This is now complete! The continuing adventures in the OCD verse, including the aftermath of what happened here, will be along shortly. The working title is 'The Best Laid Plans'.
Yes, this epilogue is very short. It's just to round it off and set up for the next section though.
Warnings at the end, as usual.

Coulson held Clint's hand as Steve carried him to the van. The soles of his feet were badly burned, and he could barely stand. No one wanted him walking up the stairs, through the shop, and to the van.

Bruce was waiting there and his eyes flashed green when he saw the state Clint was in. He took a deep breath and motioned for them to lay Clint down on the stretcher that was waiting in the back of the van.

Clint wouldn't let go of Phil's hand.

He climbed in after him and perched on the edge of the bed while Natasha and Steve got in the front. Tony would get back to the tower under his own power. Coulson thought that was probably a good thing, as Tony seemed not to be coping as well as he liked to pretend.

Phil closed his eyes as Bruce started treating Clint. This was it. They had him back. What now?

How would Clint recover? True, he'd been tortured before, but usually as part of a mission, or with a deadline on how long before back up arrived. And he'd never been held by anyone who was a professional at breaking someone apart before.

There was a wetness at the corner of his eyes, and he swiped at it, angrily. He didn't have time for this. He had to get everything perfect for Clint. He started making a list in his head of everything he'd do to make things right.

Clean their quarters, top to bottom.

Make Clint his favourite pasta, with exactly the right amount of noodles.

Count every one of Clint's new injuries and show him they don't make a difference to how Phil feels.

He worried at his bottom lip. What if Clint didn't get better? What if his injuries were worse than they looked (and they looked pretty bad)? What if Clint didn't trust him anymore? He hadn't expected him to come. That's what got to Phil. That Clint honestly believed he was alone.

He rubbed at his chest briefly, fighting the tightness there. He wasn't sure if it was caused by panic, or if he should have taken his inhaler with him.

Things had to get better now. They were taking Clint home. That had to be better. Stark had an entire floor devoted to an infirmary, and this way they'd be close and they could make sure he was okay, and Phil could hold his hand and tell him how everything was fine now, and Clint would be fine, he had to be, Phil couldn't...

"Breathe, damn it." Bruce. That was Bruce. Had Clint stopped breathing? That was not good. "Come on, with me. Deep breath in, let it out slowly." Phil turned to look, but Clint's chest was moving regularly and he seemed to be comfortable enough.

"What...?" he said, or tried to say. It came out as barely a gasp.

"You're having a panic attack. I need to focus on Clint, so I need you to breathe, okay? Nice and slow. It's alright. He's alright. We got him out of there and he's going to be fine. Just breathe, okay?"

Phil dragged in a slow breath and closed his eyes. Stupid. He needed to be in control. He needed to breath. If he wasn't in control, how was he supposed to take care of Clint?

His fingers tapped against his leg.

He could do this. He was Phil Fucking Coulson. He was in control.

He needed a plan. Something to follow so he would know that things were okay.

Get Clint back to the tower. Get him into the infirmary. Stay at his side for as long as he will let you. Put him back together, you were always good at puzzles. Piece by piece, get back what they took.

They had Clint. He was safe. That was all that mattered.

Everything was going to be okay.

Sure, it's going to be okay, Coulson... sure it is...

Warnings: Coulson has a panic attack. Mental health issues.