#inkspinner

“You tired?” 

May’s voice was soft. She was in better shape than he was, these days, because of course she was, but the hot water bottle half-tangled in blankets said she ached, too. 

“Mm. A little.” 

Tired meant something kind of different, these days. It was the years weighing down his bones, the way everything was somehow going so much faster the more they slowed down. It was a good feeling, most days, the way certain kinds of melancholy wrap around you like a blanket. 

May hummed again. 

“How are you feeling?” 

That slight shift of her weight was surprise. May leaned over to put her book down before she answered, switching off the lamp. She still insisted on sleeping on the side by the door, still carried those old specialist reflexes; unlikely reaction times and the almost cat-like effortlessness to it. He’d lost most of that to those months of deterioration, years ago; but the vigilance, the automatic, constant analysis was still there. They still went people-watching every once in a while, mostly to watch the world go by and be judgy old people in peace (May zeroed in on every leather ensemble that passed and ran background checks on stores instead of people, these days). They’d fought their wars.

May moved slower these days, limped more days than she didn’t, but she could still take Yo-yo’s entire STRIKE team. She didn’t teach much any more, but Yo-yo still wheedled her out to do demonstrations every once in a while. She said it kept the youngsters in their place. 

Phil got to spend every day beside her steadiness, steadfast as the mountains, and that was as safe as he could ever ask to be. 

“A squirrel stole all the strawberries off the plant,” May stated, as she curled up beside him again. Coulson wrapped long arms around her as she huffed, one arm draped warm over his belly. “All three of them.” 

Phil jostled them both with a startled laugh. “That does not answer the question.” 

“I feel like the squirrel.” May told the darkness, and also him, prim and matter-of-fact. The drowsiness in her voice was getting thicker by the moment. “Like I stole something nice and I’m happy about it.” 

Phil was outright belly-laughing by then, trying to get the blanket untangled from around his ankles without having to sit up to tug at it. So much for philosophizing. May lifted her head in annoyance at all the jostling, dropped her cheek back on his chest once he paused to gasp for breath. 

“Ask me how I’m doing next time,” she muttered, mostly asleep already. “ Please. ” 

“Ohohoho, like hell. You, Melinda May, just told me you feel like a strawberry-stealing squirrel. I am never asking you anything other than how are you feeling ever again.” 

There was no answer. May could feign sleep as well as anyone -- better, actually, since she’d finally trained herself to stagger the length of each exhale so you couldn’t crack the rhythm by counting to it. Phil lay still for a long minute, grinning into the darkness, just listening to the quiet snuffle of her peaceful breathing.