#philindasecretsummer

He grinned. “I just love a good Yeti chase.”

He did, but that wasn’t the point of this and they both knew it.

Yesterday morning he had called her in his office and briefed her about this mission they had to take. A mission that called for them to fly three hours out to nowhere because of some hints of alien life. Witnesses spoke of a big hairy creature with super human strength that fled into the woods as they came across it during their camping trip.

So Phil made her pack a back pack and they spent two hours following up on the witnesses’ claims to find … absolutely nothing.

Perfectly valid way for secret agents to spent their time.

At least she got to fly and for the last few hours there had been no chatter. Just them and the trees and like two squirrels.

The doors to the plane swooshed open and Phil sighed.

“We both needed a break,” he said. “You like to fly and silence and I …” he sighed again and shrugged. Suddenly he just looked tired. “They want to replace me as director,” he mumbled.

“I heard.” She turned around and leaned against the cold metal of the plane. The doors would close again, but this seemed like a conversation that was better to be had being surrounded by greenery and peace then a plane.

“Do you still think they should?”

Ouch.

He glanced at her. “Because I think they should.”

Damn it. “Rosalind?”

He sighed. “And Ward. And Daisy. And everything else.”

The pleasures of being the cavalry. Melinda swallowed. “What do you want to do?”

He snorted. “Is Australia still an option?”

“We can make it in two hours if we leave right now.”

He smiled at her. A sad smile.

They were both just so tired! She reached out and touched his arm. “Phil …”

“I’m glad they replace me. I’m just …” He shrugged again.

“You wanna hide.”

“Yes.”

“And you want to fix everything.”

“Yes.”

She knew that feeling all too well. She ran her hand down his arm and took his. “You can’t do either.”

“I know.”

Of course he did. She sighed and squeezed his hand. “You’re a good agent.”

He tilted his head.

“You’re a good man, too.” He really was. The best. She raised a brow and squeezed his hand again. “When you’re not a jerk.”

That made him laugh dryly. Then he shook his head. “I’m sorry I was so selfish. If I hadn’t -”

She shook her head and he closed his mouth. He looked at her with his beautiful eyes and she hadn’t seen him this lost ever since he came back  through that portal. He broke her heart.

“You saved me, you know that?” she asked. It was so obvious to her but just minutes ago he had asked her if she wanted him to be replaced as director, as if she would still doubt his abilities. As if he didn’t know where her loyalties lay. “After Bahrain I couldn’t -”

“I know.”

She pressed her lips together. “No, you don’t.” Even after killing that girl, she still loved what she did. What kind of person loved violence like that? She licked her lip. “I love my job. I love it.”  

“You’re very good at it, too.” He ran his thumb over the back of her hand.

That wasn’t the point. For years she had hated herself for that, had punished herself. He put a stop to that. “If you hadn’t needed me back,” she said, “I would still be behind that desk and be miserable.”

“You assembled the team, remember?”

“Because you died and I couldn’t bear …” She wouldn’t be able to live without him. For three days she had thought he had died and she couldn’t go back to that hell. She simply could not.

She swallowed. “So I came back to make sure you’d be okay.”

“You did a fantastic job.” He smiled and squeezed her hand. “Did I thank you for that lately?”

“You saved me,” she repeated. She needed him to know that.

“Melinda …”

“You did.” She looked down. “You do.”

The silence that followed convinced her that she said too much. But when she tried to pull away her hand, he kept hold and cleared his throat.

“Everything you want from you, you can have,” he said. His voice was low and raspy.

He squeezed her hand and she looked at him again.

“Everything,” he added.

Her heart skipped a beat. It wasn’t so much his words, but the look in his eyes.Sometimes he looked like that and she got hope that they could be something and that all her self control wasn’t needed. Then the moment passed and she thought she just imagined it.

This time it didn’t pass. They held hands and he looked at her lips. She tiptoed and leaned into him. Her eyes fell shut and she could feel his breath on her face. And then his soft lips touch hers. Gently. Sweet. And just too briefly.

He brought up his other hand and cradled her face before he kissed her again. Her whole body tingled.

He pulled away and ran his fingers through her hair before he dropped his hand to his side.

They still held hands. They were still connected. And that look in his eyes made her catch her breath.

She wanted to kiss him again.

“I love you,” he said.

And just like that, time stopped. She couldn’t think.

When he tried to pull away his hand, she came to her senses again. “I love you, too,” she rasped.

He pulled in a sharp breath. “I mean, not  only in a friend way, I mean, I love you.”

She smiled at that. “I kissed you first.”

“You did.” He smiled too and squeezed her hand, before he sobered up. “What about Andrew?”

His words hit her like an open palm. “Do you want me to feel guilty?” she asked.

He shook his head. “I don’t want to take advantage of your grief.”

“What about Rosalind?”

“She … “ He sighed. The pause he took makes her stomach clench.

“I feel guilty for her death.” he added. “I don’t feel guilty because of this.” His voice was so soft. “Maybe a little bit guilty.”

She squinted at him.

“I loved you before. I loved you for years.” He sighed. “Thought I could stop.”

“Why?” His words make barely sense to her.

He shrugged. “Because of SHIELD regulations and then you found Andrew.”

What?

He shrugged again and gave her a half looped smile.

“Since then?” she asked.

“Since I saw you.”

She kissed him and with a sigh he wrapped his arms around her waist. For a moment she allowed herself just to lose herself in his arms and his scent and his taste. She hadn’t felt this save and happy in years. He loved her! Oh my God, he loved her.

Smiling, she kissed him again before she mumbled into his ear, “Good thing you’ll be demoted then.” She nibbled at his earlobe.  “Dating my boss would’ve been awkward.”

He laughed and turned his head, seeking her lips once more.

o0o

...

Melinda is stewing, as they near their destination.

“We are not errant boys!”

“Come on,” Coulson tries to reason with her, one hand on the steering wheel, other resting close to the gear stick and her seat, “It’s just a routine mission.”

It really is, and that’s 90 percent of the reason why she hated it as soon as they got the directive.

“You know that’s precisely what I hate!”

Their destination is a pretty, yet somewhat tiny and old-fashioned Albanian cruise ship, ready to whisk them off on an adventure to unforgettable exotic islands Melinda and Phil won’t be able to see.

Their target is Lazar Whatshisface, this low rate mafia person, who has been chatting up the wrong people about this tiny, yet unbreakable chain. His statements were at different points supported by various allies and enemies of his, so SHIELD had to send someone at least for a reconnaissance mission.

The main mission falls on Melinda’s shoulders. Try to extract information peacefully and sneakily off him. They will have some backup, but the first line of defence will be Phil.

He is strangely giddy about that.

He’s gone full tourist mode: chilling on a plastic chair, sipping his cocktail (he’s specifically asked for a green umbrella), wearing unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt, and shorts.

If it isn’t for his glasses, he’ll feel naked. He’s a bit too fit for this particular role he’s playing, but there’s nothing much he can about that. And it’s so fun to play roles.

The mission directive was simply to keep an eye on her, but he supposes there’s no harm in bending the rules a bit.

Entertaining a smirk, he leaves his ridiculously watered down martini, and makes his way to her.

As he slides in the seat next to hers, she is surprised, but there’s a twinkle of amusement in her eyes, which ensures him she won’t be mad at him. Consistent to the slightly sleazy character he has been assigned, he gives her a good once-over, and waves at the bartender.  

“Nice weather, yeah?”

She laughs at him, loud, merry and very different from her usual.

“That your trick?”

The bartender comes over with another martini.

“Did it work?”

“Haven’t had such a surprisingly bad one in a long time.”

 “How would you feel about a drink then?”

“Nice try,” she smiles at him, and it should be fake, but it’s brilliant and mischievous.

He smiles at her, and wonders why he feels a bit bitter at that.

“Do I get points of trying at least?”

“How do you feel about getting one of these and going back to your place?”

That’s his cue, he guesses. He can see their target from his peripheral vision.

“That’s my job then, taking rejection and witty one-liners.”

He downs the sludge at the bottom of his glass, and leaves his spot as silently as possible, content in the knowledge he’s helped establish the first impression of May’s character as this beautiful and unapproachable beauty. A challenge to be won over.

The agent bites back his laugh.

This sleazebag will soon learn that Melinda May is all different kinds of challenge, none of which he will find enjoyable.

Coulson all but crashes on his seat with a pounding heart, and a weird feeling of something he cannot quite place.

And before he can pin it on mission adrenaline, those dreaded thoughts are back.

He wonders if that is what normal people do, once they reach a financially stable middle life. Go on a nice, weeks-long cruise in a country, ravaged by corruption, yet full of gorgeous beaches and cheap, cosy restaurants. Spend all that time drinking cocktails and sunbathing and barely talking because there is not much left there to say once you get rid of the annoying daily routine.

Coulson tries to imagine this being his life.

He would probably have some decent paying government job, nothing too fancy, and nothing too interesting, but amazingly ordinary and safe. His kids would go to a decent enough kindergarten, and then schools. His wife would also be running up some sort of career path, probably much more interesting than his. They would get a few weeks of annual leave, and would go on such cruises, to enjoy each other’s silence, and watch the kids run and yell and do kid stuff.

That would be his life. Decently normal enough. And neither him, nor Melinda would know how to fire a gun, or kill a man only with their hands, but instead at least one of them would know how to whip up a decent barbecue.

Then he realises the implications of his rampant imagination, and blushes the whole way through the mission.

As they both expected, Melinda deals perfectly with that second-rate mafia guy.

Though they call them seduction missions, they barely even deserve that name. Phil finishes with his third martini, as she finishes up knocking out the guy and putting him out of the way, and entertains the thought of rising up to her defence, in a way he could see Captain America doing if he, like any other SHIELD agent, wasn’t aware of Peggy Carter’s character.

Her skin glistens a tad more golden compared to before, as one of the straps of her beach dress has moved during the mission, he notices once she comes over. He congratulates her, since there is no point keeping up the normal charade, and she sits down to wait for their transport to come pick them up.

“You’ve tanned.”

She grins and reaches for the sunscreen next to him.

“And you’ve burnt.”

She boops his nose with a slather of sunscreen, and he shoves at her, and they laugh before settling in an easy silence.

…

“We’re in the South Hemisphere, why is it so cold!?!?!”

Phil glances at her, and there must have been something in his gaze that makes her sigh exasperatedly.

“Please don’t give me a comprehensive geography lesson.”

He chuckles at that, and resumes trying to get in touch with their contact. But once he manages a scrap of connection, there isn’t much comfort coming from the other side of the speaker.

“They said they’re gonna try to get our location, but the signal is weak,” he settles down to her, “We’re playing the waiting game now.”

Melinda shoots him a dirty look.

Great.

They’ve had to find and identify a 084 deep in the Argentinian countryside, and that took an exciting helicopter chase, a pair of corkscrews and an uncomfortable amount of sheep. Sadly, the signal turned out shitty and now they are stranded on a tiny island from the Tierra Del Fuego archipelago.

And they are both freezing.

Not a good combination.

Before his mind can catch up to what his body is doing, he’s reaching out to her.  

“Come here.”

She fits easily in his arms, and for the first time in a while, he forces his thoughts to shut down, because no matter how close she feels she is very far away, with Andrew, and very, very happy.

…

Then Bahrain happened.

…

Maria Hill drafts him in for a mission, and he has to pretend he can handle violence at this time, that his colleagues won’t be susceptible.

After all, he’s the one who’s had to kill a child with his own bare hands.

He finds their guy easily enough, and it’s about as cliche as it gets. The guy’s all but foaming at the mouth.

“You are not terribly original are you?”

The poor crazed man cackles evilly, and out of a sudden, Coulson feels tired.

“Once I perfect the serum I will have an army of super soldiers ready at my beck and call!”

Yet another scientist trying to recreate the super soldier serum. So original.

“Your overconfidence is your weakness.”

When the person in front of him doesn’t as much as react to his words, opting instead to rant on about evil deeds, Coulson can’t do anything but sigh. Nobody has an appreciation of obscure references anymore.

Disarming him is a piece of cake.

Poor scientist never had even half of the martial training he’s had, and his hands are trembling under the gun, as his finger fails to hold on the trigger properly.

Honestly, he could have had a perfect, boring life as a productive member of society, but of course he had to go and work with forces he doesn’t understand. They are as common as dirt in his line of work.  

“Stop or I’ll shoot!”

He turns around, sees the gun trained at him, and sees the man behind the trigger. Another painfully ordinary man who just had to go and fuck up their life.

“Oh we’re using threats now. Don’t worry, I have all day to chat away,” Coulson says amicably, putting his hands up, but kicking the gun away from the scientist. Melinda will easily deal with one armed person, no need to give her more workload.

“S-shut up,” the man is afraid, he notices and shudders; nervous fingers on the trigger were the most dangerous ones, “One more word and I’ll make you worse than Swiss cheese!

“Oh, there goes the threats.”

“I’m serious!”

“I’m serious too. You waltz in here, and you are so painfully cliché and expect me to take you—“

The man shoots, and with a start Phil realises May’s not here.

Out of an ill-timed instinct, his body falls to the side, but it’s too late and the bullet manages to graze him. His shoulder burns but it’s not as bad as the dawning realisation he just fucked up. Royally.

He ducks away from the next shots, racking his brain for any way to deal with this.

Dissociations as serious as the one he just had aren’t just worrisome in their line of work; they are outright dangerous. Provided he survives, he will have hurt the integrity of the mission.

The scientist is cackling from the side, like the low-rate film villain he has been aspiring to apparently, and from the sound of it he’s gonna escape. Shit.

That man was the objective, but Coulson hasn’t expected this sort of backup. He had him in his hands, and let him get away. Sometimes he wishes the universe didin’t give him convenient metaphours about his life.

Suddenly, there’s a crash and a bang – May? – and he can see Agent Hill coming from behind his cover.

“What the hell, Coulson?” she snaps, and passes him the scientist’s gun.

“Made a bad call, Agent Hill,” he explains, as he dusts his suit, grabs the gun, and follows her out, on the trails of the madman.

She scowls as she tries to get used to the much darker corridor.

“Focus on the objective, and remember your training for once, Coulson. You have no backup.”

Her pointed glare tells him she knows what just went through his mind prior to her saving his ass, and Coulson tries not to be as bashful as the green recruit he wants to go back to being.

…

Fury is facing away from him, form gently outlined by the glint of the screens he is looking at.

“Are you sure?”

Coulson straightens, years of training ingrained in his mind so much it’s barely even an afterthought, and resists the urge to bounce on the balls of his feet.

Fury’s called him to give an explanation for his actions at the last mission, and while he can’t put in words the mess of conflicting thoughts his mind becomes when he tries to think of Melinda, but it is easy to put it down as stress.

“Positive.”

“Hill filled in the gaps in your report.”

Phil freezes at that, and his mind fills with things Agent Hill could have said.

“I don’t like having both May and you out of commission but I prefer my agents away from pointless danger. So I am trusting you to make a call.”

He feels his body slacken with relief.

“Understood.”

He dismisses him, and Coulson leaves his office wondering why everyone around here has a penchant for the dramatic.

He passes by the room she works in, near, at the door, and glances at her work station. Her head is cast down, and he is far away from the line of his sight, face lit by the cruel glint of the computer screen and framed by the limpy curtain of her hair. Her posture is stiff, but apparently quite adept at feigning interest in whatever she is doing.

She isn’t, however, that much is obvious; her eyes are hollow, and seemingly very far away, quite probably at a particular geographic location.

The box suits her about as much as a nose ring suits a bear.

He can walk up to her, Coulson entertains the thought. He could go there and disregarding her own decision about how to recuperate and heal after Bahrain, confess his deepest thoughts and desires, the ones he hears in the deepest recesses in his mind, and is never sure whether are his own or not.

He could go, out of the selfishness of his own heart, as there’s abundant evidence thereof, tell her of almost dying, or the gym being too big without her, or his stupid brain overthinking, or anything; beg her to come back it’s not the same anymore.

He could, if not for her. Seriously though, he was trained better.

Her shoulders are heavy enough as they are.

No need for more guilt.

The memory of her weight on him is still fresh in his mind, never this tiny, never this defeated. Never this frail.

He leaves instead.

…

After the Avengers fiasco and a lengthy recuperation at Tahiti, he starts the team, and isn’t prepared to have her back.

Though he is sort of glad to be back in the fray, it feels weird. He can’t stop worrying about her, even if she would kick his ass for doing so.

They go through everything, the Hydra fiasco, Ward’s betrayal, Terragenesis and the fake memories planted in his mind.

For a time he forgets about the exquisite torture his mind likes to provide by the virtue of having so much shit going on.

But when he stumbles out of the portal and she’s there looking at him like he’s hung the sun in the sky for her, and he almost asks her, right then and there, what the fuck has he done to deserve her.

Daisy’s off in Campbell’s arms immediately, and Simmons is making puppy eyes at his other half, but for now he is content to look

This time it’s her who reaches out to him, but it feels the same, except they aren’t freezing and stranded on an uninhabited island off the South American coast, she’s warm and safe in his arms, and he’s holding onto her as though that’s his lifeline.

He remembers a simpler time, on an old cruise ship off the Albanian coast, back when their normal SHIELD lives seemed weird, back when he wondered what their normal lives would be like.

His eyes close, and he imagines their lives are much simpler, and he hasn’t just had to kill one of his own, and she hasn’t had to kill a child a long time ago, after taking her mother’s life in front of her.  

Phil catches Fitz’s eye and represses a shudder running up his spine.  

…

The whiskey glass refracts the light in pretty hexagons over the newspaper sitting next to it, as though highlighting the word Quake in the headline.

As always in his moments of greatest weakness, May is standing there, silent as ever. She looks ready to fight, arms crossed and legs spread wide in a stable position. This time there’s no one to fight, however.

“We lost her again.”

“So you intend to waste away the afternoon sulking at the newspaper.”

When he doesn’t say anything, she moves over to peer in his eyes.  

“She’s made her choice, but so have we. We’re gonna find her.”

“Yes, I know, it’s just—“ he starts, and stops, unsure of how to formulate all these swirling thoughts and images in words, “If only we could—“

“She’s made her choice, Coulson. I know you wanted to give her a family, but SHIELD was never to her what it was to us.”

She says that with a quieter voice, and with a start, he realises she must also be dejected over Daisy’s disappearance, and probably even has more reason to do so. Once upon a time, she was her S.O. after all. They both watched her grow up and develop.

Coulson vaguely wonders if that’s what parenting feels like.

“I’m sorry, May. I keep getting caught in my failures, and forgetting other people have their grief too,” he sighs and hopes this apology will be sufficient for today, for that one time before Daisy left them, and for every time he’s acted like a dick.  

They regard each other for what seems a long time.

She has that talent of slowing down time in his mind that he was never able to resist.

With a sigh, she unfurls her arms, relaxes her legs, and moves to one of his cabinets. From there, she produces a brand new bottle of whiskey. They’ve finished the previous one apparently.  

“What are you doing?”

“If you’re sulking, might as well keep you company,” she smiles thinly, pours him a glass, and slides it over.

He marvels at the appreciation he’s developed for her smiles, and how easy it is for him to distinguish the subtle differences between each. She sits next to him, and it feels like she’s closer than ever before.

He looks in her eyes, and knows.

This has been long overdue.

When their lips meet, it’s like a breath leaving his body that he didn’t know he held. It’s slow and sweet and objectively too simple to get excited about. They’ve already wasted so much time, a few more seconds wouldn’t hurt. But she is next to him, they are drinking and they are alone, and it feels like the only normal thing he’s had for a while.

He cups her face, rests his forehead against hers, and allows himself to smile against her lips.

Because she was Melinda May. She could handle everything. And he wouldn’t lose her. But god, he was so scared. Because damn it, he still loved her. After all this. After Andrew and Audrey and Rosalind, he still loved her.

He lost count of how many times he had made himself believe he was over her. After she met Andrew he thought he was over his silly crush, and yet it kept roaring  up its head whenever she smiled at one of his puns. He thought he was over needing her after Bahrain. Because he had to get over her, he had to move on. Not seeing her every day had hurt like hell. Not seeing her every day had reminded him how much he still loved her. So he worked to get over her. And he met Audrey. And he moved on.

He thought he could just be friends with her after Tahiti. Because for sure he was over her now, right? In his second life he was no longer foolishly in love with Melinda May.

Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.

He always felt it most in her absence. Whenever she was close, he could get a grip, remember that they were friends and partners and that it was enough. But every time she left, he felt incomplete. She was so much more than his right hand to him.

As often as he convinced himself he just wanted to be friends, as often he proved himself wrong.

Over and over again.

Every time.

o0o

She was alive. She lost a lot of blood, but she was alive. A freshly transformed inhuman had drained it from her by touch briefly after they had lost contact.

Rosalind had bled out in his arms.

They had found Melinda just in time. He wouldn’t lose her.

He entered the station just the moment Melinda crossed her arms, lifted her chin and glared at doctor Brown, the physical doctor at the playground. She had short black hair and was about as tall and as muscular as Mack.

Melinda was lying in a hospital bed. She wore one of those hospital gowns, she was connected to a blood bag via IV. And she was very pale. “I’m not staying,” she growled.

“Yes, you are,” he said.

Doctor Brown and Melinda both turned to him. Doctor Brown smiled, Melinda now glared at him.

“I have to get back out there!” she said.

“Not with that amount of blood loss,” doctor Brown said.

He couldn’t agree more. “Daisy and Mack are on it. They’ll find him.” He nodded at doctor Brown. He would make sure Melinda wouldn’t leave the bed. Doctor Brown nodded back and left. As soon as she was out the door, Melinda eyed her IV.

“Don’t even think about it!” he growled.

She squinted. “I hate this.”

“I know.”

She huffed.

He walked up next to her bed. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I want to hit someone.”

He had to grin at that. It was so good to see her! He wanted to reach out and hold her hand. He wanted to hug her close and make sure she was really here.

“I hate this freak stuff, Phil.” She sighed heavily. “How are we supposed to prepare for blood draining people?”

“Watch a lot of Buffy?”

She rolled her eyes.

“You’ve got the time now,” he added.

She squinted at him. “I’m going back tomorrow.”

“If doctor Brown clears you.” Which she probably would. Simmons had engineered some special supplements to add to their blood bank that helped speed up recovery.  She would be okay. He smiled. He wouldn’t lose her. And being her friend was just fine. It would be enough.

“There’s just so many people changing …” She took a breath and pressed her lips together.

He sighed. The last few months had been a lot for both of them. Rosalind. Andrew. He knew she was suffering. He wished he could fix things for her. He just wanted her to be happy. If her happiness was with Andrew, then he wanted her to have that.

“Want to talk about it yet?” he asked.

“I’m on an IV, what else is there to discuss?”

“I mean -”

“Andrew.”

Yes. He waited. If she wanted to talk, she would.

She sighed again. “I miss him.”

“I know.” He reached out for her hand and she held on to him. “I’m here,” he said. “Whatever you need, just ask.”

She had told him something similar after Rosalind’s death. He wanted to tell her more. He wanted to tell her that he loved her, but she wasn’t ready to hear that yet. It wasn’t the right time.

She squeezed his hand. “Does that mean, you’ll let me get out of this bed?”

“Sure.” He smiled again. “As soon as doctor Brown clears you.”

It feels good to breathe again. To breathe without the fear that the end was waiting around the next corner. That he would leave them or they would leave him.

Rubbing his hands together once, he shoves them into his pockets, and hunches over. There are regrets he harbors though. Things he holds close to the vest, and hates himself for: deeds, and words, and the strain he subjected his team to. Mostly he regrets the paranoia, and the sleepless nights, having the ability to send them on any number of suicide missions without so much as a thank you. He regrets trying to remove his ‘right hand’ again. Remove her when her skills would have been an asset, when she could have accomplished any number of operations in half the time. But his goal had been to make them irrelevant, to make her irrelevant.

It hadn’t worked, and he will berate himself continuously until his life is spent for trying. It had only managed to rile his agents up for the way he’d treated her. He can’t bring himself to blame them for that. He’d have done the same in their position. They were a team, a family, and they didn’t let the injustices slide. So he changed tactics; sent her off. Some trivial task, far below her pay grade, without explanation. He knew she was well aware off what he was doing. Still she hadn’t protested, and he was grateful for it.

He wishes she had now. Wishes that her silence, compliance, had thrown up a red flag for him. She always threw in her thoughts for him, and then went about her duty as always. But she hadn’t said a word, just nodded and left.

He’d watched her walk away with a sense of relief, but he’d take it back now. Keep her with him so no one was alone, vulnerable. But he’d been scared, he can admit that freely. She’d already been hurt once, and every time he’d looked at her after there’d been this terrifying pressure constricting his heart.

It’d been the only choice. The only choice he could live with. The one where he could focus, and she was safe, out of harms way, his reach, and theirs. He hadn’t planned on losing anyone else. Especially her. Definitely not her.

Now, though, he can see fear didn’t justify his decisions, behavior. He should have been able to see the consequences of his actions as he made them, before he made them. Or at least seen them sooner. It was his job after all. But he hadn’t, and he hadn’t expected to be blindsided by her. He should have, but didn’t. Should have known her reaction would be to push back, strike out on her own so she could come home. So they could all go home.

He leans back, fully reclining against the bench he’s on, listening to the birds chirp. It is still hard for him to believe that this is real. That there are days like this, and more to look forward to. Days where the sun shines, and is warm, and he can feel that warmth without a lingering coldness clinging to him. Where his people can laugh and live without a constant fear that one of them isn’t coming home.

It’s hard to believe the world isn’t on the verge of ending. The last couple years have been touch and go. It’s hard to believe he can breathe this easily, that the rest of his family can. That they are. That three days have passed since he’d willing handed the reins to people better qualified and better equipped than him.

He waits, impatiently, for the others to join them. He’s been trying to get her to sit for the past half hour, and her refusals ring in his ear, his fists clenching in irritation. She can be so… agitating sometimes.

He’d only agreed to bring her along because he knew she’d fight him on it, knew it’d just be easier to watch her if she was with him. If he was truthful, it made him feel better too. And if the extensive warnings and prep from Simmons hadn’t been enough to ward her off than he knew his own ground rules would do nothing to prevent her from chaperoning. She’d nodded along with both of them, playing nice. But apparently he hadn’t been specific enough, he’ll remember to rectify that in the future.

He reminds her they are in a safe place, that nothing is going to happen, that she doesn’t need to be on constant guard., that they would both feel better if she just sat down, but she doesn’t budge. Digs her feet in, hands clasped, and narrows her eyes, his recommendations unwanted, and unwelcome.

Her attention is stolen from him as the door handle twists; she stiffens and straightens in case of threat.

This last mission has done a real number on her, he knows, still he wonders when she became so weary of friends.

Romanoff is the first though the door, unsurprised by his 'sudden return’, and truthfully, he isn’t either. She’d always been close with Fury, with Melinda. They’d spoken frequently over the years, but recently everything has been quiet. And he wonders. Which of them had stopped calling? Stopped answering? He has a feeling he knows though.

He hasn’t seen her in years, since he died, he thinks, and it feels strange to be back. The four of them had been damn near inseparable for a while, but slowly they’d lost each other. And it’s strange because he shouldn’t be here, not really, and he knows it, they know it. These people had been there, gone to his funeral.

Shaking his head, he puts his thoughts away for another time. It’s time for over this to be over. For good.

The door swings open the rest of the way revealing Rogers, Stark, Banner, and Wilson. Where Barton is, he doesn’t know, but these were more the kinds of expressions he’d been expecting. A little shocked, a little amazed, but mostly unfazed by this turn of events.

All of them sit, except Natasha; she stands at the back propped against the wall, arms crossed, a smirk playing out across her features. A mirror of the guard behind him.

He takes it as his cue to stand, to begin, and sends a rueful smile back. He eases, but notices her eyes look passed him. He files it away, he can’t be distracted right now. Leaning against the table top, he has nothing to break the ice with, no words, no jokes, and wonders if this feels just as awkward for them.

Nervously, he clears he throat, deciding to cut to the chase. “I have a proposition for you.”

                                                      —-

The discussion is going well, he thinks, better than he thought it would at least, but he stutters mid sentence as Romanoff pushes off the wall. She walks the long way around the group, and he tries to stay focused on what he’s saying, but his eyes follow every step until she is out of his sight line. He knows where she’d headed. And something begins to gnaw at him at the concerned looks of the others.

Guilt. Yes. Yes, definitely guilt. This is his fault after all. The hollowness of dread claws at him. He let this happen, let her push herself too hard, hasn’t been helpful enough.

Looking down, he taps his knuckles against the table. He can’t investigate yet. If he does, he’ll whisk her away, and never finish this meeting. And he has too, this has to be the end.

“There was a vote, consensuses, we’d like to stay on in a more advisory role, assisting from the background, if you’ll let us that is.”

Eyes flicker past him and back, and there is a stone in his gut, a lump in his throat at the continued silence.

“Mel-” Romanoff’s voice is soft, and he hears a huff, but still doesn’t turn. Can’t. This is too much. The day before too fresh. “Chair.”

But the urgency of the bitten word tells him to suck it up, that her condition is more important than his comfort. And before he can even circle and assess what is happening with his partner, Rogers is out of his seat and rolling it passed him.

He stops, there are capable people around her, he doesn’t have to see, doesn’t have to add to the roiling fear in him. He can’t stop from jumping to the worse conclusion, recent life has been one bad turn of events after the other, and his gut says this is just another.

This can’t be happening again, he can’t be losing her. He’d just gotten her back, he hadn’t even – he hadn’t even mustered up the courage to –

“Take a breath, Phil.”

May’s voice is an immediate comfort, calming the multitude of thoughts, but it doesn’t help slow the racing in his chest. Forcing his shoulders down, he does as instructed, and breaths. In through his nose, he let’s it tumble out in choppy waves; the stoop of his back relaxing, uncurling. He’s sure the worry is evident on his face when he looks back.

She’s sitting, shaky, drooping in her seat. Pale and sweating, and this is the day before all over. He shouldn’t have brought her along, but the relief is instantaneous, he nearly feels lightheaded. Romanoff is smirking at him again, eyes gleefully watching this time. Rogers pretends he’s looking somewhere else, and Coulson can’t drag himself to pay any attention to his idol. He concentration is securely fixed.

Maybe the last mission took a toll on him also. Maybe this life has taken a toll on both of them.

He doesn’t realizing he’s moving toward her until his knees hit the floor far harder than they should have.

“Should we go?”

“No.” She shakes her head slowly, and all he can see is her slumped in his arms. “I’m fine.”

He doesn’t know why his eyes wander to the people around them before finding her again, but he does know he definitely doesn’t believe her. Scooching closer, he takes her hand, gently squeezing. “Melinda.”

“I’m fine, really. Just woozy.”

He’s reply is cut off, the door opening again, and he is standing, guarding her already when he registers who it is.

“Am I late? I stopped for coffee.” Barton wanders in, two drink trays in hand.

Resisting the urge to roll his eyes, Coulson turns his back, and revisits the task at hand. Greetings can wait, he has more pressing issues to attend to. He’s nudged by a foot a minute later. Annoyance churning, he turns to rebuff the intruder, and is met with a coffee cup.

“Phil.”

Coulson take the offering, and nods in thanks. His fingers burn through the cozy, and he sets it on the floor beside him.

Barton holds out the other cup. “Mellie.”

She shakes her head with a frown. “Don’t call me that.”

“Not coffee, I swear. Learned my lesson last time.”

Still she shakes her head, grip tight on the armrests.

Clint shrugs, placing the cup on the table, and drifts off towards Romanoff.

“Do we need to go?”

She relaxes at his question, fingers loosening their hold, and shakes her head. “No, it’s fine. You should finish. I’ll be fine.”

She sends him off with a half smile, and he’s promptly pinned down by Stark.

“So, how’s your cellist?”

“My cellist?”

“Yes, for when I inventively tell Piper about this reunion. She’ll ask.”

“I don’t think that’s necessary.”

“I do. If she ever found out I knew and didn’t mention it, then it’ll be my ass in the hot seat, and I’m not about to play that game, buddy.”

“There is no cellist. I didn’t see the point of dragging her into this kind of life.” He turns his head at a bark of laughter he knows is Melinda, and smiles. His eyes are back on Stark when the billionaire clears his throat.

“So, you found something closer to home, that could without the onslaught that is Shield. I get it. No judgment here.”

Smile fading, he crosses his arms. “No, it’s not like that. We’re –”

“Uh-huh. Well, I’d be expecting a strongly worded letter, Agent.

“Just 'Phil’ is fine.”

“Sure it is, Agent.”

He dumbfounded. Why is this so obvious to everyone? He thought he’d been better, thought he’d done better at hiding for years. And to find out he hasn’t been is startling. He wants to find a place to collect his thoughts, a place without prying eyes, but as he redirects Rogers is in front of him.

He steels himself instead, hiding can wait.

“So you want us to do the heavy lifting?”

Coulson nods along because that is what he wants. He wants to stop losing people, to themselves, to others, and this is how. This conclusion was clear to him the night before, he’s at peace with it, ready.

It was over. Is. They are fine. She is fine. Every one of the managed to walk away from this fight, but sometimes he dreams they didn’t. That he is alone, that he was too late, made the wrong choice, lead them into a trap, sacrificed too much.

He wakes up gasping those nights, clasping at his chest, and fighting off his blankets. Those are the nights he wishes she had agreed to stay in infirmary, so she could sleep, heal without his added burdens.

The sun rises higher on the horizon, the morning clouds burning off. Untucking his hands, Coulson stretches his arms along the back of the bench, and let’s his head tilt back, tired eyes closed against the light. He would have preferred to stay in bed longer, but she’s already been gone when he’d snapped out of his nightmare. And the absence renewed the stuttering in his chest.

After freeing himself and throwing the blankets to the floor, he stilled. Breathing as deep as he could, he told himself that she was fine, just wandering the base somewhere, completely fine. He’d seen it for himself when he’d flipped the lights out. But the need to move persisted.

He needed to get out, find her, reassure himself that his life hadn’t been so monumentally changed. But he’d ended up here instead, his mind replaying the last couple days.

There’s an irrational burst of anger that blooms in his chest as Giyera boldly approaches him, Melinda his shield.

It’s a sickening kind of anger that digs into his chest, and binds itself there, tuning everything to grief and ash. Anger that Giyera thinks this is okay. That she is here, and caught, and hurt again. That once again he is left helpless in the face of his nightmares.

But there’s a part of him that understands. Knows Giyera is just playing his cards – the only ones he has left, that the prospect of the end makes people wild, and that that wildness leads them to make poor decisions. And Coulson can almost respect what he’s doing, respect that he thought he could take her on without consequence, but it appears she got the better of him at some point during their scuffle. Can almost respect why he’s doing it. But this is exactly what he didn’t want. This is exactly why he sent her away. This. Right here. And the pressure in his chest squeezes with every move Giyera makes. His stomach knotting tighter.

He appraises May through the sight of his weapon, and is relieved, somewhat, by what he sees. She’s limping, and a couple fingers are swollen. Her lip is busted, face bruised, but stone, and her eyes are clear. He can’t spot anything that will be unrepairable, that makes this more urgent than it already is.

The release in his chest is unexpected but welcomed, though he knows there are still too many unknowns for this kind of relief to be taking hold. It leads his concentration astray.

His eyes shift from Melinda to Giyera to Fitz, who is slowly creeping up behind the pair. The engineer’s hands are empty, and Coulson doesn’t have a clue what he plans to do, but it corrals his attention back into place. He pulls his gaze not wanting to alert anyone to the other man’s presence.

He trusts Fitz, he reminds himself. Trusts whatever he is planning. He’s capable, and Coulson trusts him with his life. With her life, and that is all that matters to him right now.

Looking back, he goes to lower his gun – he doesn’t know what he’s thinking, it isn’t helpful in this situation. A gut reaction he should’ve tried to control. Not that it would have really mattered, if Giyera wanted it he’d  have taken it. But as he relaxes his arms to drop, the gun stays in place, and his heart hammers harder against his bubbling panic.

She doesn’t look surprised, and both his hands are back up, pulling, in the hopes of wrestling it out of Giyera’s control. And it’s stupid because he knows he can’t. He can’t. And he’ll never be able to, but he continues to try as it repositions.

What strikes him most is her face. As they stand there death looming overhead, when he doesn’t think he’ll be able to save her, her face is peaceful, calmly blank. Not a hint of ire, discomfort. Like she’s ready for whatever outcome will claim them, accepting that if she and Hydra must end together they will. She’ll see to it. But he can’t accept that, won’t. He knows she’s not really ready, doesn’t truly want to leave them, she’s just willing to make the hard choice. And she’ll do it happily because she knows the rest of them will hesitate, try to find another way when there isn’t one, and – he’s always hated this about her. Her ability to think she is worth less than the rest of them because she thinks she’s broken, expendable. He hates it about her now as she stares at him, her eyes so steady.

He yanks harder, desperately trying to change something, anything.

It all happens before he can blink, before he can process what is happening.

One shot. Two. And they’re falling forward, her body trapped beneath Giyera’s limp one. He watches, frozen in place. There’s movement and sound, and it dully filters through his ears, but a third shot spurs him to action. His gun is on the floor, and he doesn’t know where the sound came from, but they need to go.

“May? Melinda?!” His belly twists with a fury and relief when she moves, trying to push Giyera off from an odd angle. How she’s flipped herself over he doesn’t know, but he feels a little nauseous at the conflicting emotions. There isn’t a time he can remember relief this potent, and his hands tremble when he reaches to help.

He kneels to help her up after rolling the unconscious man over. His eyes are wide and his hands hover just above, unsure if he should touch her. “Are you hurt? There’s blood.”

“S'not mine,” she mutters sitting up, gaze on him, mouth tight.

And he has so many questions to ask. How long had she been here? What had they done to her?Why hadn’t anyone known she was missing?

She pushes herself up with a waver, and he grabs at her waist deciding any answers can wait until they back in the safety of their base.

“The Quinjet’s been compromised.”

“How do you know?”

She shakes his question off, and wobbles once more. “Doesn’t matter.” Pushing away from him, he feels the lost of contact immediately, but she squares her shoulders. “Gather the others. I’ll find another way out of here before backup arrives.”

There’s no point in questioning her orders, he’d have given the same ones, and he can’t shake this nauseating feeling that he’s missed something. His earpiece buzzes at the jumble of voices that ripple through at her voice.

She’s stalked off when he orders everyone back. Giyera’s zip tied, and being hauled into the containment module as what he assumes was Malick’s personal jet taxis to the end of the hanger. He just wants to get on the plane, and leave so he can reprimand his second, but rethinks his decision as the others file on. They can’t try to rehabilitate Giyera if he dies.

“We should at least make sure he’s not gonna bleed out.”

“Bleed out, sir?” Fitz asks, tapping the computer screen. He stops for a moment to look at whatever Coulson is pointing at, and his shoulders fall. “That’s not his. I used an ICER, two shots to be safe. He’s gonna have a hell of a headache. It’s prototype-”

His face falls as he steps out. “No – that means – she said –” His inside coil, blood beating deafeningly against his eardrums. No, no, no, no – she’s so… stupid. So is he for that matter. How could he have fallen for that? He hadn’t even made it hard for her, just watched her walk off.

“Maybe he just got it on him during a fight,” Fitz offers.

Coulson shakes his head. No. No. “Send it off. Get to the plane.”

He starts back, rubbing at his face, hoping Fitz is right, but the further he walks the more something tells him it’s not. Breaking into a run, his shoes slip as he grabs the railing to go up the stairs. Taking them two at a time, he ignores his team’s looks, and sprints down the hall. Practically running into the door, he pulls the handle, finding it locked. Hysteria builds at the development, and he strikes the door.

“May, open the door! Open the goddamn door, Melinda!” Each sentence is punctuated by banging on the door. He tries the handle again, rattles the door when he finds it’s still locked.

The hatch closes, the engines revving up. Their team is murmuring at the end of the hall, concern radiating off them, and he hits the door again, slumps against it, forehead resting on the wood.

“Please open the door!” His voice is calmer, by a fraction, and he’s colder, blood gone from his limbs, his heart a weight in his stomach. He needs in, needs to determine how bad this is, whether he needs to be this worried.

They stagger as the plan begins rolling, and he knows they’ll have to find somewhere to sit. She’ll take off whether they’re standing or not, injury is better than death.

Back in the cabin, buckled in, he decides he hates her a little for this also. And it doesn’t take him long to figure out who might have known she’d be there if the remorse that spreads across Daisy’s features is any indication. He’ll have words with her later when he can think straight.

Leg bouncing, he taps his knee until they’re flying level. He’s up, keeping the others in their seats with a wave of his hand. The anger from earlier fades the closer he gets, and the closer he gets the slower his feet seem to move. Trying the door, he finds it’s unlocked, and the coldness in his limbs travels to his core. He thought he’d have to beg again.

Door open, he watches her flip a switch and remove her headset before standing to face him. His eyes are stuck. She’s pale, and sweaty, and trembling, and he doesn’t know how he didn’t notice before. Her hand is on the back of her seat, fingers digging into the fine leather, and he can’t bring himself to move faster, to break this fragile spell. A sharp spike of alarm has lodged itself in him.

“Melinda–”

Her breath leaves her in shuddering waves. “I lied.”

The smell hits him all at once, harsh and putrid. Iron. Thick on the air, and heavy on his tongue. And the stain of red finally catches his eye, stark against the pale chair. It drips to the floor, and the anxiety nearly chokes him.

Her eyelids flutter, as all the adrenaline that’s been holding her up leaves, and she headed to the floor. For a moment he’s not sure if the shock will wear off enough for his arms to react. But it does, and they’re on the floor. Together. She’s partially on his lap, and he’s afraid she’s not going to open her eyes.

But she does, and he doesn’t like what he sees.

“Sorry.”

“You should have said something.” With one hand, he brushes her hair back, unhappy with the clamminess of her skin. The other searches blindly for the source of the bleeding, and the panic wells in his gut, crawling up his throat.

He did this. Wasn’t fast enough, didn’t pay enough attention. It was his gun, his bullet. His hands on the weapon. And he’s interrupted. His sight is blurred, and May is watching through hooded eyes.

“DC, there’s blood in the cabin,” Daisy reports, concern thick in her voice, eyes following the trail. There’s no response, and it forces her eyes up. Her reaction is immediate, and he is thankful that somebody’s head is still firmly on their shoulders. “Oh, shit! Jemma!”

It feels like a blur after that. He can remember being pushed out of the way, May’s eyes closing, her breath slowing, the hopeless way he is helpless. Everything is crashing down, sounds merging together into a thunderous hum.

Except then, Simmons is a miracle worker because May is bandaged, hooked up to oxygen, and up in the co-pilot’s seat. Everyone’s staring at him, he’s missed something he’s sure, but Daisy is saying something about landing, and he doesn’t know if she’s gotten that far in her training. Neither of them had mentioned it.

He shakes himself, of course she hasn’t. If she had they wouldn’t have set the coordinates in the Quinjet and let the automated flight take over. No one was expecting them, watching, they hadn’t needed any fancy flying.

He can barely hear everyone’s responses, but Daisy is offering to try, and he is ordering people to buckle up. The quip Daisy makes gets lost somewhere between her mouth and his ears, and he sees this isn’t going to work as Melinda’s head falls forward, and Skye – Daisy asks for the instructions to be repeated again.

She’s up a moment later, but he’s already turning to Jemma.

“I need something to keep her going until we land.”

Simmons’ eyes widen, and she tries to get out of her seat to argue, forgetting she’s buckled. She stays seated instead. “You can’t, sir. She can’t handle any kind of stimulants in her condition.”

“Worse case?” Hands on his hips, he has to physically stop his foot from bouncing.

She blinks owlishly. “Uh, increased heart rate which will exasperate blood loss, and will lead to her bleeding out right here.”

“Best?” She’ll need something to focus on to keep her up, awake, functioning. She’ll have to do this, he doesn’t think she’ll manage just giving directions. Daisy can be backup if things take a worse turn. He nods to himself. Yes, that will have to do.

“She takes slightly longer to bleed out, and we are on the ground by than.” She unbuckles quickly, and drags him off into the hallway. “But, sir, this doesn’t look good. We’ll need to hurry.”

Nodding, he retreats into the cockpit. Her eyes are drooping, but she’s straight in her seat, and seems to have guessed what he wants as she grabs the yoke. He leans over the back of her chair, putting his hands over hers, and  feels his face warm as she leans back on him, her cheek pressed against his.

“All right. Done this a million times.” She nods, and breathes out. “Once more, okay? I’m just gonna help, follow your movements. Give them a little oomph.”

Everyone else clicks in, and he waits for her to make a move.

They’re small, minuscule muscle twitches, and he fears there’ll be no power behind her effort, but is genuinely stunned when his assists isn’t required until the end. He’s missed something though, and Daisy is out of her seat, flipping switches, and they’re descending.

May shivers against him, and he swears he can hear her teeth chatter. The jolt as the plane lands and settles. Her grip loosens, and Daisy is back in her seat, steering them to the platform to be lowered into the base.

Then he’s being shoved out of the way, and the loss of contact is abrupt and startling. He’s aware of the stress in Simmons voice, but his brain isn’t processing any details, and everything blurs together again.

He hasn’t moved from his stretched position when he feels her sit beside him. Doesn’t need to look to know it’s her or imagine the grimace as she gingerly lowers herself. Who know guilt was so corrosive?

“You have to stop blaming yourself, Phil. It wasn’t your fault.”

He throws her comment off with a wave of his hand as he sits up, and moves closer, arm wrapping around her shoulder. He doesn’t think he’s up for this conversation again. Hasn’t slept enough for it. “Where were you this morning?”

She relaxes into him, head against his cheek, and he’s thankful that she gives into his silent request. He can hear the grin in her voice as she answers.

“Simmons caught me trying to sneak into the gym.”

He smiles in response because it’s just so like her to try. “You’re supposed to take it easy.”

“I need to get back to work.”

She’s looking at him, face stern. It’s the same look she always has on when he knows for sure he’s going to lose an disagreement. He tries nonetheless. “Mel-”

“I need something to do, I can’t just sit around all day.”

“It’s only been a couple of day. Give me at least a week, and I will personally walk you to the gym, and fend off Simmons if that is what you want. As long as you go easy.”

“That’s what I want.”

He nods quietly as she goes back to resting her head on him, his fingers trailing up and down her arm as he lays his head on top of hers.

The birds twitter louder, fluttering around their feet, pecking at the ground. And just when he’s sure she’s fallen asleep, she shifts around, exhaling loudly from her nose.

“I also want you to stop blaming yourself. If it’s anyone fault, it’s mine. I disobeyed orders, and was where I shouldn’t have been.”

“That mean you regret it?”

Her head shake slowly under his. “Nope.”

“Are you going to tell me who helped you?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“It does. Someone blatantly disregarded orders, and endangered you.”

“I did that, no one else.”

Shrugging, he let’s it go. “If you’re sure.”

“I’m sure.”

“I’m pretty sure I already know which little flower it was anyway.”

“Phil-”

“Calm down, she’s not in trouble. I think she learned her lesson. It was a hard night.”

She quiet, and he fears he’s upset her. If he has, he’ll apologize later, and changes the subject.

“You’re tired.” He straightens in his seat, arm tightening around her. “How do you feel about a nap?”

Slow blinking once, she nestles in. “I wouldn’t object.”

He laughs, expecting a little more fight, and stands. Helping her up, he releases her hand when she’s stable. “That’s how I know you’ve over done it. What happen to 'I’ll sleep when I’m dead’?”