the thin hairs rise on his bare arms. Phil is reclined in a firm chair, thin gel pads under his splayed palms and the back of his neck. His feet and arms are bare, the rest of him clothed in soft cotton.

He isn't restrained in any way, but his body feels strange, like the weight and balance are wrong. Like his skin doesn't fit right.

It's not a sensation Phil has ever felt before.

The closest he's ever come to this strange detachment from himself was a mission two years when he'd been captured by HYDRA and drugged as part of the interrogation. It had been three days before Barton, disobeying half a dozen "retreat and regroup" orders, had managed to break into the base and get Phil out.

But somehow this doesn't feel like drugs. Phil feels lucid and normal; there's none of the strange sensation-distorting experiences that go with a drug high. Except for the feeling that his body doesn't fit, isn't his.

He pushes the thought from his mind as irrelevant for the time being and concentrates on his other senses, trying to figure out where he is and how he got here.

There is a gentle humming and whirring at the edge of his hearing, a sound Phil associates with high-powered computers, and the low murmur of voices in another room.

His senses paint a picture of a room, neither old nor new, large enough to comfortably fit half a dozen people, but small enough to be cozy. It doesn't get a lot of use, Phil guesses; he smells the pine scent of industrial cleaning solution, but dust still tickles his nose. It doesn't feel like a prison or any kind of interrogation room Phil has ever been in, and he's been in his fair share.

Phil has never been here before, he knows.

Yet the room feel remarkably familiar.

The biggest concern, though, is how he got here.

The last thing he remembers is...

Cold.

Phil shivers as the cold metal of the chair seeps into his bare skin. The room is kept arctically cold to protect the equipment, Phil knows.

That doesn't mean he likes the cold.

He twists his wrists carefully, testing the give on the padded restraints tying down his arms, legs, and torso.

There isn't any.

Phil glances around the empty room, taking in the haphazard workstation in one corner, piled high with untidy stacks of paper and empty paper coffee cups. The occupant is nowhere to be found.

Phil huffs softly in annoyance and settles back into the chair. He has things he needs to be doing, not the least of which is relieving Agent Romanoff from Stark's protection detail before she gets annoyed enough to shoot the billionaire genius, and none of those things can be accomplished while he's strapped to a chair in an empty lab.

A clatter draws his attention to the far corner of the room, where a middle-aged man in a white lab coat is pushing through the door, awkwardly juggling half-a-dozen clipboards and a tablet computer in his arms. A coffee cup is precariously balanced on top of the stack.

The man makes it do the desk without dropping anything, though he does slosh a good amount of coffee all over his tablet when the cup tilts precariously. Phil watches with hidden amusement as the man curses and scrambles to find something to wipe away the dripping liquid, finally mopping it up with the corner of his lab coat.

"If you're quite ready, Mr. Danforth," Phil says. He lets his lips curve slightly upwards as the technician, Nathan Danforth, startles violently and whirls towards Phil.

"Agent Coulson," Danforth says, looking flustered. "I didn't realize you were here already."

"Clearly," Phil says.

He watches Danforth visibly compose himself, taking deep breaths and straightening the edges of his lab coat.

"Right," Danforth says, "let's get started then."

Danforth rummages through the papers on his desk, finally drawing out a clipboard. Phil can see his own name in neat type across the top of the paperwork. Danforth skims the paperwork and mutters to himself while Phil waits, unimpressed with the technician's disorganization.

For all that Phil thinks this program is probably never going to be put into practical use, that's no excuse for its personnel to be anything less than exemplary at their jobs. He makes a note to discuss the issue with Fury later.

"Right," Danforth says again, "monthly backup time. You know the drill."

Danforth moves to the top of the reclined chair, adjusting the chair's settings and the settings on the bank of electronic equipment behind the chair. The chair begins to hum under Phil's bare skin. As many times as he's done this procedure since the program was established, sitting in this chair still disturbs him on some primal level.

Perhaps because he knows so much of its history, knows the uses to which it was put.

Knows the damage it could do to anyone sitting in it.

Above his head, Danforth prattles on. Phil dedicates a small portion of his attention to listening to the technician, but there is little likelihood of him saying anything Phil hasn't heard before or doesn't already know from the mountains of paperwork that accompany this program.

Phil is well-acquainted with Danforth's ability to talk without stopping and without requiring a response.

He stays quiet, letting Danforth babble as he marshals his thoughts and forces himself not to show the tension he feels.

Finally, the talking and sounds of machines being adjusted stops and Danforth moves back into Phil's field of vision.

"Ready," Danforth asks.

Phil nods once, sharp and precise.

Danforth pulls down the screen of the computer attached to the chair. The interface is deceptively simple for the complexity and magnitude of the program is controls, Phil thinks.

He watches Danforth call up the personality capture interface and initiate the program. The chair's low level hum changes to a high-pitched whine. Phil's feels his entire body tense and spasm like electricity is running through his veins. He wants to curl up and cover his ears, but the straps hold him down and the whine is inside his head now, a building crescendo inside his skull.

"I'll see you on the other side," Danforth says as Phil's vision whites out.

"Welcome back Agent Coulson."

Phil's eyes spring open, seeking the speaker.

The man is leaning against the doorjamb, arms crossed over his muscled chest. The frown, eye patch, and black leather clothing intimidate most, but Phil feels only relief.

"Director Fury," Phil says, surprised. The director has never before been present following any of Phil's backups. Phil knows that Fury may not feel the same level of reservation he does about the program, but the director is usually courteous enough to give his agent's time to get dressed in more comfortable clothes before he ambushes them.

The director inclines his head, but doesn't speak. The expression on his face is unreadable, even to Phil who has learned to interpret the subtle inflections of the director's body language. Phil thinks he sees worry and relief and guilt flash in an instant in Fury's eyes.

These are not expressions Phil typically associates with his stoic boss, and he instantly feels his level of unease climb.

Before he can demand answers from Fury, a dark-haired tech Phil doesn't recognize – which is surprising because Phil has made it a point to memorize the names and faces of as many S.H.I.E.L.D. personnel as possible – slides between the two and bends over Phil's still-reclined form.

"How are you feeling, Agent Coulson?" the tech asks.

Phil blinks.

This is not standard protocol for either medical or post-interrogation debriefings. Or, really, debriefings of any sort. He should know because he helped write the protocol.

Something is wrong here.

"Did I fall asleep?" he asks.

"For a little while," the tech answers. His smile is tremulous and there's something like fear in his eyes.

Phil begins to frown. The phrase touches something inside him that he can't quite pin down.

"It was a lot longer than a little while," Fury says, pushing off the wall and stepping forwards. "Dismissed Mr. Graves," he says, tilting his head at the door.

The tech bows his head and scuttles out of the room.

"What's going on director?" Phil asks with a frown.

Fury sighs and takes another step forward. "Phil," he says and Phil's stomach plummets because the director never uses an agent's first name unless the agent is dying, "Phil, I had to enact the Dollhouse protocol."

And all at once, Phil understands.

Why he feels so out of place in his body. Why he knows the room but doesn't. Why Fury was standing watch over a routine procedure. The fear in the tech's eyes and the guilt in Fury's.

His original body is dead and, per the Dollhouse protocol, he's been permanently imprinted into a new one.

He knows the protocol. He helped Fury design the program and hide it from the World Security Council, who would have commandeered the tech for their own use. He helped choose which of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s talented personnel would be classified as part of the select group that would be backed up and imprinted permanently in new bodies in worst-case situations. He fought with Fury on his own inclusion in the program and, eventually, gracefully accepted when Fury refused to back down. He dutifully attended all his own appointments with the technicians in charge of creating the back-ups.

This body isn't his.

He knows the Dollhouse protocol.

He just never expected to see it used. And certainly not on him.

"What..." his voice cracks. He clears the body's throat (his now, even if it used to be someone else's). He forces himself to concentrate. He can break down later. In private.

"What happened to me?" he asks.

"You died," Fury says. His tone is almost gentle.

Phil gives him a look. He's not an idiot. He knows that he wouldn't be here, in a new body, if his original was still alive. This is the purpose of the Dollhouse protocol.

Phil knows. He wrote this protocol too.

He's not fragile. He doesn't need Fury to baby him through this.

What he needs to know is what happened, how he died, how many others died – Hill, Sitwell, Natasha, Clint.

What he needs is answers.

Fury acknowledges the look with a nod and a faint smile. When he carries on, he is back to the no-nonsense director Phil is familiar with.

"It's a long story and you can read the incident reports later," Fury says, "but the short story is that a Norse demi-god tried to invade Manhatten with his alien army and he stabbed you through the heart when you tried to prevent him from escaping S.H.I.E.L.D. custody. The Avengers stopped the invasion. There were civilian casualties on the ground and among S.H.I.E.L.D. personnel, but you were the only casualty in the senior personnel."

For a minute, Phil can't say anything, stunned by Fury words. Stabbed through the heart? An invasion of Manhatten? A Norse demi-god? Aliens?

Phil has seen a lot with S.H.I.E.L.D., but this is definitely a new one for him.

"There are aliens now sir?" he finally manages, his voice shaking a bit — but only a little, because Phil Coulson is a professional damnit and known for his unflappable calm and he's not going to let aliens, demigods, invasion, or his own death ruin that.

He's not going to let his relief stop him from getting all the information he can. He'll grieve the dead agents later, but Fury said he was only casualty among the senior personnel. That means the few people he counts as friends – as family – have all made it through in one piece.

Fury blinks and looks nonplussed.

"That's right," he says, "your last back-up was before the New Mexico debacle."

Phil raises an eyebrow, desperately reigning in his internal turmoil.

Fury grins at him. "You missed a lot," he says.

Phil is not at all comforted by the expression on Fury's face.

Nor by the thought of all the paperwork that's probably been piling up in his absence.

He sighs and levers himself out of the chair, taking a moment to adjust to his new centre of balance. He flexes minutely, testing the muscles and joints of his new body. It still feels strange, like a suit that hasn't been perfectly tailored to his frame, but Phil can also feel the potential.

This body is younger than his old one, undamaged by three decades of field work, first with the Army Rangers then with S.H.I.E.L.D. It's going to take some getting used; already it feels strange not to feel the slight twinges of old injuries that he was accustomed to.

He's going to have to take his new body through its paces in the gym and on the range before he feels completely comfortable with it, but first...

"What d'you think of it?" Fury asks when Phil looks back in his direction.

Phil gives the director a small smile. "Where can a guy get a good suit in this place?" he asks.

Fury laughs, and Phil thinks he can see relief in the director's expression.

"Right this way, Agent Coulson," he says, gesturing through the door.

"After you, sir," Phil says.

Fury nods and turns towards the door. Halfway through he pauses and turns back, meeting Phil's gaze with a now-sombre expression.

"I'm glad to have you back, Phil," he says sincerely.

Phil ducks his head, surprised by Fury's comments. In the 21 years he's worked for S.H.I.E.L.D., Phil can count on one hand (and still have fingers left over) the number of times Fury has paid anyone a personal and sincere compliment.

"Thank you, sir," Phil says.

Fury nods. "That said," he says. "You're three weeks behind on your paperwork and the Avengers have gone through five different handlers since your death. You've done quite enough slacking and I need your ass back at work."

Phil nods and schools his expression into his usual solemn facade, hiding his amusement and his inner glee that, from Fury's comments, it appears that the Avengers Initiative has somehow come together in his absence.

"Of course, sir," he says.

No rest for the good guys, Phil thinks, following Fury through the door. Back to work we go.