Harm Reduction || Phil and Steve
Seventy-two hours since the Quin dropped Steve off on his mission. Phil wouldn’t say he worried -- the man had shot him, after all -- but it was concerning. Concern was a better word than worry, he felt. It extrapolated nicely with ‘a valuable asset has been lost’.
That was much better than “I’ve lost someone I’ve cared about.”
He swallowed, pulling up the screen on his tablet. The distress signal had gone up four hours ago. That was the problem.
The Quin hadn’t even landed before Phil was boots on the ground, striding around the impact site and barking orders. Agents scurried back and forth, setting up a perimeter.
“I’ll estimate we’ve got about another couple hours to clean this shit up before the army shows up,” he shouted, wanting to be heard over the whine of Blackhawk rotors. “Find me Rogers and let’s get the hell out of here.”
“Here, sir!” Someone called. “We followed the spatter here. There’s a trail.”
“Medical, with me.” Phil headed through the broken trail in the woods, pistol drawn. There was no telling what he’d find.
The carnage was incredible. He’d never seen an agent go this awry, and he was a little ill with the thought. They found the shield implanted in the ground and then Steve himself, leaned against a rock and bleeding.
“Rogers,” Phil said, his voice gruff. He knelt beside him and waved a hand in front of his face. “You still with me?”