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When Flip is seven, his world comes to an end. A trip to the movies on a rainy night ends in disaster. A truck skids into the left side of their car. Flip's father is killed instantly; his mother breaks a few bones but survives mostly intact. Flip's older sister Alexa curls herself over him the moment before the crash. The firemen have to cut her out of the wreck, and her skull is cracked. At first nobody knows if she will live or not.

Flip doesn't have a scratch on him. That almost hurts worse than the rest.

When his mother explains what has happened to their family, Flip tries to be brave about it. He tries not to cry. It hurts too much, though, and the tears leak out. Sobs shake his small frame.

Mom isn't very good at hugging right now, with her left arm in a cast, but Flip doesn't care. He clings to her anyway as he cries.

The funeral is awful. Flip's mother wears a black velvet dress with a pearl necklace, and a stupid little hat with a veil that doesn't really hide her face. She goes through a whole box of kleenex. Alexa is still in the hospital, so she can't even come say goodbye to their father.

Flip sits stiff and straight on the hard wooden bench. He imagines that he is a knight, and knights don't cry. He doesn't have a suit of armor, but he does have a suit. It is black and scratchy. Flip imagines that it is really armor, and oddly enough that works. He feels a little less awful. He remembers this. It may come in handy someday.

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Just before Alexa comes home from the hospital, Mom sits with Flip on the couch and explains some things. "You know Alexa was hurt very badly, and she's getting better," Mom says. "The sad part is, she won't ever be the same as she was before the accident."

"Neither will we," Flip says softly. His chest still hurts whenever he thinks about Dad.

"I suppose that's true," Mom says. "You need to understand that Alexa ... may not be much like a big sister anymore. She may be more like a little sister instead."

"What does that mean?" Flip asks, nibbling on his lip.

"Alexa needs a lot of extra help to do things that she used to be able to do for herself," Mom says. "I won't have quite as much time to spend with you, and for that I am truly sorry. I hope that you can be patient with us while we figure things out."

Flip feels sad and scared and terribly lost. He is also determined to do whatever it takes to keep his family together. "Okay," he says, not because anything is, but because he will find a way to make it okay again. Someday.

So Flip waits and he watches. He sees his sister come home and sleep in the complicated new bed that takes the place of her old canopy. He listens to her crying when she can't remember that the tag goes in the back, and she takes a long time to relearn how to work buttons. She tries to brush her hair over the scar on her left temple, but it never stays. She mumbles when she talks. The books that once made her a straight-A student now gather dust.

When Flip folds the laundry, he makes sure the tags show on Alexa's clothes. He puts away things without buttons in the front of the drawers and things with buttons in the back. Alexa hugs just as well as ever, though.

Flip notices that his mother hurries more and smiles less and falls asleep on the couch more afternoons than not. She doesn't do knitting, quilting, or other crafts as much as she used to. It's hard because Dad isn't there to help Mom with the grownup things anymore. She stays home to take care of Alexa. Money is tight. Time is even tighter.

There aren't as many chances to play with other boys, but Flip doesn't care much about that. He doesn't like all the same games they do anyway; he has more fun playing with his sister and her friends, or did before the accident. Flip doesn't know what to do. He feels nervous, which makes him bite his nails, which he knows he's not supposed to do, but he can't help it. Everything seems out of place now.

Flip thinks hard about what is wrong and how he can fix it. Sometimes Mom gets so busy with Alexa that she has no time left for anything else. Flip does his chores carefully but the rest of them just don't always get done. The house looks ... not horrible, but dingy and sad. It makes Flip feel shabby too.

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One day after Flip finishes dust mopping the floor, he goes on to dust the furniture. It's not that much harder. He knows where to find the dust cloths and how to work the spray can of furniture polish. The can says Keep away from children but Flip knows better than to get it on his face. All his teachers say he is very smart for his age.

Flip sprays a little polish on the cloth. He wipes down the kitchen table and chairs. The golden wood gleams in the sun and the room smells like lemons, the way it used to.

"Flip, sweetie, you don't have to do all that," his mother says as she leans against the doorframe. "You're just a little boy. You should spend your time studying and playing."

"I want to help," Flip says, lifting his chin. "This is my family. You and Alexa are all I have left. We have to help each other. I know I'm only little and can't do much, but I want to do something. It's no fun playing by myself, especially if Alexa isn't feeling well and you're so tired from trying to do everything alone. We need each other."

Flip's mother hugs him tight. "Okay," she says. "We'll make a list of chores, and you can take on a few extra ones. You still have to keep up with your schoolwork, though, and I want you to get some playtime too. We can negotiate the details and see what works out. What kinds of things would you like to add?"

"I want to do next things," Flip says. He has a list in his head, and recites it carefully. "I already empty the dishwasher. I could probably load it. I fold the laundry. I could start washing it. I can make salad. I want to learn some real recipes, maybe something easy like cookies or scrambled eggs."

Mom raises her eyebrows. "Those are very good ideas. I'm proud of you, Flip, it sounds like you really put some thought into this."

"I don't want to mess up and just make things worse. I want to find things that I can really do to help," Flip says. "I know there's all kinds of stuff you're doing for Alexa that I can't, and the nurse comes to do the stuff that you can't. But if I do the easiest things, then you don't have to. You'll have more time for other things, and maybe you won't fall asleep on the couch so much."

"Okay, sweetie," Mom says. "I'm sure you'll be a big help."

Flip learns to do a few new chores. He also learns something amazing: when he helps other people, he doesn't feel quite so sad anymore. He feels useful again. He feels like he can make things just a little bit better. So he starts watching, all the time, for things to do and ways to take care of people.

The next thing he suggests, for playtime, is visiting the park on Saturday mornings. This gets everyone out of the house, encourages Alexa to try some of the simple playground equipment, and gives Flip a chance to play with other kids. It becomes a new family tradition.

Mom still falls asleep on the couch, but not as often. Flip doesn't mind. He covers her with the afghan and goes to start the laundry. The washing machine makes quiet sounds that are good for sleeping.

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When Flip turns eight, he asks for two things: a box of Legos, which are fun to play with even alone; and a hot dog cooker, because he loves hot dogs and it looks really easy to use.

He gets three things: the Legos, the hot dog cooker, and a stack of comic books.

Flip's eyes water, because Alexa has always given him comic books on special occasions, and he thought he'd never see that again. The covers are wrong -- these aren't the detective comics that he's been collecting for the last year -- but Flip doesn't care. They're comics and they're from his sister and so he loves them.

"Alexa saw those and insisted you'd like them," Mom says. "I know they're different, but well, she's never been wrong before ..."

Flip looks at the glossy covers where a handsome man swings a shield at the bad guys. The colors are so bright, red and white and blue, so different from the darker art of spies and gumshoes. It makes him smile. He could use something a little brighter in his life these days. It would be nice to have a hero rush in like that and save him.

"I think they're great," Flip says. "Everything is great."

"Happy birthday," Alexa says, mumbling only a little. She's learning to talk again, and getting pretty good at it now. "I'm happy. Are you happy?"

"I am happy," Flip says, and he is. He really is.

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Flip doesn't have a lot of toys. Some kids have a whole room full of them. His family can't afford to buy everything he wants, or to replace everything that needs it, but that's okay. Flip likes keeping his room tidy. All his toys have a place to live, boxes and shelves neatly organized. Flip likes fixing things that get broken and finding things that get lost. He learns how to make simple repairs and how to search carefully. It helps him feel safe in a world that is scarier than it used to be.

Captain America makes him feel safer too. Flip loves the comic books with their bold colors and exciting stories. More than that, though, he loves how Captain America always does what's right, no matter how hard it is. Captain America never acts like a bully even though he is big and strong. He uses his strength to protect people. Flip likes having someone to look up to, especially with his father gone.

Flip also enjoys reusing things that somebody else isn't using. Alexa doesn't play with her dolls as much as she used to. It's hard for her to remember where things go, too. Flip helps Alexa sort out her stuff. He leaves her the few dolls that she still likes, and takes some of the others to his own rooms.

Flip likes to cuddle the baby dolls. He loves the dress-up dolls, too. Sometimes he puts them in beautiful ball gowns and imagines taking them to a dance in the city. Other times he puts them in G.I. Joe uniforms and has them storm the Kremlin. He doesn't have enough soldiers, so the troops need all the support they can get. He has to be careful, though, because if his toys go "missing in action" around the house, Mom holds them hostage until he cleans up the room better.

Not everyone takes care of their things as well as Flip does. Sometimes he finds toys, or worse, parts of toys that other kids have lost or thrown away. It makes him feel sad to see fun things forgotten like that. So Flip picks them up and takes them home. The plastic heroes are missing arms or legs, and one of them has no head. Once in a while Flip manages to put together a whole toy from pieces he has found. That makes him feel warm and happy inside. Then he puts it on the shelf with his other good toys. The rest of the "rescue" toys stay in their box under his bed.

One cold day, a glint of colorful metal catches Flip's eye. He crouches over the frozen puddle behind his grade school. There under the ice lies a Captain America action figure. Flip can just make out the fact that the tin soldier is missing its right arm and shield. He doesn't care. He is not about to leave Captain America trapped in the ice.

Flip has watched television shows about digging up dinosaur bones, so he knows that he needs to work slowly and carefully. He finds a rock with a good point. Then he chips away the ice around the battered toy until he can lift it free. Finally Flip tugs off his gloves and uses his warm hands to melt the remaining ice.

Captain America lies in the palm of Flip's hand. The tin is scratched in places, silver-gray metal showing through the red and blue paint. The shoulder socket is bent a little where the right arm has torn away. But the determined look on Cap's face is unchanged. Gently Flip rubs away the grit and cleans the toy as best he can. He'll need to go over it again with a nail brush and some toothpicks to get all the mud out of the grooves. Flip puts Cap in his pocket and stands up.

He is so late getting home that he misses supper. His mother scolds him. Flip shows her the tin soldier and explains all about rescuing Captain America. Mom's face softens then. "Oh, Flip," she says, hugging him close. "I understand, I really do. You can't stay out so late, though. You really scared me."

"I'm sorry for scaring you, Mom," he says. Flip volunteers for extra chores, and Mom doesn't take him to the park that Saturday. But Captain America sleeps safe under Flip's bed in a nest of fabric scraps, just in case Flip ever finds an arm and a shield for him, so it's worth it.

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Nine starts out awful, because when Flip is nine, Alexa goes back to school and Mom goes back to work. It's hard because Alexa was nine when the accident happened, and now Flip is the same age that she was. Mom was right; Alexa is more like a little sister now. So Flip no longer has anyone to protect him from the bullies at school. They make fun of him for being short and smart and nerdy. Flip can deal with that. When they pick on his sister, though, that's different.

The first time Flip gets in a fight, it's just a small one. His mother is furious anyway. The school calls her to pick him up in the middle of the day. She hates having to leave work, because every time that happens, they might not let her come back.

"Philip J. Coulson, I am so disappointed in you, I don't know what to say." Her knuckles are white where she grips the steering wheel. "I have enough to deal with just keeping your sister on track. I cannot deal with more trouble from you."

"I'm sorry, Mom, but they --"

"I don't want to hear it. Go to your room." The car door slams.

Flip gets out. He goes to his room without another word. Mom is so angry. She never hits him, but she gives him the silent treatment for the rest of the day. Sometimes Flip feels that with Mom paying so much attention to Alexa, he might as well not even be there. That hurts even worse. His chest feels like one big ache squeezing around his heart.

He bites his nails, nibbling on one and then another. His left pinky snags and the fingernail tears back to the quick, blood seeping from the corner. Flip gets out a box of band-aids and covers that fingertip so he'll remember not to bite it again.

Flip lies on his bed and stares at the wall. A tall poster of Captain America hangs across from the bed. Flip wonders what Cap what would do in his shoes. He knows that Cap doesn't like bullies. But Cap fights because he has to, not because he wants to.

Maybe getting into fights at school isn't okay. Flip doesn't want to make trouble for his mother, but he can't let people keep picking on his sister. She can't stick up for herself the way he can. Flip sighs. He just doesn't know what to do.

And his chest still hurts, full of tears that can't seem to find their way out.

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The next time Flip gets into a fight, it's even worse. There are three bullies against him and his sister. Alexa yells at them, but it's harder for her to fight back now. So Flip puts himself between her and them. The bullies beat the snot out of him.

Flip comes home with his clothes torn and bloody. They can't afford to replace a lot of things these days, even with Mom working again. He can mend the rips, and if he's lucky, then maybe the bloodstains will come out in cold water. Flip has a black eye and a split lip. Alexa is fine, though, and that's what matters to him.

Mom is quiet, but not silent, as she gets out the first aid kit. Flip can tell the difference. Her hands are gentle as she cleans the blood off his face. She uses mouthwash on the split lip, and it stings like blazes, but Flip knows this is a good trick because it's safe to lick and the regular stuff for cuts isn't. Mom puts him on the couch with an ice pack for his sore eye.

Then she says, "Flip, we need to discuss what's going on."

Flip heaves a sigh of relief. He can take anything, as long as she talks to him instead of pretending that he doesn't even exist. Mom will know what to do about this mess; she always does. "Yes, ma'am," he says.

Mom has a way of getting all the details out. Before he knows it, Flip spills the beans about the bullies and what they want to do to him and to his sister. He goes through the whole list of solutions he's already tried, from avoiding them to ignoring them to asking the teachers for help. But nobody cares, nobody stops them, and they just keep coming. If the bullies don't jump the two of them at school, they wait until afterwards, catching Flip and Alexa somewhere else. Nowhere is safe.

"I'm sorry, sweetie. You deserve to be safe, you both do, but it's not always that easy," Mom says as she hugs him.

"Yeah," Phil says. He hates how some people make the world a meaner place than it needs to be. It makes him want to punch them in the face, but he's not very good at that, and it doesn't seem to help much anyhow.

"First of all, I want you to tell me when something bad happens. No more of this trying to deal with it by yourself," Mom says.

Flip forgets and nibbles his lip, which makes it hurt again. "I don't want to be a bother," he says.

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"You're never a bother, darling, even if I'm too tired to remember that sometimes," Mom says. "Your problems are important too."

"I dunno," Flip says.

"Well, maybe if you don't feel like talking with me, you'd prefer someone else," Mom says. "We could find you a counselor. Then you'd have a special friend who would listen to things that you don't feel comfortable telling me."

"Aw geeze no," Flip says, rolling his eyes. "They're awful. I'd rather just deal with the bullies myself." The man at the hospital really was horrible. He asked nosy questions on how Flip felt about his father and his sister and the car crash, without offering ideas on how to fix anything. That made Flip feel worse instead of better. The school counselor is just plain useless. She couldn't talk her way out of a wet paper bag. Nobody trusts her with anything important.

Flip's mother knows all this. She looks at him with her wise gray eyes and says, "What about if we found you someone really good? Would you think about it then?"

"Talking won't stop the bullies, Mom," he argues. "I need to be able to fight back when they jump us. Otherwise they'll just keep beating me up, or worse, they'll hurt Alexa. I want to learn karate. There's a place that teaches it; I saw an ad in the paper."

"Flip, you can't solve all your problems by hitting people," Mom says.

"The bullies think so."

"Well they're ninnies, and you shouldn't use them as role models," she says crisply. "Look at me, you don't see me getting into fistfights, do you?"

Flip shakes his head.

"And I do a pretty good job of making things happen, don't I?" Mom says.

Flip nods.

"There are other ways of ... handling people," Mom says. "So you try to stay out of fights, and I'll teach you about getting people to do what you want."

"I still really want to take karate," Flip says. He kind of wants to learn Mom's secret tricks too, though. She's right. She usually gets her way even when the school principal doesn't want to help Alexa like he should. It's like she uses the Force on him or something. Flip wishes he could just wave his hand and make people do whatever he says.

"I still really want you to see a counselor," Mom counters.

She's doing it again, right now; Flip can feel it working. He never has been able to stand up to his mother when she does this. He just can't bear the idea of more nosy questions jabbing at him like someone's thumbs digging into his bruises. Flip kicks his heels against the couch.

"So here's the deal, kiddo: you agree to talk with someone, and I'll let you take those karate lessons you want so much," Mom says.

"Really?" Flip says. He's so excited about the idea of karate lessons that counseling suddenly seems like a reasonable price.

"Really. Shake on it," Mom says, and they do.

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Karate is everything that Flip hopes and then some. The dojo is clean and quiet and orderly. Each session begins and ends with meditation. Nobody yells at each other, except as part of the exercises to focus their energy. Sensei Takenaka says that to master others, you must first master yourself.

Flip believes him, because Sensei Takenaka looks like a bully but doesn't move like one. He's tall and muscular and floats across the floor like a dancer. And people get out of his way anyhow.

The moves are straightforward. The rest of the class seems to find them difficult for some reason. Flip doesn't understand. It's all so ... easy.

Oh, the exercise is hard. He's not in very good shape. An hour and a half of exertion is a lot for him. By the end of the session, Flip is panting for breath and his muscles feel like wet rags. But the punches and kicks and throws just aren't that challenging.

It only takes Flip three months to go from eighth kyu to seventh kyu. His mother buys him a uniform to celebrate, because novices aren't required to wear any and they couldn't afford it until Flip proved himself serious about karate. He feels a swell of pride in himself every time he ties his white belt.

Flip does it again three months later. He advances to sixth kyu and earns his green belt. Karate is like nothing he's ever known before. When he moves, he feels so powerful. When he jumps, he feels like he's flying. He doesn't have the raw physical prowess of the big boys and the heavily muscled men, but Flip is starting to realize that maybe he doesn't need it. He's so small and fast and limber that it's getting hard for them to put a touch on him.

Sensei Takenaka pulls him aside after class. "You show a lot of potential," he says. "I know you like karate, but I think you should consider other martial arts as well."

"This is the only dojo in town," Flip points out.

"There are other towns," Sensei Takenaka replies. Then he hands Flip a book. "Here, read this. See what you think. It's up to you whether you wish to pursue karate alone, or explore mixed martial arts."

Tao of Jeet Kune Do, says the title. Clipped to the cover is a bookmark, a peculiar twist of metal that reads, Absorb what is useful, discard what is not, add what is uniquely your own. -- Bruce Lee.

"Thank you, Sensei," says Flip with a bow. "I think I would like to keep studying karate for now, but I will watch for other opportunities too."

Flip devours the book in a week, but honestly, it's the bookmark that wraps itself around his heart. Absorb what is useful. The phrase sings to him like nothing else has, compact and powerful. This is what he wants to do, taking everything he can find and twisting it together into ... something.

Flip doesn't quite know what he's making of himself, yet, but it will be exciting to find out.

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Counseling is everything that Flip fears, and yet ... not. Mr. Harmon takes the time to get to know Flip before opening the first can of worms. "It's okay to talk about anything, or nothing," Mr. Harmon assures him. "If you have questions, I'll help you search for answers. If you just want me to sit here and listen, I can do that too. If what you need is a place to sit quietly and think, that's also fine. We can work on whatever you feel is important."

Flip doesn't know what to make of that, but he does know how to make small talk. So they start out by discussing school and sports. Just ordinary stuff. Flip learns that Mr. Harmon likes ferrets instead of cats or dogs, and he names the trees in his back yard. It's amazing, the funny stuff people do, and what they'll reveal if you're a good listener. They actually share a couple of interests -- comic books and the cartoon movies that Flip likes to watch with his family.

Then one afternoon they're discussing Captain America's choice of equipment and why he prefers a shield to a gun -- with Mr. Harmon claiming that a shield represents nonviolence and protection while Flip insists that it's more versatile because it can do defense or offense -- when Mr. Harmon idly asks how Flip got into comics in the first place.

"It was my sister's idea," Flip said without thinking. "When I learned the alphabet, Alexa gave me one of her Disney duck comics. She said if I was learning to read, I should have something worth reading. After that, she always gave me some new comics for every birthday and holiday, but then --"

The accident.

All those months when Alexa couldn't talk, or dress herself, or do much of anything.

The horrible Christmas that basically WASN'T because nobody had the time or energy or money to bother with presents.

Flip's voice turns into a lump in his throat, choking him into silence. It feels like the time he accidentally swallowed a jawbreaker whole.

"Your sister sounds like someone very important in your life," Mr. Harmon said. "I've only heard you mention her a few times, though. I'd like to hear more about her, if you feel like sharing."

Flip has never felt less like sharing. He shakes his head.

Mr. Harmon waits patiently for a few minutes. Then he says, "Would you like to hear about how I got interested in comics?"

Flip nods, grateful for the chance to change the subject.

"One Saturday morning, my grandmother took me to a flea market. I'd spent most of Friday raking leaves, and I had a shiny new fifty-cent piece just about burning a hole in my pocket ..."

Flip doesn't talk about his sister anymore that session, or the next. But the week after that, one of the bullies at school sprays ink on Alexa's new yellow dress, so Flip loses his temper and punches the jerk in the face. Flip gets sent home again with a bloody nose and a really mad note from the teacher. When Mr. Harmon asks him how his week has gone, Flip just yells at him for ten minutes straight.

That's how Phil learns that you don't have to make people tell you anything. You just have to make a space for them to spew into.

After Flip finishes yelling and sits in his chair panting with helpless anger, Mr. Harmon quietly summarizes what he had said, then asks if Flip would like to explore what he could do next. Flip just shrugs. Mr. Harmon takes this as his cue and brings out some worksheets that talk about bullies and anger and something called coping skills.

Flip is intrigued to see both cooking and physical exercise on that last page. He knows that sometimes, those lift his mood when he feels low. Maybe there's something else in there that he could try.

Absorb what is useful.

Flip reads the list and then tries out the worksheets. They discuss some options. The paper gives him something to do with his hands. The questions help him figure things out in his head. Flip is glad when the hour is up, though.

Talking about his feelings is hard. Sometimes it feels like throwing up. But sometimes, just like when he's sick, he feels better after he's done it.

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True to her word, Flip's mother teaches him about getting by gracefully. She begins with the story of their family. "For a long time, your father and I were just friends," Mom says, leafing through a photo album as they sit on the couch. "He asked for favors constantly, and he never hesitated to say no if I hinted that I wanted something in return. It annoyed me, so I tried to shoo him away."

"Did it ever work?" Flip asks.

"No, he just asked me what was wrong," Mom says. Her fingertips linger on a snapshot of them as a young couple. "I told him that it made me uncomfortable when people wanted me to do things for them, because I always felt pressured to agree. He just said okay, and started trying to figure out my way of doing things. I learned some about his approach too. He taught me a lot about how to say no. Then one day, I realized that I couldn't imagine my life without him, and I knew that I was in love with him."

"It's nice to remember Dad," says Flip. He turned a page in the album. "I still miss him."

"Yes, it is. We'll always miss him, but what is loved is remembered and what is remembered lives," says Mom. "I may not have your father anymore, but I do have the skills he taught me. You remind me of him in many ways. You can be very assertive about pursuing what you want. There are subtler approaches, though, and a family or person with both skill sets has an advantage over anybody with just one."

Flip nods. He already understands the value in having plenty of tools in the box. "It's harder, though, when people argue."

"Everything worth doing is hard, sweetie," Mom says. "As long as you fight fair, you can usually work things out in the end. The key is to keep disagreements from turning into real fights in the first place."

"I don't know how," Flip said.

"It's like a slope. Little things irritate people, they start griping at each other, then yelling, and before you know it the fists are flying," Mom says, tumbling her hands together. "Just like when an avalanche rolls down a mountainside, it's very difficult to stop at the bottom -- but very easy at the top. So you watch people closely and listen to what they say. Then when they start to get cranky, you give just the tiniest nudge in the right place to bump them back into a safer mindframe."

Flip thinks about avalanches on television, and how Sensei Takenaka says to deflect an attack rather than trying to stop it cold. "How do you nudge people?"

"Well, that part is as much art as science," Mom says. "It helps to know their personality and things they like. Some people like to talk about themselves, and if you ask a question, they tend to pounce on it. Some people have a favorite sport or hobby where you can easily divert a conversation. Plus you need to know how to solve problems; if someone complains about anything that's straightforward to fix, then you can just fix it and avoid the clash that way."

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"I like fixing things," Flip says. He isn't all that great with tools, but the idea appeals to him. "The bullies just like breaking things, though."

"Well, they lead very sad lives," Mom says. "Most bullies feel like they don't have enough choice in what happens to them. They think that hurting people makes them more powerful. Instead it just shows how little control they really have."

"So how does that help? How can I make them stop without hitting back?" Phil asks. He clings to the photo album, its images of happy family comforting.

"Sometimes if you can coax them into talking about what upsets them, they never get around to throwing the first punch. Sympathize with them; make them feel like you're on their side," Mom suggests. "People almost always start with harsh words before they go all the way to physical violence. Stopping it before it gets that far is easier than stopping a fight after it starts."

"It's like using an opponent's own force to throw him in karate," Flip says, trying out the idea. "I don't really throw him. I just sort of ... help him in the direction he's already going, while I step out of the way."

"Exactly," Mom says with a smile, her approval warm as a sunbeam. Flip basks in it.

"Sensei Takenaka says that a true master of karate never needs to use it in a fight, because he knows how to avoid getting into a fight in the first place," Flip says.

"He's right. When you're very powerful, it's important to avoid conflict where you could really hurt someone much weaker than yourself," Mom says. "On the other hand, if you're the weaker person, you need to stay out of situations where someone could hurt you. If you're poor instead of rich, or a woman instead of a man, or even a small man, or you're protecting someone who can't defend themselves, then that puts you at a disadvantage. You can't attack the problem head-on. You have to come at it from the side."

"I'll always be small," Flip says. He's doing great in karate but it's not like anyone could ever mistake him for one of the big, tough guys.

"Probably so. Your father wasn't a large man either," Mom says. Then she smiles. "But he had his own ways of getting what he wanted, different from mine. He was a very assertive and inspiring leader. The people who worked under him admired him a lot. They did what he asked because they wanted to, not because he ordered them around."

Suddenly Flip thinks of Captain America and the inspiring speeches that stand out from the cheesy comic-book dialog like shooting stars in a dark sky. He wonders if any of those are things that Captain America actually said. Flip wonders what kind of leader he could be, if he ever found anyone to follow him. He thinks about the Howling Commandos and about the Nazis they fought. Something tells him that willing followers would be far more valuable than flunkies.

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"So how can I get people to do what I want?" Flip says.

"First you have to know yourself and your own goals. Only then can you nudge people in the right direction," Mom says. "You have to pay attention to other people so you'll understand what might work with each person, because they'll respond to different things. One might give in to logic and another to emotion. One might be moved by money, another by favors."

"I can make a list. I'm good at lists. I can write down the different things that I hear from people, and the ways to move them around," Flip says.

"You could do that. Just remember to take care with anything you write down, so it doesn't cause trouble," Mom says.

Alexa was the one who taught him to keep secrets, a long time ago now, when he was only six and learned the truth about Santa Claus. "I'll be careful," Flip promises. He knows how important secrets can be. Sometimes it's more fun to know them than to tell them.

"That brings us to the last part. You need to know the difference between manipulation and persuasion," Mom says. "Influence can be used for good or bad reasons. You can help people or hurt them. The more you know about making people do what you want, the more responsibility you have to handle them gently, not roughly. Never push harder than you have to. Never mess with people just for fun."

"It's like karate again, and appropriate force," Flip says.

"Yes, it is," Mom says. She wraps an arm around Flip and hugs him close. "You know, that karate class was a great idea of yours. I was pretty dubious at first. I thought it might encourage you to get into more fights. Instead it's making you think about avoiding fights. I'm glad I was wrong about that. I'm really proud of you for looking at the peacemaking side of martial arts."

Flip shrugs, feeling pleased but also a little embarrassed. "I don't like fighting. I wish people would just leave us alone, but they won't. So I have to figure out some way to make them."

"Get up, and get your jacket. Let's go to the mall," Mom says, patting him on the shoulder. "I'll give you a few tips on people-watching."

They go to the mall. Alexa doesn't mind tagging along. Mom buys a carton of pretzel sticks for everyone to share. They sit at a little wire table in a corner of the gallery, overlooking the first floor of the mall. People go up and down the escalators. Mom quietly points out things to Flip -- how couples walk closer together than friends, how happy families turn toward each other, how young men saunter like they own the place, how women use their pocketbooks to fend off the crowd.

People are fascinating, Flip realizes. He hasn't paid quite so much attention to that before. He wishes that he could draw, but he's no good at that. Instead he concentrates on observing and remembering as much as he can. It feels good, like scratching an itch he didn't even know was there. I want to learn more.

Chapter Text

Flip explores how to use his new skills to solve problems. He is surprised to discover how many problems can be avoided altogether just by knowing things about people.

The most avid bullies are predictable in their behavior. Jose Suarez only bullies people right after visiting his father on the first and third weekends of each month; it is only necessary to stay out of his way on the first and third Mondays to prevent fighting with him. Patrick MacFarland and Burt Hollowell are best friends; when together they focus on each other instead of someone else. So Flip encourages them to spend more time together.

Cindy Riggs cheats at games, which makes Alexa feel stupid. Flip starts showing Alexa how to spot cheating so she will know what happens. Cindy does not like getting caught. After watching a few games, Alexa decides on her own that she doesn't want to stay friends with Cindy anymore. Instead Alexa makes friends with Joselle Flannery, who is more into volunteering and always has interesting stories to tell.

Flip also learns that most people have patterns in their day. They go to the same places, at the same times, along the same routes. Flip and Alexa have to be at school at the same time ... but they don't have to use the same route every day. There are different doors they can use, different directions they can take. It's harder for the bullies to find them that way. Plus Flip and Alexa can avoid Riley Blaine's little gang always hanging around the south entrance.

Karate teaches Flip to assess his opponents, identify their weaknesses, and take advantage of those. He notices that Willie Carmichael practices peewee wrestling but can't remember to keep his chin tucked. It makes an attractive and accessible target. Jose hits so hard that it's easier to deflect the blows and let Jose throw himself off balance. Patrick never looks where he's putting his feet. That makes it simple for Flip to tuck a toe behind his ankle, make him stumble, and just keep walking.

Flip teaches Alexa some of the blocks and evasions. That way she can avoid people trying to pinch or trip her. It takes a lot of careful practice, but Alexa gets the hang of it. Her joy in mastering her own body is enough to make Flip grin in satisfaction. After Priscilla Snider's efforts to connect turn into so much hand-waving that she gets benched during recess, she quits bothering Alexa.

Gradually, the bullies learn that picking on Flip and Alexa has become a great deal riskier than it used to be. The physical attacks lessen, although they never go away completely. Flip knows how to deal with them now, so people get hurt less often. Some people switch to saying mean things, but Flip's mouth is as fast as his fists. It's no safer to throw insults than punches. Whole weeks go by with nothing more serious than a sneer or a little jostling in the hallways. That, Flip and Alexa can tolerate.

Chapter Text

In counseling, Flip has built up a decent set of coping skills. He finds it easier to keep his temper now. The worksheets are growing on him too. As Flip works his way through the simple ones, Mr. Harmon offers harder ones. Flip has a whole messy stack of finished pages. It's kind of frustrating because sometimes he wishes that he could redo worksheets that he filled out earlier.

When Flip mentions this to Mr. Harmon, the counselor says, "Well, why don't you start a collection of your own? You can save your finished worksheets and your blanks in a binder. Let's see what I've got here ..." A quick shuffle through the office shelves turns up a binder with just a few pages in it. Mr. Harmon takes those out and gives the empty binder to Flip.

They spend the session picking out pages to put in the binder and then photocopying everything. Flip makes dividers to put between the sections. The first section holds some handouts that are mostly instructions on things like what to do in a crisis. Then come sections on bullying, learning about yourself, managing emotions, and social skills. The one for coping methods has a page of categories, lists of techniques, and descriptions of particular skills. In the back are maps and planners that show values or goals.

Flip particularly likes the more detailed worksheets with lines and boxes to fill in. His favorite is a formal apology with an actual code number on the top, like the paperwork Mom gets from the social workers who help her take care of Alexa. He loves the way that a form can take a big messy problem and make it into small, neat pieces that he can actually see how to solve.

Another thing that really sticks in his mind is a set of pages for younger kids. Mr. Harmon is surprised that Flip latches onto those so hard. "It's the idea," Flip says, trying to explain something he doesn't fully understand yet. "It talks about a recipe, but it's not about cooking, it's about friendship. You take one thing and move it somewhere else in your mind, so you can think about it in a different way."

The counselor's eyebrows go up. "That's exactly right. We use metaphors to help make sense of new things, using things we already know by heart."

"Or you could use it to hide things," Flip says, slowly working through it in his mind, as his mother taught him to look for different ways of doing stuff. "You could talk about recipes, and if someone didn't know about this exercise, they'd think you were talking about food instead of friendship." He pauses. "What did you call it, metaphor? Do you have any more pages on those?"

"Plenty of them," Dr. Harmon says.

Over time, the counselor shares more of his materials. Flip's collection grows. Sometimes he adds things from school or other sources. The paperwork outgrows the binder. Flip gets another one.

Chapter Text

For his tenth birthday, Flip asks for a human anatomy puzzle and a filing cabinet. The human puzzle will be fun to play with, but also useful for learning about bodies. Flip is studying anatomy in science class at school, and vulnerable points in karate. He likes the way that ideas from different lessons can fit together. The filing cabinet will be ideal for saving finished paperwork and extra blanks. He's building up such a big collection that he's running out of room for binders in his bookcase. This way, Flip can keep his just current favorites in a binder.

Mom laughs and says that a filing cabinet isn't a real present, and he should pick something else. She takes him to buy a filing cabinet anyway, though, at a thrift store. Flip finds the perfect one tucked into a dusty corner of the office section between two dilapidated desks. His filing cabinet is tall and black, marred by scratches that gleam silver against the obsidian surface. Every drawer locks with its own unique key, all fastened together on a metal ring.

"That's the one you want?" Mom asks, although Flip hasn't said anything out loud.

"That's the one," Flip says, and she gets it for him. Flip loves it instantly.

While they're at the store, Flip also spots a bicycle. It is a girl's bike and loud pink, with blue handles and a white seat. It needs a bit of work, but it's only ten bucks.

"Is a bike an okay birthday present?" Flip asks.

"It sure is," Mom says.

He gets the bike too.

He gets a broken arm falling off the bike a week later, but it's so worth it.

Alexa's present comes a little late, because she has found -- somehow -- six issues of classic Captain America & the Howling Commandos comics. Flip spends hours reading and rereading the comics, even though the pages are awkward to handle with one arm in a cast. Finally Alexa takes pity on him and holds the comics for him to read so that all he has to do is say, "Page, please," and she turns it for him.

Flip falls in love all over again when he discovers the team of misfits who save the day. Each of them has a different knack, and he can see how they work together. Dum Dum Dugan handles explosives. Jim Morita is silent and serious, adept at karate. James Montgomery Falsworth is something of a clown, but also a highly trained fighter. The jazz trumpeter Gabriel Jones speaks both German and French, which helps him connect with the Frenchman Jacques Dernier, who is adept in subterfuge and forgery. Flip likes the fact that some of the Commandos have subtler skills than just shooting the bad guys.

Then there is Bucky, Captain America's best friend. Flip knows that Cap needs somebody to watch his back, because he's always so busy watching everyone else's that he gets shot a lot. Unlike the other boys, Flip has never wanted to be Captain America. He knows that he's not a hero. Now he traces his finger over the shadowy figure of Bucky standing guard while Cap sleeps. Flip thinks, not for the first time, that it would be a grand adventure to be the guy who looks after the hero. Somebody has to do it.

Chapter Text

When Phil is twelve, he earns his black belt in karate. He is still short and slight, but now he has wiry muscle over his bones. He can practice for hours without getting tired. He can do the blocks and the throws. He can break boards with his fists or his feet. The younger students look up to Phil, partly for his skill but also because he's always careful with them in sparring. Sensei Takenaka is first dan too, and that makes them equals in rank. Phil doesn't quite know how to feel about that.

"There is nothing more I can teach you," Sensei Takenaka says as he hands Phil the coveted belt. "I am quite adequate for a small-town dojo, but you have true talent."

"What good is that if I don't have a teacher?" Phil says sadly. He likes Sensei Takenaka and doesn't want to lose him. There aren't a lot of people whom Phil can look up to like that, at least not face to face. Captain America is a great role model but he isn't here.

"You deserve a chance to develop your skills to their full potential, whether you stay with karate or start exploring other martial arts," says Sensei Takenaka. "I am going to introduce you to my own Master. You will have to drive an hour for lessons, but I promise it will be worthwhile -- if he accepts you."

"Thank you, Sensei," says Phil. The opportunity makes him feel fizzy and strange inside. "I will need to ask my mother, but I'm definitely interested."

"I look forward to hearing more," says Sensei Takenaka.

That night when Mom picks up Phil from karate, he shows her his new black belt. "I earned this tonight. Sensei Takenaka says I need a new teacher, though, and he's recommending me to someone. Please can I go?"

"You may go," Mom says. "I'm really proud of you, Phil. You've worked so hard on learning karate. I'm glad that you've found something that you enjoy and do well."

The praise makes Phil glow inside. "Thanks, Mom."

A week later, Sensei Takenaka drives Phil to the meeting. They spend an hour in the car talking about martial arts and philosophy. Phil, who is currently reading Bruce Lee's Fighting Method Volume 4: Advanced Techniques, admits to being torn between the subtle moves like finger jabs or feints and the powerful spinning kicks. Sensei Takenaka hums quietly at that and recommends that Phil pay particular attention to the section on mechanical vs. intelligent fighters.

To Phil's surprise, Sensei White is not Japanese, but American by way of what looks like an ancestral tour of Europe. His short hair is mostly gray, his wrinkled skin a fascinating shade of olive. He is tiny and ancient and still throws people around like they're paper cups.

Phil is a brand-new Shodan. He knows his body and his art. He understands that he can't hope to win against a Jyudan, a master of the tenth degree, but that isn't the point of this exercise. The point is to let the master gauge his potential as a student. Phil feels confident that he can at least hold his own long enough to honor Sensei Takenaka's teaching.

Sensei White hands him his ass in under a minute.

Chapter Text

Phil lies on the mat for a long moment, trying to remember how to breathe. He didn't even manage to slap his forearms against the floor to disperse the momentum as he fell. That hasn't happened in years. Everything hurts, although the shock of it is fading fast. He isn't injured, just stunned. It occurs to him that the black belts have nothing like the orderly progress of the colors, and his spinning head can't quite determine whether it might be exponential or logarithmic. Phil realizes that he's bitten his tongue, too. He swallows the blood.

Then Phil picks himself up and bows to Sensei White, wavering a little on his feet. "Thank you, Sensei. May I have another round?"

The old man's eyebrows go up, and he grins. Sensei Takenaka grins back at him.

The next thing Phil knows, he is staring at the ceiling again. Nothing hurts this time. It's like being stuffed with cotton wool. The old man's hand cups the back of his neck quite gently.

"Hard or soft," Sensei White says as he lets go. "Which is stronger?"

"Hard," Phil says, remembering how his ears rang the first time.

"Now try to get up," Sensei White says with a chuckle.

And Phil can't move.

Before he can panic, Sensei White touches him again, brushing him off and helping him sit up. It takes a few seconds for Phil to fit himself back into his body. The two older men wait patiently.

Phil gathers his knees under himself and tries to look calm. It is every bit a lie, and all of them know it. He wants to ask what just happened, but he can't find his voice yet.

"Everything is balance," Sensei White explains, as if Phil had asked aloud. "Take that away from a man, and he has no leverage. Give him a hard blow, and he knows how to fight against that. But take him down softly, and he is helpless beneath you. Who can push on a river?"

Phil listens, enchanted beyond all speech. The words soak into him like water on dry ground. He is so thirsty for more, he doesn't want to say anything to interrupt this amazing flow of wisdom.

"So, Mr. Takenaka thinks I should teach you to walk on clouds," Sensei White says. "What do you think?"

"I think I would be honored to learn whatever you want to teach me, Sensei," says Phil as he bows over his knees. Somehow it feels perfectly natural to follow the motion all the way down, touching his forehead to the mat.

One moment, two, and then those powerful fingers brush over the back of his neck again. Phil shivers under the tender touch and does not know why he feels so very exposed, and yet so securely held. "All right," Sensei White says. "We will begin with breathing."

Years later, when Phil falls out of a helicopter into an unknown pond, he will be intensely grateful for learning how to breathe the right way.

Chapter Text

The first time Phil breaks someone, it isn't with his hands. Oh, he's given as good as he got over the years, when the bullies come at him and his sister. Usually it ends with a few cuts and bruises. The worst he's done has been knocking out Willie Carmichael's front tooth for calling Alexa a retard.

This is different. It starts out bad and gets worse so fast that Phil doesn't realize he's in over his head until it's too late. The captain of the high school football team, whose name is Patrick MacFarland (but which the entire chess club routinely shortens to Prick), spends several weeks hanging around Alexa and telling her how pretty she looks. She is open-hearted and defenseless against such flattery.

Every time Phil overhears it, though, his stomach fills with acid suspicion. This cannot end well. Prick has a reputation for cruel jokes, and he likes to target girls who don't have much experience in dating. When Phil hears him ask Alexa to the prom during lunch, he knows the game is up. He has to stop this, now.

So Phil leans over and says, "Leave my sister alone. You don't really like her; you're just saying that because you're in love with Burt Hollowell and you're too chickenshit to do anything about it. Grow some fucking balls and ask the guy out already. If you never deal with your feelings, you're going to die alone and miserable."

It's like the time when he was six and accidentally knocked a baseball through the kitchen window. Phil can almost hear the smash-tinkle of glass, imagine the small fragments pattering down from the ragged edge of the frame. A sinking sensation begins to make its way through his gut.

Patrick just ... goes blank. His skin pales and then flushes. He sets his Coke on the corner of the nearest table. His hand is shaking just enough to make the aluminum can clatter against the surface. Then he turns and walks out of the cafeteria without a word.

The other students titter and begin to gossip. Burt stares at the cafeteria door. He casts a glare at Phil. Then he stalks off after his friend.

Alexa turns to Phil with a hurt look and says, "What did you do that for? I want to go to the prom!"

"I know you do," Phil says. "Patrick isn't very nice, though. Think about it. How does he treat the other girls?"

"Sometimes he's nice. Sometimes he's mean. I heard that he asked Bobbie Mae to a movie only he never showed up, and she cried about it for a week," Alexa says. "But I really want to go, and nobody else will ask me."

That is probably true, Phil admits to himself. Alexa hasn't gotten very many dates, and nobody invites her to the school dances unless it is arranged somehow. It makes Phil so mad that he wants to hit someone, but you can't cure stupid with your fists.

"I'll take you to the prom, or one of my friends who we know is a good guy," Phil says. Some of the other boys owe some favors. He can fix this.

Alexa nods, although she doesn't look too happy about it. Phil is still learning how to move people and make them like it, the way his mother can. It's a lot harder than it seems.

Chapter Text

The next day, the other shoe drops. They hear in the hallway that Patrick isn't coming back to school, because he went home and shot himself. He's not dead, but he's in the hospital and not getting out any time soon. Everyone is talking about it. Phil feels sick. Alexa looks absolutely crushed.

Phil takes pride in keeping himself together, but he knows when he's fucked up and he knows when he is beaten and he knows when it's time to give in and ask for help. So he swallows the lump in his throat and says, "My sister and I need to go home now, please. We're not feeling well."

The teacher knows what has happened, knows their part in it, and calls their mother to pick them up. Mom doesn't hesitate to come. Phil gives her the gist of what happened, so that she can take care of Alexa, who is mostly confused and sad.

Phil feels worse. He nibbles on a thumbnail, stops, puts that hand in his pocket. Then he fumbles in his wallet. He has a card with Dr. Harmon's emergency number on it. He's never used it before, but now's the time for it. "I need, I need to talk about this," Phil says.

"Okay," Mom says. "That's what it's there for."

Dr. Harmon knows that Phil wouldn't call for anything less than a genuine emergency. He clears out one of his ordinary appointments to make time for Phil. The office is quiet and familiar and safe. Phil really needs that today.

It takes Phil half an hour to spew out the whole sordid story, from the setup of his sister to the confrontation in the cafeteria yesterday to this morning's horrible news about Patrick. Right now Phil hates himself so much he can't stand it. But Dr. Harmon has helped him straighten out some pretty bent ideas in the past, so maybe he can tell Phil how to fix this too.

"First of all, thank you for coming to me with this," Dr. Harmon says. "That shows a lot of maturity. Second, Patrick's suicide attempt was not your fault. I know you feel like it is; that's natural. You said something that upset him, and he deal with that badly, so of course you blame yourself."

"I feel like I pushed him into it," Phil says.

"It's true that bullying can contribute to self-destructive behavior," Dr. Harmon says. "However, there are usually other factors such as stress or depression. Patrick had other choices; he could have asked for help, the way you did. Instead he made a big mistake and now it's shaking up other people around him. That always happens with suicide attempts; they make all kinds of mess that can take a long time to clean up."

"I don't know how to clean this up," Phil says. "I don't even know where to start."

"It's not your job to clean it up," Dr. Harmon says. "Most of the work belongs to Patrick. He needs to deal with his own challenges. Your job is to take care of Phil. That means identifying how you feel about this situation, working through those emotions, thinking about your actions, and considering what you might do differently in the future. You've made a good start on that already."

"I guess," Phil says. He still feels wrecked.

Chapter Text

"Let's try some worksheets next. You always get a better handle on your feelings once you have a chance to write them down," Dr. Harmon suggests.

"I don't have my binder," Phil says. He feels hopelessly adrift.

"You can use mine. Most of your pages are copies of my materials anyway," Dr. Harmon says. He goes to his bookcase and pulls down several volumes. Then he makes a small stack of pages and passes that to Phil.

Just looking at the stack makes Phil feel better. This is familiar. This is good. He can put his feelings and thoughts on paper, and then they will make more sense. It won't fix everything, but it will help. Phil picks up a pen and starts writing.

It takes twice as long to fill out the worksheets as it did to tell the story in the first place. As Phil finishes each page, he passes it to Dr. Harmon. Sometimes they talk a little about the results. Now and then Dr. Harmon asks a question or points out what needs clarification. But mostly, Phil just writes.

By the time he finishes, he has his head on mostly straight again. He still feels like crap. He knows it will take a while to process everything. But at least now he has it all in order. Phil sits back with a sigh of relief.

"Thanks," he says. "I really needed that."

"You're welcome," Dr. Harmon says. He chuckles a little. "You're the only person I know who favors paperwork as a coping method, but I'm really glad you've found something that works so well for you."

Phil decks the pages into a neat stack and fastens them with a paperclip. He'll file them properly when he gets home. Now he runs his fingers over the stack, lining it up with the edge of the desk. Only then does he look up.

"I didn't mean to hurt him that badly," Phil says in a low voice. "It's just -- he was hitting on my sister, he was going to break her heart on purpose, I had to do something. Then it was like -- like when I'm sparring, and I see an opening. The target lit up and I hit it. I didn't think he'd try to kill himself!"

"As I said before, nobody else is to blame for anyone's suicide attempt. That's on Patrick, not on you. What is your responsibility is what you said to him," Mr. Harmon says. "You know from being a victim of bullying yourself, how much words can hurt, how much damage they can do -- even if the person saying them doesn't realize how cruel they are. You made a very astute comparison to your karate skill, and you should think about that further."

Phil frowns. He really meant it just as a comparison of the opportunistic nature of the attack. "Think about it how?"

"You're smart, Phil, but more than that, you are exceptionally perceptive," Mr. Harmon says. "By exceptionally I mean that I've heard you make observations that would elude most of my colleagues. You notice things that other people just don't. That can be a great gift, or a terrible curse, depending on how you choose to use it."

Chapter Text

"I don't get it," Phil says. He picks at a loose thread on his pants. They're getting old. He needs a new pair, but there isn't a lot of money for clothes. His family isn't poor, they just have to be ... careful. Phil sits on his hand. The pants will last longer if he stops pulling the threads out.

"All right, I'll unpack a little more," Dr. Harmon says. "Now I know your karate teacher has taught you a lot about self-control and responsibility, because a martial artist turns his body into a weapon. You're doing the same with your mind." He tapped a finger against his head. "You wind up knowing some very sensitive things, Phil. If you aren't careful how you use that information, you're going to hurt people when you don't mean to, or more than you mean to."

"Yeah," Phil says. "I didn't intend it to go that far, but I've seen Patrick do so much awful stuff to people, I guess I lost track of how he could get hurt too." 

"Well, sometimes when people go around making trouble, it builds up, like tinder on a forest floor, until one spark can start a wildfire. A response that seems all out of proportion to the incident at hand may in fact be perfectly logical considering everything that has come before it. That's why it's important to clean things up as you go along," Dr. Harmon says.

"What can I do about that?" Phil asks. "I don't really want to ... start forest fires."

"I recommend that you go back over your old karate philosophy exercises, and redo them for how you speak rather than how you hit," Dr. Harmon says.

"So that's my punishment?" Phil asks.

"No, that's your assignment," Dr. Harmon says. "We don't do punishments here, remember, because ...?"

"Punishment just hurts, it doesn't teach. People can't do better until they learn better," Phil says softly. "I fucked up, Dr. Harmon. I really, really fucked up this time. I know that."

"Then it's up to you to figure out what you need to do in order to make up for it as best you can, and make sure you don't repeat the same mistake," Dr. Harmon says.

So Phil does his homework, and he's appalled at how badly he has managed his mental offense and defense skills, just because he never looked at them quite the same way as his physical skills. He searches for a scale of appropriate use of force in verbal confrontations, but can't find anything. Instead he takes the time to sketch out a potential version.

The next thing Phil does is begin studying suicide. He feels certain that there must have been signs of Patrick having serious difficulties. Phil just missed them -- either because he didn't know what to look for, or he was only interested in avoiding the bully, or some combination. It's a lot easier to stop a pebble than a whole rockslide. So Phil learns the signs, and some common stress factors, and how to talk with a troubled person. He gets a training manual from a teen helpline so that he can study how to become a volunteer counselor.

Phil writes apologies to both Patrick and Burt. He doesn't visit Patrick in the hospital, because he knows the other boy hates him, but he does send along a copy of Pigskins on Pluto #7 that Patrick has been missing from his collection. Neither of the older boys responds, but that isn't the point.

Phil does the right thing because it's right, not because he expects anyone to praise him for it. This time, he's pretty sure that is what Captain America would do. But he can't help wondering if Captain America ever got someone almost killed.

Chapter Text

When Phil is eighteen, his high school holds an assembly for a set of four military recruiters. Each one makes a pitch, enticing students to visit their recruiting table after the assembly. The Air Force sounds pretty cool, but Phil knows better than to take it seriously. He's a little afraid of heights. The Army would probably suit him better. There's a ton of competition, though, because lots of people seem interested in that one. Willie Carmichael gets all excited about it, and he's half again Phil's size.

Then the marine steps up. He sweeps a cool gaze over the entire audience and drawls, "Nah, I don't see any baby marines here. None of these kids got what it takes. Your turn." He waves to the Navy guy.

Phil has to laugh when, after the assembly lets out, the Marine table gets mobbed. He can't get anywhere near it. He picks up flyers from the other three, though. It's a long shot and he knows it, but the money's good. Phil's interest spikes when he discovers that military service can earn college funding, too.

So he hangs around, talking over options with some of the other students. Willie has switched his interest from Army to Marines. Priscilla Snider still likes the Army, though. Jose Suarez favors Navy. He swims like a fish, so that makes sense. Eventually their little group breaks apart as people leave.

"Hey, kid," calls a deep voice. Willie turns to look, all hopeful. Phil just keeps walking. No recruiter would want someone his size.

A hand catches him by the shoulder, firm and heavy. Phil whirls, his left arm coming up automatically to knock off the grip even as he drops into stance, right arm ready to swing.

The marine blocks Phil's stroke, but he's grinning. "Oh, you'll do," he says.

"Do what?" Phil says. Then he frowns. The recruiters are here for a reason, after all. "You can't want me. I thought you said you didn't see any likely recruits in the whole audience."

"I didn't," the marine says, "until I saw you move. Let's talk."

So they talk, and Phil learns that it's not just muscle that makes a Marine, but will. He likes that. He's already honed his mind as well as his body. He begins to wonder what he could do -- really do -- if he stopped holding back. If he wasn't fighting bullies to make them quit harassing his sister. If he was fighting someone who threatened his country.

"What's it like?" Phil asks.

"You join the Army for adventure, the Navy for travel, the Air Force for education," the recruiter says. "You join the Marines for destruction. It's not about gaining something for yourself. It's about protecting other people."

It's everything Phil wants. He's tempted, but he knows there's no such thing as a free lunch. "What's the catch?" he asks. "Those other guys, they sounded like used car salesmen. That makes me a bit suspicious."

"Everybody always says their recruiter lied to them," the marine says with a nod. "I'm not gonna lie to you, kid. You join the Marines, it'll be the worst thing you've ever done -- and the best decision."

"You really think I'd have a chance ..." Phil says.

"There are six hundred brats in this high school. Which one am I talking to?" the marine says.

"Me," Phil says. Then he gets it. Somehow, this guy cut him out of the herd. Phil wants to know how to see what he sees, to clear away the ones who don't fit and find the one who does, like spotting just the right puzzle piece when they're all spread over the kitchen table. Phil is good, his mother is better, but they aren't that good. At least, not yet. And oh, he wants it.

"So what do you say, kid?" the marine asks, holding out a pamphlet. It's thicker than the ones on the table, with more information in it.

"I guess I don't need these anymore," Phil says, and throws the rest into the garbage.

Chapter Text

Mom is nervous, of course, when Phil tells her his plan. "I worry about you," she says.

Phil rolls his eyes. "Aw, Mom."

"Don't look at me like that, young man," she says. "I'm your mother; it's my job to worry about you."

"The money is good. I can send most of it home for you and Alexa," Phil says. "The Marines offer all kinds of training. Plus I can get into college this way, if I want to do that later. I'm in great shape now, thanks to karate."

"Nevermind all that. Is this what you want to do?" Mom asks, looking him in the eyes.

Phil meets her clear gray gaze. "Yes, it is. The Marine who spoke at our school, he came up to me after assembly. He picked me out of all the students there. I kinda want to see if he's right. I want to know what he knows. He's an impressive guy."

"So are you," Mom says.

"Not yet," Phil says, "but I want to be."

"Then I support your decision," Mom says.

Telling Alexa is harder, because she doesn't understand complex concepts as well, but she understands emotions just fine. She cries all over Phil. She knows that he's going away for a long time, somewhere not very safe. Phil lets her cry, because she's not wrong. When she finally winds down, he tries again to explain.

"It's not about keeping me safe. It's about keeping everyone else safe, like I used to do for you with the bullies," Phil says. "Now I want to protect people against even bigger bullies. Only to do that, I need a lot more training, so I have to go away to a special school."

"I'll miss you," Alexa whines.

"I'll miss you too," Phil says. "But you'll have your new puppies to keep you company." Alexa has taken a job bringing up puppies for a guide dog program, teaching them basic commands until they're old enough to learn more. She has a knack with animals, always seeming to know what they need. "When I come home on leave, we'll see each other then, and you can tell me all about the big smart dogs you've raised."

"I guess so," Alexa says.

When Phil reports for training, he still has the keychain that Alexa gave him when he got his driver's license at sixteen. It's a replica of Captain America's shield. "To keep you safe," she had said, and it's a silly superstition, but he's never had a wreck with it. The shield is battered and scratched now, the red and blue enamel chipped away from the chrome in places, but he doesn't care. He keeps it anyway. And he gets through basic training without any significant injuries, which is more than can be said for a lot of the guys.

Chapter Text

When Phil is 22, he gets a nice long piece of leave and comes home for a while. It's so much better than the quick visits he has managed previously, for Christmas and Thanksgiving and birthdays. He takes time to catch up on things he has missed.

One of the first items he crosses off his list is karate. Phil visits Sensei White to test for his fourth degree black belt. It's easier than Phil remembers. Sensei White just smiles and asks what else he has been studying. Phil shares some insights from his combat training. He leaves the studio as a Yondan.

Alexa tells him all about her new job. Currently she is pet-sitting for people around town. She doesn't just take care of dogs, but also cats and birds, and one pair of men raise chinchillas that she watches on the couple's monthly weekend out. Phil enjoys listening to his sister tell funny stories about the different animals. He's glad that she has found work she can do. He's grateful that it makes her happy.

Mom encourages Phil to share the news of his adventures, and he does. He leaves out the ugly parts, but he recounts visiting a real Turkish bazaar and a rainforest in full bloom. They laugh over the time an elephant stole his tent to play what honestly looked like a game of flag football (minus the ball) with its friends. Mom smiles as she does her lapwork, embroidering goldfinches on the hem of a pillowcase.

Nobody mentions the money that Phil sends home. They don't have to. He can see it in the fresh coat of paint on the house, the meticulously tended rosebushes out front, and the exuberant wilderness in back where Alexa has created some kind of miniature wildlife habitat. Half a dozen birdfeeders surround a birdbath, attended by a never-ending flurry of wings and song. Phil finds a pigeon feather in six shades of gray flushed with peach along one side, and tucks it into his pocket for no particular reason.

Inside, the house is bright and cheerful. The living room windows still have their blackout curtains for when Alexa gets headaches. The same afghan lies over the back of the couch, the one that Phil used to drape over his mother when she fell asleep. The chime of a familiar clock makes his throat ache with nostalgia. The television is new, though, and larger than he remembers. The vases in the kitchen have no chips, and the air smells faintly of lemon.

Several times, they take a night out for dinner and a movie. Alexa still loves cartoons, and so does Phil. She likes comedies too. She doesn't like explosions or too much sexual activity, and will probably never care much for movies above PG-13. That's fine with Phil. He relaxes in his seat and watches silly animals cavort across the screen.

Phil smiles. It feels good to be home, for a while. It reminds him what he's fighting to protect.

Chapter Text

At 23, Phil finishes his four-year hitch in the Marines. It's been enlightening, but ... it's just not as much of a challenge as it used to be. He doesn't feel bored, exactly, more like restless. Something in him itches to reach for a higher bar. So he decides to try out for Special Operations.

There's little talk about the training and the testing, beyond general topics, because many of the challenges are meant to come as a surprise. Phil is careful and quiet and observant. He pieces together some ideas, and he gets himself a good mentor to help him prepare. Phil takes the time to build up both his physical and mental skills before he enters the program.

The seven-month course begins with ten weeks of basic skills. Phil already knows most of this, could in fact teach over half of it. At least the hand-to-hand combat offers an opportunity to learn from guys who know different martial arts than he does. Phil wants to branch out from karate, so he is all over the guy who knows Russian sambo and the one who does tae kwon do. Tactical casualty care raises his knowledge of first aid and mission planning piques his interest.

The second eight weeks of unit training introduce maritime navigation and small boat handling, both relatively new to Phil. What he really loves, though, is intelligence gathering. When it's his turn to search or interrogate, he always achieves the goal, and everyone hates getting pitted against him when he hides the information. Irregular warfare begins to think outside the box. By the time they get to survival evasion resistance and escape, Phil feels pretty sure he made the right choice.

The third five-week course teaches precision, both in terms of teamwork and marksmanship. Phil never liked group assignments in school because the other kids usually left him to do all the work. Here, everyone pulls their own weight, and each other's too when necessary. Phil discovers that while he can handle a machine gun or a rifle competently, he has a particular knack for handguns, coaxing them to deliver far more accuracy than usual. He develops a healthy respect for precise aim.

Then it really gets good. The final seven-week course focuses on asymmetric warfare. Phil learns how to think like the enemy. It is as if people, sometimes, turn to glass so that he can see right through to the core of them. They keep some scary stuff in there. Phil studies ways to thwart insurgents, terrorists, and guerillas. Everyone else learns that if going up against him on intelligence was frustrating, opposing him in asymmetric warfare is a nightmare. The only reason they don't quit is because they are, after all, Marines and it's better to get their butts kicked by Phil in training than by the enemy in the field.

As the final exam approaches, Phil uses every trick he knows to store up extra energy. He splurges on fresh fruits, greens, and nuts while most of the other men are stuffing themselves on protein. His body is built; it's his mind he wants to hone at the last minute. He uses meditation to improve sleep and stock additional rest.

Phil looks forward to the challenge that awaits.

Chapter Text

The final exam for Special Operations is ruthless. It starts with the usual rounds of running, crawling under razor wire, and shooting at targets that shoot back. Anyone who gets painted is eliminated. They go through an obstacle course on the ground and another in the treetops. They get ambushed. Their supposed safehouse has been compromised and Phil has to hack a computer to get the address of the next one. Which contains yet another ambush.

They make it to the harbor and take charge of their designated boat, which they set on its outlined course -- only to have the crew turn on them and toss everyone into the water over a mile from shore. "If you make it to the beach, you qualify," the captain shouts as they tread water. "Start swimming!"

It's choppy today, hot but blustery, and Phil struggles to stay afloat as the waves slap him around. He's already exhausted from the previous tests. This is the last one, though. He can get through this.

Phil collapses, panting, onto the sand as soon as he reaches the beach. Now only his head is swimming. This is so much better. I'm done. I made it! Wow. Phil watches a crab sidle past him and smiles.

"All right, everybody up for a 10k run!"

WHAT?

Phil's mind short-circuits for a second. He hot-wires it back into action and forces himself to his feet. The sand moves in queasy motions underneath him. Oh that is just not fair.

Phil sweeps a bleary gaze over the beach, looking for route markers. He doesn't see any. Dozens of men still lie comatose on the ground. Only eight others are standing, and one of them is puking up seawater. He doesn't fall, though. Phil rather admires that.

Sand crunches as a tall black man strides into view. "This one," he says, slapping a heavy hand on Phil's shoulder.

Phil faceplants into the sand. Well, that's a great first impression. He spits out seaweed, shoves hard against the weight of the world, and staggers upright again.

"You're shitting me, Nick Fury," says the testing officer.

"Nope. You owe me a favor, said I could take the pick of the litter," says the stranger. His eyes are dark and piercing. He looks like an obsidian column against the baleful heat of the sun, motionless except for the slow flap of his trenchcoat in the breeze.

"And you want the runt?"

Steve Rogers was a runt once, too. Phil bares his teeth at the two men.

"I've got more than enough trained beef. What I need is someone small and sneaky, who looks like a paper-pusher but can kick ass like a motherfucking mule," says Fury. Then he turns to Phil. "What do you say? Ready for that 10k run?"

"Y'sir," Phil slurs. It'll kill him, but he will by god die with his boots on.

Fury laughs, the bastard. "There is no run. Relax, you qualify. We just wanted to see who could drag themselves to their feet after one last kick in the teeth."

"Oh," Phil says, and recruits his voice for one last effort. "Fuck you, sir."

Then he passes out, but Fury catches him on the way down.

Chapter Text

Naturally Phil has to explain this change of plans to his family. He takes a little while to recover from the intense training. He doesn't dare go home looking like something the cat dragged in, or his mother will worry. He tries very hard to avoid worrying her, because she can be scary. So Phil rests and eats and fills out the thick stack of entertaining but poorly designed transfer paperwork.

Then he convinces Agent Fury to come with him for proof of Phil's new job. By the time the introductions are done, Phil's mother has sussed out that Fury's mother used to call him Nicky and is refusing to call him anything else. Phil is amused by the way the corners of Fury's eyes twitch when he gets agitated.

"So how did your test go?" Mom asks Phil.

"I qualified for Special Operations," Phil says. "I'm not staying in the Marines, though. Agent Fury here recruited me for a different service."

"That's interesting," Mom says.

"I think so," Phil says. "I'm starting out on loan. We'll try some missions and see how it works out. If I do well and I like the work, we'll complete the transfer."

"Pros and cons?" Mom asks, a calculating look in her eyes.

"The money's better -- a lot better -- but I won't be able to come home often, or tell you much about what I'm doing. I'll be doing work that matters, though. It's difficult and dangerous and takes advantage of the parts I loved most in SO training," Phil says.

"Is that what you want to do?" Mom asks.

Phil lets it show. "Yes."

"Okay then." She nods. "You keep my boy in one piece, you hear me?" Phil's mother says sternly, fixing Agent Fury with a gimlet eye. "Or you'll have me to deal with."

Agent Fury swallows and leans back a fraction of an inch. "Yes, ma'am."

This tiny show of fear pleases Phil. It means the man is not an idiot. He could recognize a credible threat, yet still face it. This earns Fury another measure of respect.

Alexa is surprisingly pragmatic about this change, now that she's gotten used to Phil being in the Marines. "You saved me all the time when were growing up," she says. "I'm a big girl now. I can share you with people who need your help more than I do."

"Thanks, sis. That means a lot to me," Phil says, hugging her tight.

"And look after Nicky," says Alexa. She glances over to where he and Mom are chatting on the porch. "He's like a junkyard dog; he growls a lot, but he still needs somebody to feed him and pat him."

Phil can just see Nick Fury as a squat rottweiler, black over brown, crouched atop a rusted wreck -- the kind of dog who would tear the face off anyone who tried to hotwire a car, but would also lead you to the litter of abandoned kittens.

"Don't worry, I'll look after him," Phil promises, and he does.

Chapter Text

The test missions are exciting. Agent Fury sends Phil to sneak into enemy camps and steal intel or sabotage their equipment. Twice Phil gets in and out with never a whisper of suspicion. The third time, a guard spots him, and Agent Fury has to rescue him with a gun that looks like a cigarette lighter.

An old man named Dugan laughs at Phil on the way home. Fury shakes his head at both of them. Phil swears he can do better. Dugan bets him a beer if he can.

A month later, Phil takes out an ammo cache with a bomb made from a bag of flour. Dugan pays up with the best German beer Phil has ever had. Agent Fury finalizes the transfer.

SHIELD turns out to be everything Phil dreamed, and more. It is no more than a shadow, but it shelters everyone beneath it like the shade of a tree on a baking summer day. The base where Phil works has a brisk military air about it. The equipment is bleeding-edge best. He falls in love with the quality of pistols available, and takes to carrying one at his side and a smaller backup in an ankle holster.

There are drawbacks, of course. Phil takes one look at the paperwork and nearly despairs. It is worse than disorganized; it is ill-conceived to begin with, obviously designed by people who had no idea what they really needed to know or how to put it on paper so that it would make sense. Phil takes five of the worst forms and reconfigures them into something that actually works. Then he goes to Agent Fury and says, "Your entire recordkeeping system is a disaster. I need to fix this."

Fury calls Director Carter, talks for a few minutes, and sends off Phil's folder of forms. The next day, Phil gets an assignment to overhaul SHIELD paperwork for improved efficiency. He cracks his knuckles and begins working. At Clearance Level 1, he can't see most of the content, but he can do his job with the blank forms. It takes all day to absorb enough of the information to create a complete outline of a functional system, with coherent categories broken down into a tree of logical subcategories. He spends the next few days figuring out which are the most vital and most common forms, so he can improve those first. Actually updating all of the forms will take months, but at least Phil knows where to start.

The missions that take him away from the base prove as challenging as Agent Fury promised. Once, SHIELD loans Phil to MI5 because they need an agent without a British accent to foil a plot against the Queen. Another time, Phil has to use all his computer skills to keep someone from launching a nuclear missile at Russia. He doesn't like Russia much, but he likes living in a world that does not glow in the dark.

Where do people GET these insane ideas? Phil wonders as he locks down the entire installation and calls for pickup.

Chapter Text

The first time Phil gets captured and tortured, they are pathetic amateurs. He remembers getting worse from the more creative bullies at school. Phil knows how to handle pain, but more importantly, he knows how to handle people. These are no challenge at all.

When he laughs in their faces, his captors hit him harder, but Phil doesn't care. He uses one of the tricks that Nick taught him to slip out of the ropes. He escapes before the bad guys can even break any bones. Then Phil frees the captive Senator, steals a boat, and returns to friendly territory.

Phil gets a commendation and a promotion to Level 2. Sadly he discovers a new batch of shabby paperwork in need of improvement, and how is it that SHIELD doesn't even have a form for analyzing the skill level of enemy interrogators? So he has to design that one from scratch, which is actually easier.

The second time Phil gets captured and tortured, they are terrifying experts. They beat him nearly to death, very carefully. He loses count of how many bones they break, somewhere between his left hand and his ribs.

Phil never tells them anything. No enemy has a chance of cracking his mental filing system. Who's going to find state secrets when they're filed under spinach casserole? he thinks.

They curse at him in German, but Phil doesn't care. Their questions are irrelevant to his words. He is still reciting recipe ingredients to the apoplectic interrogator when Agent Fury blasts open the door and shoots them all dead.

The last thing Phil hears before he passes out is Fury's frantic voice saying, "Cheese? Stay with me, you crazy motherfucker, don't you dare clock out on me!"

Phil wakes up in SHIELD medical with a body that aches distantly under a fuzzy layer of very nice drugs. His whole left arm is in a cast. Fury sits in a chair beside the bed, hidden by a rustling newspaper. "Did'n tell," Phil assures him.

"Cheese?" Fury says. "Oh, thank Christ. If you died on me, your momma woulda run me through her blender, twice."

Phil chuckles. It hurts and feels good at the same time. "Yeah."

"You dumbass, those old Nazi sympathizers could have killed you!" Fury scolds. "You could have just answered the questions. You're Level Two, it's not like you know anything valuable."

"Did'n wanna," Phil says. "Bad habit."

"Water under the bridge, I suppose," Fury says. "The bad news is, you're out of commission for at least four months. The doctors won't even consider desk work for two. So I'm sending you home for a while."

"No," Phil says. As far as SHIELD knows -- part of his bargain with Fury prior to entry -- Phil is a loner. He doesn't want to put his family at risk by leaving any noticeable connections.

"Fine, be that way. I have some leave available. I'm taking you home," Fury says.

Phil wants to argue, but even this much talking has exhausted him. He falls asleep while trying to muster a crushing counterargument.

Chapter Text

The next time Phil wakes up, he is sitting in a rental car in his mother's driveway. He not only has a cast on his left arm but also another on his right leg. Fury has evidently drawn a Captain America shield on Phil's arm in lieu of signing his name. The man himself is having a terse discussion with Phil's mother.

"I really can't tell you much about what happened," Agent Fury says, probably not for the first time. "I can tell you that he got injured while saving the world. Again."

Mom gives them both a level gaze. "All right. I'll forgo the details, but I'll need you to keep me posted on some tallies -- how often Phil almost gets himself killed, how often he saves the world, that sort of thing."

"Well, I --" Fury begins.

"You can either give me the minimum information I require, or I'll go digging for all of it myself, and I will find it. I'm comfortable with either of those options, Nicky, so it's your choice," Mom says.

"I can draw up some forms," Phil offers, trying to avert the equivalent of global thermonuclear war that is making his social DEFCON go wild.

Fury glares at him. "I hate paperwork. How do you have so much experience with it after just a short hitch in the Marines? Now if you were Army, it'd make a bit more sense ..."

"Oh, Nicky, how little you know," Mom says with a laugh. "Phil has been doing paperwork since he was nine. It's his favorite coping skill."

"You must be joking."

"Nope. I still have some of his first forms," Mom says. "His favorite was an official apology, with an alphanumeric code at the top and everything. It's adorable."

"Mommmm," Phil whines. "Stop it, you're embarrassing me. I have to work with this guy!" The pathetic tone in his voice alerts him that not all the drugs have worked their way out of his body. Phil wisely shuts up after that.

It takes Mom, Alexa, and Fury to maneuver Phil into the house and deposit him in bed. The spare bedroom has all new furniture since the last time he visited, clean white paint with brass knobs. A patriotic quilt covers the bed, mostly red-white-and-blue with a kneeling soldier in the center panel. Phil smiles, recognizing his mother's work.

"I'm proud of you, Phil," she says as she tucks him in. When he basks in the warmth of her regard, nothing hurts.

Alexa signs Phil's arm in purple marker, adding a cartoon of a bird. One of her current pet-sitting clients has a macaw, who shrieks all the time and drives the owner crazy. "But what can you expect?" Alexa says. "Violet's only two. She's just a baby!"

The familiar sound of his sister's chatter makes Phil want to drift off again. "Mmm-hmm," he says sleepily, encouraging her to continue.

Agent Fury gives him a fond pat on the shoulder. "I need to return to base now, Phil," he says. "I'll come back to pick you up in a few months, when you're ready for duty again. Until then, enjoy your family."

"Mmm," Phil says. He knows everything will be all right now. The quilt is cozy and smells faintly of lavender. He traces his fingers over the lines of stitching. There are words on the flag at the center, which forms a backdrop for the soldier, but Phil falls asleep before he can make them out.

Chapter Text

When Phil is twenty-six, he decides to try out for his fifth degree black belt. It feels strange to think of limiting himself to karate after exploring so many other martial arts. At SHIELD, almost everyone knows some style or other, and plenty of people know several. It's easy to find sparring partners and Phil has picked up all kinds of new things. His control makes him a popular man on the mats.

Now Phil understands why Sensei Takenaka urged him to explore mixed martial arts. Each one has its own strengths and weaknesses. By learning what works for him, and then combining the best techniques from different systems, Phil can assemble a personal style that capitalizes on his own body and mind. He still remembers his first love, though, so he signs himself out on leave.

As exciting as he finds mixed martial arts, though, returning to karate feels like coming home. Phil takes a few days to practice before his test. He goes to Sensei White's dojo on Tuesday night for open sparring and works his way up through the ranks. He lets the novices practice against him before stepping into the corner claimed by the other black belts. Only then does Phil actually work up a sweat. He loves karate. It's familiar in a way that nothing else is. He goes back again for the open sparring on Thursday.

Saturday is reserved for competitions and testing. Phil surreptitiously wipes his hands on his gi. He has been studying karate for two-thirds of his life, and still feels like he has barely learned a fraction of it.

Sensei White steps forward, they bow, and everything whirls into motion. Only snatches of it register in Phil's memory -- the swift tap of wrists against forearms, the patter of feet on the mats, the cup of Sensei White's hand over his throat as he tilts Phil over his knee. This test challenges him in ways that even SHIELD sparring rarely does. Phil has met very few people with his master's quicksilver energy.

It ends, as it always does, with Phil staring at the ceiling. He is gasping for breath as he accepts the belt. He's proud of his new Godan status, though.

"Tell me, what have you been studying?" Sensei White asks him with a thoughtful look. "I can see that you have branched out now."

"Russian sambo, tae kwon do, judo, krav maga, muay thai, escrima, and ninjutsu," Phil says. He breathes deliberately as he tries to get his wind back. "Those are the ones where I have a regular practice partner. Everything else, I learn catch-as-catch can."

"Hmm," says Sensei White, staring at Phil with half-lidded eyes. Then he shakes his head. "Keep doing that and you will soon spoil your balance."

Phil still has a row of yellowing bruises from the last time he fell off the plum-blossom poles in ninjutsu practice, but he's using unfixed rather than fixed poles and he's up to the two-foot-high set. However, he hasn't gotten this far by ignoring expert advice. "What do you see going wrong with my balance, Sensei?" he asks.

Chapter Text

"All these styles you name, they focus on combat," says Sensei White. "If you are not careful, you will lose your center."

"I don't understand," Phil says. "I do some dangerous work. It's not rare for me to get stuck fighting bare-handed because I've lost my weapons or couldn't carry them in the first place. I need serious combat moves in order to stay alive -- to keep other people alive, too."

Sensei White makes a faint clucking noise with his tongue. "Which is stronger, hard or soft?"

"Soft," Phil says without hesitation. He's learned that lesson.

"You are not a violent man at heart," says Sensei White. "So if you fill yourself with violence alone, you will lose your heart. If you lose your heart, you will lose your balance. If you lose your balance, you will lose the fight before you even throw the first blow. Think! Why did you take up karate in the first place?"

"So I wouldn't have to fight," Phil says, remembering how he wanted to protect his sister, and how happy he was when the bullies mostly stopped bothering them. The karate moves had helped a lot, but the meditation made it easier to stay calm and out-think his opponents.

"These new styles you have been studying -- how do they help you avoid fights?" asks Sensei White.

Well, they don't, at least not the way Phil has been learning them. SHIELD personnel tend to be tough and fierce; they train and fight that way. Phil does his own reading, in addition to sparring with whomever he can find, so he knows that some of the styles can have a meditative aspect just as karate can. He hasn't bothered with that, though, and he suddenly realizes that might have been a serious mistake.

"Some of them have ways, but I have not explored those. I've been more interested in the attacks," Phil admits.

"Everyone knows how to counter attacks," Sensei White reminds him. "What if you need something else? Suppose that you need to stand against someone without hurting him. Perhaps you want to talk and he does not, or perhaps he is out of his head with fear. Then what will you do?"

"Probably screw up by the book," Phil says, dropping his gaze. "How do I fix this, Sensei?"

"Take up one of the gentler arts. I think aikido would suit you well," says Sensei White.

Phil bows, all the way down as he did in his childhood, touching his forehead to the floor. "Thank you, Sensei. I will do that."

Fingertips feather over the nape of his neck. "It takes a strong man to admit his mistakes. You will need that too," says Sensei White.

Years later, on stakeout in Rio de Janeiro, Phil will find himself watching a fugitive scientist, and will finally see what a disaster the strong application of force can be in a situation that requires tenderness. So even though Phil looks into Brazilian jiu jitsu to learn about fighting on his back, he keeps up the aikido.

Chapter Text

Working at SHIELD means life is never boring and rarely quiet. Phil saves the world a lot, but he does it from the shadows, a ninja hero disappearing before anyone even realizes what really happened, let alone who did it. He's no one special. He's just a guy in a suit, invisible as a janitor. He comes, he cleans up the mess, he goes.

The work is not without cost. Sometimes Phil struggles to maintain his balance between gentleness and ferocity. He holds aikido in one hand and ninjutsu in the other. He's even learning how to blend them together. He tries to use the least possible force to meet his goals, and mostly, he succeeds. Others aren't so lucky.

Phil watches his friend Agent Fury move up the ranks. Agent Fury spends less time in the field and more in clandestine meetings. He becomes Assistant Director, and Phil sees even less of him. After Director Carter retires, Director Fury takes over command. It's harder for Phil to get through to him about ethical concerns, but Phil never gives up.

Of course, Phil earns promotions of his own. It becomes a tradition for him to spend the first few weeks at a new level just going through paperwork that isn't visible to lower security ratings, so that he can improve the forms as needed. Sometimes he discovers things that aren't even covered, so he invents whole new forms to organize that information. Phil becomes quietly famous as a red-tape ninja, not just a martial artist. Nobody wants to get into a paperwork war with him. The new girl, a thoughtful sort named Maria Hill, refers to Phil as "the lost bureaucrat of Byzantium," as if he's some kind of macguffin in an archeology flick. But she helps him keep Director Fury on an even keel, so Phil just smiles blandly and tolerates the nickname.

As a handler, Phil learns how to manage even the most challenging assets -- which, naturally, gets him put in charge of ever more complicated people. Other agents say that he is the mightiest handler SHIELD has ever known. Phil acquires first one and then another damaged assassin, pulling them out of the mercenary life into the shelter of SHIELD. He never gets tired of bringing people in from the cold.

Director Fury and Agent Coulson may butt heads sometimes, but underneath, the connection between Nick and Phil survives. There are compromises, there are sacrifices, and Phil mourns what the job he loves is doing to the friend he admires. But they don't let that stop them. They can't afford to. The world needs them.

A counter-assassination effort almost goes awry when enemy forces get to the target's car and rig it to explode. Phil notices a suspicious smudge on the door in time to tackle the target, but the blast knocks them both into a fire hydrant. The dazed diplomat mumbles her thanks as SHIELD backup scrapes Phil off the pavement.

Phil's last thought before losing consciousness is, Well, there go another four to eight weeks of recovery time before I can get back to my job.

Chapter Text

Phil is laid up in his quarters with a baker's dozen broken ribs when Agent Hill sends him a care package of movies to watch. She knows his tastes well. The Animatrix plays right into Phil's old fondness for shadow work and intrigue. Yet "The New Renaissance" reverses his perspective of the entire Matrix trilogy, realizing that it was not the machines but the humans who started the war.

"At B166-ER's murder trial, the prosecution argued for an owner's right to destroy property. B166-ER testified that he simply did not want to die," the narrator says. Phil shivers. Any nation that identifies some individuals as unpersons is liable to get into the kind of trouble that results in a call for SHIELD assistance.

Brother Bear is sweeter and more hopeful. Kenai's description of brotherhood makes Phil chuckle. "I went on the longest, hardest, most exhausting journey I have ever been on with the biggest pain in the neck I have ever met! But hey. What else do you expect from a little brother?" It's exactly like that.

A later line makes him pause to think, though. "Well, it's kind of about a man ... and kind of about a bear. But mostly, it's about a monster," Kenai says. Oh, Phil knows about monsters -- and he knows that what makes a monster isn't at all about the shape, but about the spirit. Wrongful death weighs heavy on the conscience, even if you didn't mean for it to happen. Especially if you didn't mean it. Phil cheers when Kenai and Koda manage to make up.

Phil turns to Lilo & Stitch next. He had missed it in theaters because he was busy infiltrating AIM at the time. Cobra Bubbles reminds him more than a bit of Nick Fury. Phil wonders if his old friend ever moonlighted as a social worker. But the plot hits so close to home that Phil cries through the entire movie.

" 'Ohana means family. Family means nobody gets left behind. But if you want to leave, you can. I'll remember you though. I remember everyone that leaves," Lilo says to Stitch as he heads for the window. Phil aches with the memory of losing his father.

"It's okay, my dog found the chainsaw," Lilo says to Bubbles while the aliens are attacking her house. Phil sympathizes. His life isn't quite that far gone, but you can see it from where he's standing.

"This is my family. I found it all on my own. It's little and broken, but still good. Yeah -- still good," Stitch says to the Grand Councilwoman when she asks about Lilo and Nani. Phil knows that it's not size or perfection that makes a family, but love.

That right there is Phil's story in a nutshell. Now he feels almost glad that he hadn't gone to see it with his sister. By the time the movie ends, his chest hurts so much that it's all he can do to drag himself to the bathroom, swallow some codeine, and pass out in bed.

The next day he does it all again.