Forum Block
Stacked With: MC4A; Hogwarts; Shipping War
Individual Challenges: Short Jog; Yellow Ribbon; Yellow Ribbon Redux; SHIELD MC (x3)
Prompts: "You can't wake up, this is not a dream." (auction); Flavour (365 words); Coffee (Insane Prompts)
Word count: 1,410

Phil sat at a desk, typing in information to one of the numerous forms that needed to be filled out. There was a subtle shuffling sound coming from above him and he knew that it was Clint making his way through the ceiling vents. A steaming coffee cup sat next to his left elbow and he thought briefly that it was odd for the coffee to still be hot and in the cup.

His eyes started to get weary and his head nodded forward. He jerked it up, shaking himself to keep him from falling asleep. It was a futile effort; he had been working long hours with minimal sleep for several weeks by now, and sleep was catching up. Saving the file, Phil pushed away his keyboard and rested his head on his arms on the desk, letting himself drift off.

He woke up. The smell of fresh coffee permeated his flat and he felt the last vestiges of the dream slip away. He threw away the duvet and padded into the kitchen where the automated maker was letting coffee drip into the jug. It wasn't his first choice for coffee, but it did the job well enough and meant he didn't have to go downstairs, set up, and then make one himself.

He slumped against the counter as he waited for the machine to finish. Rubbing his palms over his face, Phil sighed. He enjoyed his life and his job, but every so often, he felt like something was missing. The dreams didn't help either; he didn't remember them at all, but he remembered the feeling of rightness he had when he was in that dreamland of plugging in information in the office with a purple couch sitting off to the side.

The machine beeped and he fetched down his mug before filling it with wonderful ambrosia. The flavour and smell of the coffee woke him up and prepared him for the day ahead. Once he was done, he washed up and went to get ready. He had a few things left to do before he could properly open up the shop, but he also knew some of the regulars didn't care about his official hours and came anyway (he had ended up adapting his hours to prevent them waking him up with constant texts and calls).

Grabbing his phone on his way, Phil locked the flat and made his way downstairs to the small bakery café he owned. It wasn't anything grand or spectacular, but it provided good food and drink to the locals and kept him both happy and busy. May was already walking up to the door when he entered the main area and he hurriedly unlocked it to let her in.

She nodded in greeting and instantly curled up on one of the long sofas that lined the walls. Phil quickly went through the motions of setting up the coffee machine and removing any traces of the cleaning agent from yesterday before testing the water and then placing a mug with a green tea bag in it under the spout.

Bread was checked, shaped, and then slid into the oven to bake as he carried over the tea and muffin that was May's standing order. She worked nights and always came in after her shift for a snack before heading home to sleep. She cracked her eyes open when he placed the cup and plate down and smiled gratefully.

"Thanks, Phil," she murmured.

"You're welcome," he returned just as quietly; it felt almost sacrilegious to disturb the peace of early morning with loud voices.

He returned to the open kitchen and started grabbing the ingredients he would need to whip up more treats. The muffin May had was from yesterday—he always kept one to the side for her to have the next morning—and he needed to make some fresh ones.

Soon enough, the regular morning crowd found their way back to his café and he was busy taking orders, pulling out things from the oven, and sending out completed tickets. Clint came in halfway through the rush with Lucky—who rather enthusiastically bounded over to Jasper Sitwell and the dog treats he always had on him.

Clint placed a quick kiss on Phil's cheek before moving to start more bread dough that would be ready by the afternoon. They weren't open for lunch, everyone in their small community was either asleep or one of the few day-workers that were busy with their own job. Instead, the bakery did a roaring trade in the early morning and evenings.

Once everyone had gone and the place cleaned up and shut down, Phil collapsed into one of the seats, Lucky placing his head on Phil's lap and Clint sitting across from him. Clint—being the marvellous man he was—had brought over a mug of coffee with him and placed it in front of Phil.

"Tired?" he asked.

Phil smiled wryly. "I'm always tired."

Clint conceded the point and curled his feet up under him as he watched Lucky happily accept pats from Phil. "You should think about hiring staff, maybe they'll take a bit of pressure off you."

"From where?" Phil asked. "We have a tiny population here and everyone already has a job. Besides, this place runs like a dream. Sometimes I'm afraid I'll wake up and find that it is a dream."

"I can clear that fear up for you," Clint said. "You can't wake up, this isn't a dream. Or if it is, we're sharing the same one."

"Good to know."

The peaceful atmosphere was broken by the sound of a plane flying overhead and landing somewhere near where the town square was. Sharing concerned looks, both Phil and Clint abandoned their comfortable seats and raced outside to see what was happening. A plane making a landing without an airstrip was almost always bad news.

When they arrived at the town square, it was to the sight of a quinjet sitting in the middle and the ramp lowering down to let someone out. It was an almost identical replica of the one they kept in a hangar on the outskirts of town (no one used it anymore) but there were enough differences that it couldn't be the same.

A man in a long leather trench coat with an eyepatch over his left eye strode down the ramp with his hands clasped behind his back. The sight of him had snatches of Phil's dreams coming back and vanishing just as quickly with a yellow tinge.

"Coulson!" the man bellowed out. "What the hell is going on here?"

Phil hesitated. He was still unsure of why the man looked familiar and had no idea why he was asking Phil what was happening in their small town. "Nothing in particular, Director."

Director? Where had that come from? The man glared at him.

"I know that. That's precisely the problem, Agent Coulson. Nothing is happening. I haven't from your team for three weeks, no one is checking in and following protocol."

At the words Agent Coulson and protocol, Phil's mind cleared. A wash of yellow slammed into him as he struggled to keep his sudden memories from leaving again. He staggered to his knees under the pressure, Clint and Nick rushing to his side as he collapsed.

"0-8-4," he gasped out to Nick and the Director nodded in understanding.

He raced back to the quinjet and came out a few seconds later carrying a case that would cancel out the 0-8-4's effects. Phil gestured to the fountain with its stone garden of flowers and a shining yellow rose. Fury immediately changed course and leaped into the fountain, paying no heed to the water as he clambered up the stone and snapped the case shut over the yellow rose, breaking off the crumbling stone that had held the rose in place as he did so.

Instantly, the pressure vanished and Phil could breathe easily again. He glanced back in the direction of the bakery café that had once been his pride and joy and groaned as he let himself collapse fully onto the cobbled road. He really hated answering 0-8-4 alerts. Next time he'd just send May and Sitwell, they could be the ones dealing with mind-bending universe alterations.

Altered Memories

Step 1. Have a set check-in routine to follow.

Step 2. Pray to God someone comes to find out why you've been missing your check-ins.