#Agent Wine Dad|Phil Coulson

[brooklynislandgirl]

Lola hurtles across the Arizona desert like she’s a reflection of a comet streaking across the night sky. Her treads belch orange flame, though the burning tires seem never to melt away, nor produce any toxic fume to endanger her occupants, as she speeds well in excess of any limit a vehicle of her type and capacity is bound by law – perhaps also by physics – to travel. Her interior is the least offensive feature she expresses, a housing that while pitch black does not retain the heat which it ought capture and suffocate its occupants with. The air within is clean and warm, bearing the oddest combination of scents for being a vehicle on fire: the salty bite of sea breeze, the soothing scent of massage oils, and… if one’s nose were sensitive enough… the sweetness of citrus, berries, and tropical flowers.

But occasionally, that calming bouquet is abruptly pierced by the acrid punctuation of antiseptic cleansers.

The driver is aflame, though he doesn’t cry out as his skull burns endlessly. His empty-eyed gaze is fixed on his destination, perhaps not even seeing that Lola is not astride a path… or not caring. His means is as the crow flies. He has a death grip on the wheel, as though willing his scorched chariot to remain steady for the rail-thin passenger across the backseat, huddled beneath the blanket he had draped across her. And Lola obeys that bid, her shock absorbers bearing every burden beneath her wheels without so much as transmitting a single stone’s intrusion upon their improvised road.

His foot depresses the brake pedal, and that application seems to not just slow their velocity, but also the intensity of the flame surrounding both the vehicle and himself. Within moments, Lola is slowed to a speed more customary to highways, and a nudging course correction brings her onto the shoulder of a road cutting across the dark waste. By the time she aligns fully with the westbound lane, she bears no trace of flame or soot… and neither does her driver, whose features return to him beneath the cold light of the moon.

Five minutes later, when a cherry red 1962 Chevrolet Corvette arrives at a nondescript motel smack in the middle of nowhere, not a soul on Earth could rightly say where the car had come from… nor that the bored and exhausted owner of the establishment cared one whit, as long as they were paying customers. A handful of cash identifies those customers as Mr. and Mrs. Smith, though the proprietor never lays eyes on the missus. Neither will he lay eyes on the mister again after giving him the room key.

Phil returns to Lola moments later, opening the driver’s door and leaning in. His voice is no more ravaged by the flame that had consumed his head than his features are. “We’re here. I’m going to carry you inside now.”

He does exactly that, bearing Beth up in his arms with no effort whatsoever… considering her obvious malnourishment, by this point, the suppressing collar about her neck might weigh more than she herself does. And he carries her to the door of their room, on the other side of the lot from the attendant’s station.

It’s the closest he has ever come, in his entire existence, to performing the bridal carry. A tradition of questionable morality – ancient Roman, because of course – but one of its inspirations seems especially pertinent now. Perhaps evil spirits will be disinterested in crossing this threshold if they’re forbidden from entering through Beth’s bare feet… though she need only be released from that damnable collar to attend to that matter herself.

When the door closes behind them, he shifts his hold about her, bringing her to the edge of the bed – of course there’s only one, because for a mister and missus, why should there be two? Are they Ricky and Lucy? – so that he can set her down.

But it’s in that moment that her arms snake about his neck and constrict him like a boa. He can feel the hiccupping breaths she draws, her chest stuttering against his as much as her breath issues in staccato against his ear.

He can do nothing but wrap his arms about her in turn. If they are all they have now… then this is more important than anything in the world. And he gives her perhaps the last iota of comfort he has left to give.

“I’ve got you. I’m not letting go.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The last hours have been a series of blurry snap-shots. Fire consuming down to the bone but encapsulating her with warmth. Something cracking open inside of her chest after incredible atrophy and the pained relief comes pouring out of her in tears. In terror. In clinging like a frail vine on a trellis. Her ears ring occasionally, alternating between piercing shrieks and emptiness, more pressure than sound that she can only associate with the sensation of numbness. Light and dark and abruptly cut off screams, shearing metal, burning...flesh, sickening her further with a sense of hunger. All stitched together with lancing pain and waves of nausea, ameliorated with the mercy of silent darkness that comes when she drifts to unconsciousness. She doesn't know how she arrives in the car, nor is she fully awake to register the sharper visuals of Lola's race through the night. She breathes in shallowly at first then deeper drafts when there's a noticible lack of sterile, desiccated air. Now and again she thinks she might be hallucinating in an attempt to self soothe from the misery of her new reality. Of course it would explain Phil in such a monstrous guise. His protective nature, his willingness to give up everything he holds dear to protect someone he considers his own. Her mind filters in the smell of hibiscus and plumeria, pikake,  but also paper flower, orchid, and ginger. Scents common in her islands but also... They don't talk about that place, she doesn't know it and Phil never really wanted to dredge up that particular point of his past. It was the first steps toward truly learning to trust one another. She clings to the trade-wind brine. Slowly she registers the futility of this fantasy but still finds herself needing to hold onto it, to let it provide a buffer for what she will suffer when the dream ends. That moment comes sooner than she would like it to though at first its only the second hand sensory input that dulls until it fades into obscurity. Other noises that don't belong in her carefully spun delusion grab her and drag her toward wakefulness systematically even when she fights and fails. Eventually she gives up trying, she doesn't have the stamina for it. The first thing that comes to mind is a shock of shivering cold. Goose-flesh ~chicken skin, as she's always know it to be called~ prickles her skin and jars her body with the slightest movement. Beth groans into the dark but the sound doesn't reach anyone's ears but her own. She doesn't try to lift her head. It feels too heavy and in danger of floating away if she does, a dichotomy she cannot resolve in her current state.  Then that calm, familiar voice sweeps in around her. She pries her eyes open and her lashes are spiky with dried tears and dusts. The darkness she's always been afraid of is suddenly soothing while her throat, stiff and raw from lack of regular use and liquids, seems to crack when she gasps. "Phil? Are you....real?" She isn't sure if he's putting off answering that or if he didn't actually hear her when he scoops her up into his arms. His familiar scent envelopes her. As does the sound of his heartbeat. The aura of calm that she's rarely seen ruffled feels like a salve to sun ravaged skin. She murmurs slurred apologies about being a burden even as she presses her face to the side of his neck, feeling a faint hint of stubble against the tip of her nose. Otherwise she remains surprisingly docile as he carries her into a room. It isn't the dated Seventies decor, and cut off from her spheres, Beth is spared the knowledge of what might live in the carpet ~orange, patterned but clean enough looking~ or what fluids might have irrevocably stained the covers on the bed, that truly snares her attention. It's the solid feel of him, the cumulative reward of her faith that though the world might have ended, Phil would still survive it. It means that in spite of everything she didn't betray him. Arms wrapped around his neck, she shakes as tears spill freely down her cheeks. Her breath hitches and she swallows against the cold, heavy weight around her throat. She tries to pull herself together. "You've got to be so tired. Tell me you're not hurt. That the monster didn't find you and hurt you."

[star-trekkin-across-theuniverse]

Human Resources, pt6

Word Count: 3909 Tags: @supermoonpanda @rayleyanns @sistasarah-sallysaidso @feelmyroarrrr @anyakinamidala @dirajunara @anotherotter @little-study-bug @rampant-salamander @goodnightwife @samaxraph99 @anotherotter  @outside-the-government @kingarthurscat @coyote-in-space @originalpottervengerlock

It goes without saying that weapons class was awkward. At least, it felt awkward to me. Coulson didn’t seem to have any problem shifting back to professional after my cafeteria outburst. I, on the other hand, was a mess. My palms would not stop sweating. My heart thumped so heavily in my chest that I thought you should be able to see it through my ribcage. And I felt sick. I could probably pass the nausea off on having finished the ridiculously enormous hamburger I’d had, but it was still there, and contributing to me being a jittery wreck while we were on the range.

I was furious with myself for reacting that way, as I’d always seen Coulson as a friendly colleague, and not a romantic interest. I mean, we’d always flirted when we bumped into one another, but it was office flirting. I’d never put any stock into it. And now, after a cold night on a rooftop drinking scotch, I was strangely smitten with him. Deep down inside, I knew all of that was untrue though, and I was only fooling myself. I shook my head, feeling incredibly sorry for Rick. He no longer stood a chance, and Coulson hadn’t even made a play yet.

I mentally shook the cobwebs off, and focused on the target at the other end of the range. Doing everything we’d gone over the previous class, I took my time, took aim, squeezed the trigger and exhaled. The glasses made a big difference, snapping the edge of the target into focus and allowing me to sight properly. I shot through my clip slowly, but rather than being dead last finishing, this time I finished somewhere in the middle of the group. I put my sidearm into the lockbox and waited for the green light to head downrange.

Unbelievably, all my shots had made it onto the target silhouette. They were still all over the place, wildly inaccurate, but they were all on the black outline, and that’s all I cared about. I choked back a squeal of excitement, and instead just grinned like an idiot at the target.

“Good improvement.” Coulson clapped me on the shoulder and moved to check another target. He stopped and gave some direction as I pulled my target down and put a fresh one up. He caught up as I made my way back to my stall.

“The glasses thing was a brilliant idea, Phil,” I admitted, pushing them up my nose. They still felt strange on my face, but I was amazed at how much I’d been missing by not being able to see.

“You’ve got better focus today too. You tested out of hand-to-hand. I was thinking we should use that time to work on this,” he suggested.

“That’s a great idea. So there are others who could benefit?” I asked, thinking he must be planning mini-class for remedial learners.

“No, just us. My attention won’t be divided in multiple directions then, and you should improve sooner with individualized training,” he explained. I tried not to blush or giggle or do something that would make me look like an idiot with a crush. I opted to nod and hold the gate open for him, as that seemed like really normal behaviour.

“Will SHIELD approve of a hot shot agent like you giving me private lessons?” I asked.

“The only time commitments I have while here are to this class. What I do on my free time is my own to decide. In short, SHIELD doesn’t get the opportunity to red stamp this. You need help, and as your friend, I am ensuring you get it,” he told me. I smiled.

“Well, thanks. I appreciate it,” I responded.

The academy cafeteria was a huge room, with a ridiculously high ceiling. It was three stories high, and along the wall where the kitchen was, a flight of stairs ran up to a landing and walkway, which in turn led to another flight of stairs, and another walkway. There were classrooms all the way along the walkways, and just the way it was built made it feel like the cafeteria had been an afterthought, and tacked on to the back of the building when SHIELD realized that students needed more than just classes to stay alive.

The wall opposite that was floor to ceiling windows. It afforded an unbelievable view of the campus. I was astonished by the size of the panes of glass that had been installed, and had spent part of each meal wondering exactly how they had been transported to the site. When that puzzle wasn’t taking up brain space, I liked looking outside, protected from the elements. It was still early spring, and while the grass was green, and the sky was blue, there was still a little bite in the air when the wind blew. It was nice when we were out on the track, but it wasn’t fun when you were just sitting. There was a large patio set up with tables and chairs outside, but so far no one had ventured to sit out there for anything other than lunch.

Kate and I met for dinner, and took what was becoming our usual spot near the windows. That table was situated in such a way that we both could see outside without the awkwardness of sitting side by side and trying to converse.

“I didn’t see you in weapons this afternoon,” I stated after we’d sat. “Were you at the other end of the range?”

“No, I tested out yesterday. My dad was a cop. I learned to shoot when I was in kindergarten,” she laughed. “I didn’t even have to finish the class yesterday, I just did to prove I was a team player.”

“I tested out of hand-to-hand today,” I admitted.

“Lucky you! I got stuck in one of the basic classes. The trainer told me that the next week that we are here, we will get more intensive study in our weak areas, and if we improve enough, Fury has decided we can test out of our final week,” she offered. I thumped my head against the table.

“An entire week of range and running?” I groaned.

“Did you look at tomorrow’s schedule? Half the day is fitness. Not running, fitness. And then the afternoon is hand-to-hand. Because I’ll have any energy left for that? I swear, they’re trying to turn us into actual field agents. It’s not like I need to run 5k if the Hub gets attacked. I just need to run far enough to get away from the Hub,” she complained. I nodded and dug into my salad. That burger had been a huge mistake. A delicious mistake, but a mistake.

“Not gonna lie. I’m excited that I won’t be in hand-to-hand tomorrow,” I wasn’t gloating. I was so relieved that I wouldn’t have to be dripping with sweat and stinky all day long.

“One of the guys who tested out of range with me yesterday was actually an operations wash-out,” Kate began. “He says there’s a swimming pool and hot tub in the other classroom building.”

“Seriously? We have to find it. Tonight,” I breathed. I had aching muscles from running that would love to see the inside of a hot tub.

“Did you bring a bathing suit?” She asked, surprised.

“Fuck bathing suits. We’re both women,” I scoffed. “I won’t look if you don’t.”

Kate suddenly smiled broadly.

“Deal.”

We agreed to meet at the entry of our dorm after the evening run. I ran up and grabbed a large towel and ran back down. It was not the smartest thing I’d ever done. My legs were jelly when I finally met up with Kate. We made our way over to the smaller classroom building. I knew the gym was in there, so it wasn’t surprising that there was also a pool. There was a thumbprint access pad at the door and Kate looked at me, crestfallen.

“Kate, between us we have the highest clearances on site. It’s going to open.” I reached for the pad.

“It’s not really sneaking if they are recording our presence,” she complained.

“If we’re allowed to be here, no one will be looking for intruders,” I countered, and placed my thumb on the scanner. The keypad dropped open and I keyed my PIN in. I heard the door click unlocked, and pulled it open. We slipped inside unnoticed.

The bank of switches beside the door suggested the lights were not on sensor, so our subterfuge was able to continue, despite my thumbprint clearly identifying that I was in the building. The pool was small. It was large enough for a couple of lanes of laps, but it certainly wasn’t intended for recreation. The hot tub, on the other hand, was perfect. Hidden behind a latticed demi-wall, it was private enough that we would see anyone coming in. I slipped behind the wall and stripped down quickly, stepping into the swirling, warm water without a second thought. It was the absolute perfect temperature. I waded to the far side, and hit the button to start the jets and sank back into the churning water. Kate hung her towel over the wall before she stripped down, and then picked mine up off the floor and did the same with it.

“The water is high enough that it’s splashing over the edge. Wet towels suck,” she said by way of explanation as she stepped into the water. She leaned back into the wall and groaned.

“Oh god, this was the greatest idea ever, Anna.” The look of relaxation on her face I’m sure matched my own. I could feel my muscles relaxing, and I leaned my head back on the tile lip of the hot tub and closed my eyes. Perfection. Well, perfection would have included a glass of wine and a good book, but this was probably as good as it was going to get while at the operations academy.

I thought I heard the click of the door and my eyes snapped open. I leaned back, arching a little, to try to see past the wall at who had entered, but could see nothing. If someone had come in, we had given ourselves away with the towels over the wall. And with the towels obstructing our view out, we wouldn’t know until they rounded the corner to us. I sank back into the water, willing my heart to stop racing, reassuring myself that I was hearing things. Kate certainly hadn’t noticed. I tipped my head back again and closed my eyes.

Kate suddenly shrieked, and I sat up and sank down to my neck under the bubbles of the water, turning my attention to her. Agent May and a tall dark-haired guy were standing there, guns drawn and trained on us. May dropped her stance, and the guy followed suit.

“Appears to just be a couple of the students,” he spoke. There was obviously someone talking to them through an earpiece. Kate looked at me, horrified. I shrugged. There had been no rule given to us forbidding us from taking advantage of the facilities. Omitting telling us that there was a hot tub did not mean we weren’t allowed to use it.

“Ellis and someone else. Banks, I think,” May said, as she holstered her sidearm. “Yes.”

“The pool is off-limits during your training, ladies,” the guy said. I smirked and raised an eyebrow.

“We’re not in the pool,” I retorted. May sighed loudly.

“The pool facilities, including the hot tub, Ellis. Time to get out,” she clarified. I met her eyes and looked down at myself, communicating my predicament clearly. She grabbed my towel from the demi-wall and tossed it at me. I just caught it before it fell into the water, and I stood up and wrapped myself up. Kate was sitting with her arms folded across her chest, trying to keep any part of her body other than her shoulders from being out of the water. And both May and the tall guy were still standing there.

I grabbed Kate’s towel and stepped over to the guy.

“Since you’ve now seen me in the altogether, care to tell me your name?” I asked. He had the decency to look uncomfortable.

“Agent Ward.”

“Well then Agent Ward, Agent May. Would you mind turning around? It’s not like we’re going anywhere,” I requested. May snorted but complied, stepping out to the opposite side of the demi-wall, and Ward followed so quickly that I was sure he was embarrassed he hadn’t thought to before I’d asked him. I handed Kate her towel, and stood in front of her with my back turned as she climbed out of the water. She quickly grabbed her running clothes and pulled them back on.

“Aren’t you getting dressed?” She whispered at me. I shook my head.

“I’m gonna hit the shower as soon as we’re back at the dorms, so there’s not really a point.” I pointed to the soggy mess of my sports bra, and t-shirt. “Plus, my stuff is foul.”

I picked up my things and headed out past the wall, past the two waiting agents, toward the door. I figured since they were just telling us to get out we didn’t need to hang around waiting for them. Kate followed. When we got to the main doors out of the pool, May stopped me from opening them.

“Hold up a minute, Ellis. Banks, you can go.” She opened the door and let Kate past. I raised my eyebrow as she pulled the door closed.

“Excuse me?” I asked, looking at her. You can convey a lot by tone of voice. Mine obviously was conveying the message I intended because Ward snorted and took a step back from us.

“Jackson would like to speak to you. Now. He’s on his way,” she explained. I rolled my eyes and hit one of the light switches, flooding the room with light. I saw a bank of bleachers at the poolside, and walked over to sit down, dropping my wet running gear beside me. I contemplated putting my shoes back on, but it was too weird to think about wearing shoes when I had nothing else on but a towel.

I pulled the tie out of my hair and started combing my fingers through it while we waited. As I wriggled my fingers through the last tangle, the door swung open, Jackson walking through purposefully. When his eyes lit on me he set his jaw and headed straight to me. I didn’t notice Coulson was right behind him until I heard him speaking.

“With all due respect, Jackson, this is ridiculous. It’s not as if she lit a building on fire, or –“ He looked up at me and stopped speaking. I was suddenly very conscious of my towel and my hair, and my shoulders, and well pretty much everything else about my body. I never wore my hair down. While SHIELD was a fantastic place to work if you were a feminist, with equal pay, and equal responsibility, and equal respect, there was a simple truth about men. They were distracted by long hair. While it reassured me that Coulson was just as normal as every other man I’d ever met, I still quickly smoothed my hair back into my usual ponytail.

“Would you care to explain yourself, Annie?” Jackson was angry. The last time he’d called me Annie was when we broke up. He had to be mad to let it slip.

“What’s there to explain? We found out there was a hot tub. We found the hot tub.” I couldn’t see the big deal.

“You overrode the security system!” He exclaimed.

“No I didn’t! There was a thumbprint scanner, and then it asked for my PIN. I didn’t override anything,” I defended myself.

“You shouldn’t have been able to get in, Annie. We reset all the clearances to level ten before anyone was sent here.” He did this quirky breathing thing when he was really angry so that he wouldn’t lose his temper. He was starting to do the quirky breathing thing.

“What rock do you live under that you don’t know I have level ten clearance, Jack? Half the people on this campus have level ten clearance. We have to have it. We work with personnel files all day long,” I laughed. Even May smiled at that. Jackson pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Just. Get out, Annie. Go back to your room,” he dismissed me. I gathered up my things and rose, brushing past him on my way out. I heard Coulson talking to his team as the door shut behind me.

I cut across the grass quickly to get back to the dorms. Kate was waiting at the door, freshly showered and looking worried.

“What the hell?” She asked.

“Apparently they overlooked how high our security clearances were when planning this summer camp. We weren’t supposed to be able to get in,” I shrugged. “I’m freezing. See you in the morning.”

I made my way up to my room, and then down to the showers. When I got back to my room, I felt a million times warmer, and was also beginning to see the humour of the whole situation. I chuckled to myself as I pulled on my pyjamas and dried my hair. I decided that I had earned a snack from the vending machine at the end of the hall, and was fishing around in my purse for change when a knock sounded on my door.

Eventually I would learn to not assume it was Kate. When I pulled it open, Coulson was standing there, scotch and tumblers at the ready. I opened the door all the way and gestured for him to enter.

“And man bringing gifts. Smart man.” I rummaged in a drawer and pulled out a zip up hoodie and pulled it over the thin material of my pyjama tank top.

“I wonder if this isn’t going to become a habit. Are you planning on having terrible days all week?” He asked. I laughed.

“I always was the troublemaker in school. You should probably anticipate needing a new bottle by tomorrow,” I winked, taking the glass he offered me. He leaned on the edge of my dresser, leaving me the choice of sitting on my bed or at my desk. I stepped onto my bed and slid down the wall into a sitting position. We just stared at each other in silence for a few minutes.

“I didn’t realize, I mean, I had never noticed –“ He started. I’d never seen him so out of his element.

“Yeah?” I prompted after a moment.

“Your hair is really long,” He blurted. I pulled it back behind my shoulders, trying not to laugh.

“Yes. It is actually two inches past uniform length. No one has noticed in the last two years.” I referred to the dress code that I thought was ridiculous and old-fashioned for an agency like SHIELD.

“Well, it’s not as if anyone is going to come around with a ruler,” he smiled. I laughed.

“I don’t really think you came to chat hair care with me, Phil,” I challenged him.

“Probably not,” he admitted. I stood up and walked over, handing him my empty glass. I allowed myself to stand too close as he refilled it. He smelled like scotch, and cedar, and ice. It was a weird combination, but I liked it. He held my glass out to me, and my fingers slid over his as I took it, sending a shock of desire through my arm. He didn’t let go of the glass. I looked up from it and my eyes met his. And the same weird desire I was feeling was looking right back at me. My breath caught. I took the glass and placed it on the dresser and looked back at him. He was looking at my tumbler. He looked back at me and stood from the edge of the dresser, facing me.

His hand came up and tangled in my hair. Before he put his tumbler down beside mine, he downed what was left and then reached behind me to pull me against him. I drew in a breath and then his mouth was on mine, his teeth tugging at my lower lip. I fisted a hand in the front of his shirt, and pulled him closer with my other. His tongue slid along the edge of my lip and I groaned. It was unreal. He pressed closer, sliding his fingers through the tangles in my hair and down my back, his fingers digging into the muscles of my shoulder and down my arm. His other hand tugged on my hair, exposing my neck and he trailed his lips along my jaw, and down the contour of my neck, pushing my sweatshirt aside and pressing his lips against my collarbone. I was lightheaded with desire. I drew in a heaving breath and pulled away.

“We can’t do this, Phil.” I found myself, and took his face in my hands. His pupils were dilated, and his breathing was as ragged as mine was.

“We can. There are no regulations against it,” he countered. I couldn’t help but laugh.

“I wasn’t thinking about regulations,” I said. He smiled and pulled me back to him, kissing me quickly.

“Of course not. You wear your hair too long, you’re a rebel,” he teased, turning his attention back to my collarbone, but drawing his tongue across it so lightly that it tickled. I squirmed in his arms and giggled.

“You are my instructor right now, Phil. It’s a conflict of interest,” I protested. His lips stilled and he looked at me, his head tilted to one side. He stole another kiss, pulling me hard against his hip. I groaned again.

“I am a consummate professional. I am perfectly capable of putting this aside when we’re on the range,” he tried to persuade me. I forced myself to pull away. He took a step toward me, and I held up my hand and shook my head.

“Oh no. I’m far too eager to push you down into my bed already. I don’t need you tormenting me any further.” I zipped my hoodie all the way up to the neck. He laughed and leaned back against the dresser.

“Friday at noon I am no longer one of your instructors.” He picked up his bottle of scotch but left the tumblers behind. “Until then, nightly scotch is going to be the best foreplay of your life.”

He pushed up from the dresser and walked toward me, full of purpose. I back up until I hit the wall, and he leaned in and kissed me one last time, not touching me anywhere but on my mouth. I damn near caved. I closed my eyes and bit my lip when he pulled away, so I wouldn’t pull him back to me again. I heard him step over to the door and open it.

“Good night, Phil,” I said quietly.

“Sweet dreams, Anna,” He teased. When I heard the door latch I let out a frustrated growl. It was answered with a chuckle from the other side of the door. I stuck out my tongue at the door, and threw the bolt for the night.

[consoledacup]

Too Fast?

TEN

“Fitz? Fitz? Fitz!” 

“Mmmmmhmph.” 

Really, he should’ve expected the pillow coming. Didn’t make the impact any less unpleasant.

“Wake up.” 

Fitz rubbed his eyes and sat up slowly. “I’ll be fine tomorrow, Simmons. I’m a genius, remember?” 

“Geniuses still need to study for their exams.” 

Fitz scoffed. “I beg to differ.”

Jemma got up from his desk walking over to his bed, plopping herself next to him. 

“What are you doing here?”

Jemma shrugged. “I figured a closer proximity might keep you awake.” 

“That’s the dumbest thing I ever - ow!” 

“See?” Jemma asked brightly. “I can just hit you every time you’re tempted.” 

“But Simmons,” Fitz whined. “I haven’t gotten a good night’s rest in weeks. I think sleep will do nothing but enhance my test-taking mastery tomorrow.” 

“I don’t disagree. But it’s only 9:30.” 

“Well, you know what they say. It’s midnight somewhere. Ow! I wasn’t even sleeping.” 

“That ill-conceived argument was so ridiculous, you deserved it.” 

Fitz scooched back on his bed until his back was against the wall. “Crazy we’re graduating already, isn’t it?” 

Jemma glanced over at him. “Yeah, it is.” 

“I’ve been meaning to say to you... that is... I’m just... I’m really glad we’re going to be in Sci-Ops together.” 

Jemma chuckled. “Well, I couldn’t possibly dream of working without you now, could I? We’re too good together.” 

“I concur.” 

Jemma started reading again before lifting her head up, scooting herself back in alignment with Fitz. “I’m really... you know, I’m quite glad we found each other, Fitz.” She paused, playing with a bit of his blanket before looking back at him. “You understand me in a way that no one ever has.” 

“I feel the same way,” Fitz smiled, putting his hand on her knee. 

“I mean it. I’m really fortunate to have you in my life.”

Fitz shook his head. “I’m the lucky one.” 

They both returned to their books, filling the room with silence once more. 

And twenty minutes later, Fitz fell promptly asleep.

“Ow!” 

“Stay awake.” 

“How would you like it if I hit you?” 

Jemma rolled her eyes. “You wouldn’t hit a girl.” 

“I don’t know, Simmons. I’m all for equal - well, okay. You have a point. But I can do this.” 

He tackled her on his bed, and she dissolved into giggles. It took him a minute to realize their precarious position. 

Him hovering over her, holding her wrists above her head. 

Her eyes never leaving his. Her chest heaving. 

They were a bloody Harlequin romance cover. 

Mesmerized, he slowly leaned down, pecking her lips softly. 

Once he realized what he’d done, he quickly scrambled off of her, sitting on his heels. 

Jemma mirrored him. 

He couldn’t bring himself to speak. 

She didn’t either. 

“Well, I’m awake now,” he muttered. 

She laughed, reaching for his hand. 

“Me too.” 

Neither of them got anymore studying done after that. 

Jemma still graduated top of her class. 

-

NINE

Their lab space was far bigger in Sci-Ops than the one they had at the Academy, and FitzSimmons had fallen into a steady rhythm, working side-by-side. 

They bounced ideas off each other, argued, bickered, reconciled, and solved whatever the issue was before lunch. 

It was quite a perfect set-up, really. 

“I don’t understand why you won’t ask her out. She’s obviously very interested.” 

Fitz looked up from the computer and tilted his head in confusion. 

“Gretchen.” 

“Ah. Right.” 

“She’s very pretty. Your really should call her up,” Jemma insisted. 

“Oh. Well. The thing is...” Fitz wondered why he was having such a hard time formulating the words. 

What was wrong with him? 

“The thing is,” Fitz continued. “The thing is that I already did.” 

Jemma peered at him through her goggles. 

“Oh,” she simply said. 

“Yeah.” 

“Well, then.” She busied herself with her project once more, and Fitz hoped that meant she had dropped the subject. 

As far as first dates had gone... the one he had with Gretchen was simply the worst. 

After ten minutes, she asked the dreaded question. 

“So, how did it go?” 

“Umm...” 

Jemma bit her lip. “You know, you don’t have to share everything about the date. And I understand if you’re uncomfortable talking about it with me. In fact, please don’t share every-” 

“Wait. You think Gretchen and I...?” 

“Well, obviously! That’s why you’re being so guarded about it.” Jemma huffed. 

“That’s not what happened, Simmons.” 

“Then why won’t you tell me?” 

Fitz rubbed the back of his neck. “’Cause it’s embarrassing.” 

“Oh?” He could see Jemma trying to hide a smile. 

“I picked her up, and we went to a movie. She had said before that she liked horror films, so I took her to Hannibal Rising.” 

Jemma wrinkled her nose. “That’s romantic.” 

“I thought so. Would’ve given me the perfect opportunity for me to put my arm around her. Comfort her. That sort of thing.” 

“I see your point.” 

“Well, she lied, or I misunderstood, or... something. Turns out she hates horror and screamed in my ear the entirety of the film.” 

“Did her screams drown out yours?” 

“Hey!” 

Jemma raised an eyebrow. “Did they?” 

“...Yes.” 

He stood up from his desk. “So we leave the theater, and I took her to a nice Italian restaurant.” 

“Giovanni’s?” 

“Yep. And as we’re ordering, she tells the waiter she can’t have tomatoes, cheese, wheat, or chicken.” 

“Oh, Fitz.” 

“After I had ordered a nice spag bol for myself. So I’m there eating my delicious meal while she picks at her salad. Feeling like a total wank about the whole thing. And she and I are just sitting there. In silence. For twenty minutes.” 

Jemma took off her goggles, fully invested in the tale. 

“So then she finally asks me about my new projects. And as I start to list each one, she grows even more quiet, which I didn’t think was possible at this point.” 

He conveniently left out why she grew quiet about it. 

He conveniently left out what Gretchen told him that made him choke on his wine. 

She was way off-base. 

And he didn’t want to make things weird. 

The last thing he wanted was for things to change. 

“And?” 

“And that was that. She stops talking the rest of the evening. Thanks me for a lovely date. And insists on taking a taxi home.” 

“All of this sounds awful, mind, but not irreparable. You should give it another go with her.” 

“Yeah, maybe.”

He had no intention of doing that.

“Why?” Fitz spoke up again, minutes later.

“Pardon?” 

“Why do you insist on me asking her out again?” 

Jemma took off her goggles again. “I don’t know.” 

“You don’t?” 

“No.” 

Fitz started to pace around the lab. 

“There’s no way she’ll agree to a second date.” 

“You don’t know that.” 

“Pretty sure I do.” 

“You can’t. Look. I know you think your date was horrendous, but she really seems to -” 

"Want to know why? Because the minute she asked about my projects, I ended up talking about you the entire night.” 

Jemma stood still. “...What?” 

“She thinks I’m in love with you.” 

“Well, that’s... that’s...” 

Fitz slowly advanced towards her. “Why did you want to know about my date so badly?” 

“Can’t a... can’t a girl be interested in her best friend’s dating life?” 

Fitz paused, pretending to think. “I suppose.” He continued to make his way towards her. “But that’s not why you asked.” 

“No?” Jemma smirked. A challenge.

“No,” Fitz murmured, enveloping her in his arms and kissing her. 

“You know,” Jemma said breathlessly once they broke away. “I know the perfect movie for us to see this weekend.” 

“Pirates of the Caribbean?” 

“Paranormal Activity.” 

Fitz groaned. 

-

EIGHT

“FitzSimmons?” 

They both spun around to gawk at the man standing before them. 

“Simmons,” Jemma said, pointing at Fitz, 

“Fitz,” Fitz said, pointing to Jemma. 

Agent Coulson bore a confused expression. 

Oh.

Right. 

“Oh! I’m Fitz. That’s Simmons,” Fitz laughed nervously, extending his hand towards the man. 

Agent Coulson shook it firmly, and Fitz willed himself not to wince from the grip. 

Nailed it. 

“He’s engineering, and I’m a biochemist,” Jemma informed while shaking the agent’s hand. 

“Dr. Weaver told me about you two. I’ve had my eye on you for awhile. Though it took me months to realize that she was talking about two different people.” 

Jemma giggled. “We get that a lot, sir.” 

Agent Coulson looked back and forth between and Fitz and Jemma before finally saying, “I’ll bet.” 

Fitz chuckled with a nice dose of enthusiasm (he hoped). “Good one, sir.” 

“I didn’t...” 

Jemma sighed. “Ignore him.” 

“Keep working hard and learning all you can at Sci-Ops, you two. I have a feeling this isn’t the last we’ll see of each other.” 

And with that, he walked away with the swagger that only Agent Coulson possessed. 

That man was so bloody cool. 

Jemma gripped his arm excitedly. “Fitz! Phil Coulson. Can you believe it?” 

“I need to pinch myself. I think I’m dreaming. Ow.” Fitz gave Jemma a death stare. “Obviously, I was talking figuratively.” 

“My mistake.” 

“Right.” 

“What do you suppose he meant? ‘[T]his isn’t the last we’ll see of each other.’” 

“Terrible impression.” 

“I beg to differ.” 

Fitz shrugged. “I don’t know, Jemma. I just can’t believe he knew our names.” 

Jemma stopped walking. She closed her eyes and lifted her face to the sun, smiling contently. 

“What the hell are you doing?” 

Jemma sighed. “Just taking in the gorgeous day.” 

“The day we met Agent Coulson?” 

“Exactly.” 

“You made a fool of yourself with him back there. He has to - what - be the age of your father?” 

Jemma snapped open her eyes to stick out her tongue. “For your information, he is much younger than my dad, and I wasn’t trying to flirt. Though I will admit, he is a rather handsome older gentleman.” 

“I’m going to be sick.” 

Jemma slapped his arm. “I just have this feeling, you know? This feeling that this was the beginning of something.” 

“The beginning of a romance between the mentor and the mentee?” 

“Bugger off.” 

“Last one. Sorry.” 

“He said it, Fitz. He said he’s been admiring us. This could mean big things for us, you know.” 

“I get it, Jemma. I do. I’m still a bit starstruck to be honest.” 

Fitz paused, staring at her blinding smile and sparkling eyes in the golden rays of the sun. He looked past her to take in the surroundings of the Sci-Ops courtyard. 

“But that feeling you’re talking about? I don’t feel it.” 

“Oh?” 

“Let me clarify. I don’t feel it right now.” 

“But you have?” Jemma studied his expression.

Fitz nodded bravely. “Once.” 

“When?” 

“It was during another introduction. Years ago.” 

Jemma’s breath caught. “Oh?” 

“The day I met you.” 

Jemma froze. 

“Look,” Fitz began to back-peddle. “I didn’t say that to -” 

Jemma’s lips cut him off. 

And - quite frankly - her intuition was right.

It was the beginning of something. 

-

SEVEN

“Why can’t you just be civil towards him?” Jemma threw her hands up in exasperation the minute the door to her apartment closed.

“Me? Excuse me for not wanting to converse with a guy who takes your side in every discussion we have. How’d he even make it this far in training anyway?”

Jemma stared Fitz down.

“And just what are you implying?”

Fitz put his hands on his hips. “I’m not implying anything. I’ll say it straight. He’s a moron.”

“Fitz.”

“What? It’s true. You’re just too biased to see it.”

Jemma huffed. “Is there something so wrong about having a partner who can be amiable with?”

Fitz shrugged. “’Course not. But that’s not what this is.”

“Do enlighten me.”

“Milton knows exactly what he’s doing by saying what you want to hear, or he doesn’t have a brain to formulate independent thought at all. Either way makes him the absolute worst in my book.”

“Your book, huh?”

“Yeah, my book! Hey, don’t forget your choices in your personal life affect me too. I have to be around the men you choose to sleep with, you know? The least you could do is ask for my input.”

“Yes, Fitz,” Jemma said dryly. “How rude of me to not involve you in my personal life. My sincere apologies.”

Fitz smirked. “That’s all I’m asking.”

Jemma rolled her eyes and folded the empty pizza box into the recycling bin.

“Don’t you find it a bit boring, Jemma?” Fitz asked while turning on the faucet and washing the glasses he gathered.

“I don’t know what you’re -”

“Don’t you want to be with someone who - who challenges you?”

Jemma stared at him, breathing deeply. “I don’t...”

“Someone who forces you to be your best self.” Having already placed the clean cups in the drying rack, he leaned against the counter, feeling his shirt moisten from the excess water.

Brilliant.

It bothered him a lot that Jemma was with Milton. In ways he couldn’t decipher. Milton was a nice enough guy, but for some reason, he really, really got under Fitz’s skin.

Oh.

OH.

“Someone who isn’t afraid to argue with you if you’re wrong.” Fitz inched nearer to her, willing his hand to stop shaking. “Because - let’s face it - sometimes, you are.”

Jemma side-stepped him. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m usually the smartest person in any room. So where would I find such an individual?”

His hands were wet and soapy from the sink, and hers were greasy from the trash, but none of that mattered when he grabbed her arm, pulled her towards him, and kissed her passionately.

One arm snaked around her middle and the other wound up in her hair, and a few soapy water droplets trailed down her cheek because of it, but she didn’t seem to mind.

He let go of her as quickly as he grabbed her.

The ball was in her court, so to speak.

“Isn’t a little bit of a contradiction a good thing?” His voice grew more and more hoarse with each word.

She took a step towards him and then twirled around, grabbing her coat and keys.

“Where are you going?” He turned around, dreading the answer.

“I’m going to go break up with Milton.”

He spun to face her again, daring to...

She flung her arms around his neck, giving him a quick peck. “Wish me luck,” she whispered.

"Maybe don’t look so excited about it.”

“Right.”

Milton was a nice guy after all.

-

SIX

“Jemma?”

“Down here!”

Fitz slowly descended the stairs to find Jemma in his mum’s living room, sprawled out with a cup of tea and flipping through channels.

His mum had left for work for the day (but not before throwing him an embarrassing little grin), so he and Jemma had the house to themselves.

They were staying in Scotland for a couple weeks, recovering from one-too-many hits in training for the field. His fractured rib and her broken ankle made them quite the duo - and quite useless - at Sci-Ops, so their S.O. suggested they go somewhere more peaceful to recoup and work.

He knew just the place.

And Jemma readily agreed.

“How’s the ankle?” 

Jemma eyed her cast wearily. “Fine. I’m just going crazy from sitting all day.” 

Fitz nodded. “I know what you mean. Going a bit insane myself.” 

Jemma scooted over, so Fitz could join her on the sofa. 

“It’s quite lovely here, you know. This was a great idea.” 

Fitz smiled, nudging her softly. “Glad you approve.” 

“I could see myself living here. In fact, when I was a...” 

She trailed off, looking down at her cast, seemingly lost in thought. 

“Jemma?” 

She chuckled a little. “You know what I realized? You got to sign my cast, but I have yet to sign yours.” 

Fitz did a double-take. “You want to sign my bandage wrap?”

Jemma shrugged. “Sure, why not? It’s only fair. You got to sign mine. It’s my turn.” 

Fitz could feel his ears turn red. “Yours is in a hardened substance. And in plain sight. Mine is... well...” 

“Come on, Fitz. It’ll be a bonding experience. Cement our partnership.” 

“If we’re not partners by now...” 

“Ugh, Fitz.” 

Fitz looked wildly around for an out. It wasn’t that he didn’t want her to sign his bandage... it was just that... it seemed rather...

Intimate. 

And then he thought of a genius plan.

“You know, I would, but we haven’t got any pens. And I’m winded from walking down the stairs, and you...” He gestured to her cast. 

He had this in. the. bag. 

Jemma shook her head, smiling widely. She bent down to fetch her... purse.

Bloody hell. How could he miss that too-important variable? 

She triumphantly dug out her marking pen. “Now, go on. Lift up your shirt.” 

Fitz sighed. 

Defeat was a bitter mistress. 

He gripped his shirt’s hem and started to lift it little-by-little. The air felt cool on his heated skin, and he winced a bit from the stark temperature change. 

He caught her watching his fingers inch further and further up his abdomen. 

It made him uneasy. 

She leaned forward and placed one hand underneath his bandage to steady herself. 

He didn’t know why her touch unnerved him so much. 

Because his wrap was a soft fabric, he felt every stroke of her pen. He knew she was being as careful and delicate as possible, and he closed his eyes briefly until she had completed her task.

“There,” she said simply. 

He looked down, deciphering her upside-down (to him, at least) message: 

Love, Jemma

Jemma smiled shyly when she met his eyes. “I wanted to keep it short and sweet. Didn’t have a lot of room to work with.” 

He thought it was absolutely perfect.

She reached up again, and with the lightest of touches, she traced her final product. 

He covered her hand in his. 

They stared at each other for what seemed like a millenia but was only just moments. 

And then.

They slowly, lazily leaned in towards each other until their lips met. 

They broke away from the kiss, breathing heavily, gazing at each other. He reached up and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. 

And he was never more grateful for a fractured rib in his entire life.

-

FIVE

Fitz was glad that Jemma was just as excited to attend their alumni gala at the Academy as he was.

He thought it would require a bit more persuasion from his part.

“Oh, I can’t wait to catch up with Dr. Weaver and Dr. Hall and -”

“Professor Vaughn.” 

Jemma raised an eyebrow at him. 

“What? I can grow fond of the guy now that I’m not in his class anymore.” 

“And perhaps gloat about the fact that you’re advancing so quickly in SciOps?” 

“Well... only if that were to - uh - you know, present itself into the conversation -”

“- which you will ensure will happen.” 

“Damn right, I will.” 

She smiled brightly in response, and he took that moment to take in her appearance. 

She looked really pretty in a tea-length cocktail dress with her hair down in waves and a fringe straight across. 

“I don’t know if I mentioned it yet, but I like your bangs, by the way. They suit you.” 

He didn’t know why it made him so happy to see her blush from his compliment. 

“Thanks very much.” 

Fitz shrugged, smiling. “Sure.” 

They found their name-tags, and Fitz chuckled when he read them: 

  Leopold                                                                                                    Fitz-

  Jemma                                                                                                          -Simmons

“This is getting ridiculous.” 

Jemma bumped his shoulder with hers. “I kind of like it. We were quite the duo here, weren’t we?”

He handed her her name-tag and grinned widely when she put it on her chest with gusto. 

He followed suit. 

“Still are quite the duo if you ask me.” 

They separated for a bit, each making the rounds, greeting alumni and professors alike, and then reconvened at the food table.

“Best. Gala. Ever.” Fitz sighed, popping another prosciutto-wrapped scallop in his mouth. 

Jemma took a sip of her wine. “Seeing as how this is the first one you’ve attended, I should think so.” 

Fitz paused, mid-chew. “Hey, this is your first one too.” 

“Besides the point.” 

“FitzSimmons.” 

Fitz swallowed his food, staring at the woman before them. He could see Jemma out of the corner of his eye look back and forth between the two before she finally said, “Hello, Lacy.” 

Lacy squealed. “I cannot believe you guys are here together.” 

Jemma chuckled. “Well, you know what they say about us being a two-for-one special, and... and, um... they do say that about us, so...” 

She elbowed Fitz who had yet to say a word. 

“Ow.” He tore his gaze away from Lacy to reprimand Jemma, but Jemma merely tilted her head back towards Lacy, wordlessly encouraging him to respond. 

Right. 

“Yup,” Fitz finally said. “I’d like to think I’m the better half... if you know what I mean.” Fitz waggled his eyebrows in what he hoped was a seductive manner.

“Really?” Lacy asked, intrigued. 

“Ow. Simmons, that’s the second time. Cut it out.” 

“You two make such a cute couple,” Lacy gushed.

“Well, thank you. That’s very kind of you to - what?” 

“I was rooting for you two back in the Academy days. I thought it was so weird that two geniuses like yourselves hadn’t figured it out.” 

Jemma stepped forward. “We’re not - that is - Fitz and I aren’t -” 

“We’re not together, Lacy,” Fitz cut in. 

Lacy bit her lip and cringed. 

“I’m so sorry!” She stammered. “I just thought since you guys came here together, and you’re wearing those name-tags, and the way you were just now with... with... you know, I just saw an old classmate of mine. I’ll just...” She darted past them, and he and Jemma waited until she was out of earshot to start talking over each other. 

“Well, that was...” 

“I can’t believe she thought that -” 

“Awkward, to say the least.” 

“It’s a preposterous notion and -” 

“- a ridiculous one, that is.” 

“to think that you and I were -”

“that she thought we were -”

“Together.” They said in perfect unison.

Their eyes met briefly before Jemma took a big gulp of her wine and he reached for another scallop.

And several hours later, when they were back at her apartment, a bit more tipsy, their eyes met briefly again. 

“Well, come in. You can crash on my couch for the night.” 

Fitz nodded, following her inside.

And because of the wine currently in his system, he let his thoughts tumble out. “That was interesting what... what Lacy said, wasn’t it?” 

Jemma handed him a glass of water. “I suppose.” 

“She said we hadn’t figured it out at the Academy.” 

Jemma scoffed. “What does she know? She was there all six years for her schooling.” 

“Jemma.” He took a sip of water and then placed it on the counter. 

He took a step closer to her. 

“What are you doing?” 

“I just want to... to see for myself what Lacy was rooting for.” 

He grabbed her hand hesitantly, and he could feel her eyes watch his every move. 

He ran his hand slowly up her arm, watching his fingers trail each part of her freckled skin. He stopped at her shoulder and was shocked to see her eyes dilated with want. 

They feverishly collided, their hands roaming, their lips crashing against each other again and again.. Only coming up for air when absolutely necessary. 

Best. 

Gala. 

EVER. 

-

FOUR

Fitz opened the door.

“Simmons?” 

“I couldn’t sleep.” 

He stepped aside to let her in, and when he closed the door. She launched herself in his arms. He could feel her shaking.

“You’re upset about Agent Coulson.” 

He wasn’t asking.

She sniffed loudly, pulling herself away from him and wiping her eyes. 

He crossed the living room in two strides, retrieving his box of tissues he had placed on the coffee table (for... for reasons). She followed him and accepted the box gratefully. 

“I know we only spoke with him a handful of times. And he probably didn’t remember us. But his death...” 

Fitz brought his arms back around her. “I know.” 

She rested her head on his chest, squeezing his middle tightly. 

“I couldn’t sleep either,” Fitz continued. 

And then.

He didn’t know if it was the weariness of the past few days they both endured, grieving the fallen agent. He didn’t know if it was the many hours of sleep that eluded them. He didn’t know if it was the warm, comforting presence she provided in his arms. 

But whatever the reason, he slowly cupped her face, wiping the tears from her cheeks his thumb. 

She gasped at the intimate gesture. 

He couldn’t break away from her gaze. 

And all reason left him the moment he trailed his thumb down to her lips, and he became fascinated with the way her bottom lip followed the path of his thumb.

She didn’t move away. 

And he didn’t either. 

And then he kissed her. 

And wondered if he was being tasteless while they were both in mourning for their esteemed acquaintance. 

But when she kissed him back? 

He found himself lacking the resolve to care about appropriate behavior. 

- 

THREE

“Oh, Fitz, it's the most perfect opportunity for us to see the world! We'd be fools to pass this one up!"

They were at her favorite pub in Sheffield in the middle of an all too familiar debate. 

Fitz leaned back in the booth, closing his eyes. 

“Fitz?” Jemma pressed. 

“I’m still trying to process the fact that Agent Coulson is still alive. And not only is he alive, but he now wants us to join his team? In the sky?” 

“I know!” Jemma squealed. He opened his eyes to catch her taking a full swig of her beer. “Isn’t this exciting?” 

“That’s not the word I would use.” 

Jemma huffed, crossing her arms. “Well, I’m not going without you.” 

Fitz set his beer down. “Why?” 

“I don’t -” Jemma stammered under his steady gaze. “Agent Coulson wants us both. He told Weaver we’re a package deal.” 

For some reason, he winced a little from her answer. “That’s it, then? That’s the whole reason why you coerced me to stay with your family for a month on holiday after graduation? To try to convince me to join Agent Coulson’s team?” 

Jemma paused. “Why... why are you being like this?” 

“Being like what?” Fitz countered. 

“Like... “ Her eyes shifted uneasily. “I don’t know what’s got you so upset, but you know I don’t want to work anywhere without you. You’re my very best friend, Fitz. And if you don’t want to do this, then... we can finally give Weaver our answer.” 

Fitz started to peel the label of his bottle. 

“I didn’t say that,” he muttered. 

“What?” 

“I didn’t... you’re right. Let’s do it.” 

“What?” 

“Yeah.” He stopped picking at the label and lifted his beer bottle in salute. “A toast.” 

Jemma lifted her own bottle. 

“To seeing the world with my best friend -”

“- and using science to do it. Cheers.” 

“Cheers.” 

They clinked the necks of their bottles together, smiling widely. 

“Another round!” Jemma exclaimed. “This is cause for celebration!” 

“Jemma,” Fitz protested. “We’ve already had two. And aren’t you always going on about the unnecessary calories?” 

Jemma pursed her lips. “I suppose you’re right...” 

Fitz sighed gratefully. 

She sauntered off to God-knows-where and then returned with two shot glasses. 

“...which is why we’ll drink tequila instead.” 

Fitz groaned. 

And after they each had three shots, the excitement of their new adventure and the pleasant numbing from the alcohol continued to course through the both of them. 

She slid into Fitz’s side of the table until her hips were flush against his. 

Her cheeks were rosy. 

They probably matched his. 

She started giggling at nothing which caused him to giggle at nothing, and their faces inched closer and closer together. 

He wasn’t sure who initiated it, but a couple minutes later, he found himself snogging the hell out of his very best friend, Jemma Simmons. 

And he really, really liked it. 

- 

TWO 

“I’m not Hydra.” 

“We heard... everything.” 

Jemma ran to Fitz, flinging herself in his arms. He gripped her tightly to him.

They stayed like that, unaware that all other personnel had cleared out of the room. He pulled back to study her face, and she pulled back to study his.

He had been so worried about her. 

And before he could stop himself, he hugged her to him more firmly and kissed her. 

Her lips were frozen against his, and he cursed himself for being so impulsive.

So reckless. 

He tore his lips away from hers and let go of her all in one motion, scrubbing a hand over his face. 

Now he’d done it. 

“Sorry. That was... that... ” 

When he removed his hand, automatically cringing at the situation, he realized she had stepped closer to him. 

“FitzSimmons?” Coulson’s voice broke the spell. 

Jemma spun around a bit too enthusiastically. 

“Sir?” 

“We found Ward and Skye. Let’s go.” And then he was gone. 

Jemma glanced back up at Fitz, biting her lip. 

Fitz stared up at the ceiling, wishing the Bus would crash through and rescue him from his discomfort. 

Didn’t even need a pilot. Just the Bus itself would do. 

“Can we... can we just forget about what... what just happened?” 

Jemma sighed. “Oh, Fitz.” 

And then she grabbed his face and smooched him soundly. 

-

ONE 

“Seems the two of them are in love with each other.” 

“Whatever that is, it’s not love.” 

“No,” Fitz scoffed. “Of course not.” 

He paused a bit and then, “Hey, thank you for packing the sandwich before I left. It was really delicious.” 

Jemma smiled warmly. “Oh. You’re quite welcome.” 

She looked down at her shoes before meeting his eyes again. “It was - I actually wanted to - it was my way of - I’m just very, very happy we’re friends again.” 

Fitz nodded. “Me too.” 

“And,” Jemma began. “I’m not sure if - it’s just - I’d like to - I’d like to talk to you about - about what you said to me on the bottom of the ocean.” 

Fitz stared at her, mouth agape. “S-sorry?” 

Jemma balled up her hands in fists. “We were - we’ve been fighting quite a lot, and I’ve wanted to bring it up before, but it just - the timing never seemed right, you know?” 

“And... you... you think now is a good - a good time to...?” 

“No! I mean... I don’t know. We don’t have to... I just. Excuse me.” 

She hurriedly left the lab.

He continued to sit. 

Dazed. 

And then got up and followed her.

He stopped outside her bunk, knocking softly three times. 

“Come in,” came the muffled reply. Followed by an equally muffled sniffle.

Was she - was she crying? 

He gingerly opened the door and stepped inside. Jemma stood up from her bed, wiping her eyes.

“Hey,” Fitz murmured.

“Hi.” 

“About what I said about what you... “ Fitz lamely gestured back in the general direction of the lab with his thumb. 

Jemma shook her head. “It was stupid of me to bring it up.” 

“It wasn’t stupid.” Fitz took one step closer. “I just...” Fitz sighed. He took another step. “I just thought there was nothing left to discuss.” 

His breath caught when she met his gaze with hers. She took his hand.

“Maybe there is.” 

They stared at each other a couple of moments more, drinking each other in. Then he used the hand that was still in hers to pull her closer to him. 

His eyes full of questions.

Her eyes full of answers. 

He brought his other hand up under her chin, leaned in, and kissed her with a tenderness he thought was all but lost. 

They pulled back slowly in perfect unison. He leaned his forehead against hers. 

“’Maybe’?” He whispered teasingly. 

Jemma giggled. 

“Most assuredly there is.” She grinned before kissing him again.

-

NOW

Fitz stretched out on the sofa in the common room, his hands behind his head, thinking about those words. 

It’s been ten years. We can’t waste anymore time. 

And right. She had a point. He supposed they could’ve been happy at any point during that time frame had they realized what was between them. 

He did say it himself, screaming it at her, back in the lab. 

We had years. 

But would it have been as perfect as this night? Minus the whole Daisy turning on them drama, of course. 

Initially, he had cursed his impulsive nature once more. When he leaned in and then dived in to steal a few kisses from her. 

And then her words had reassured him, and her sparkling eyes had reassured him, and her lips had reassured him, and they reveled in each other. Enjoyed each other. And it was the perfect moment. Well, it was the perfect many moments strung together. 

And he wondered if it had happened years ago, if it would have been as perfect.

I’m tired of seeing our friends ripped apart from each other. That can’t happen to us again. I won’t let it.

Then we won’t let it.

He couldn’t say. 

All he knew was that kissing Jemma was an out-of-this-world experience. And he’d dive through a hundred holes in the universe to do it again and again and again. 

-

A/N: Happy My-Birthday, everyone! Here is ten fluffy scenarios of FitzSimmons through the ages (that all end in happy kissing, mind) to celebrate. 

Ladies and gentlemen, I present mega-Glimpse. The longest thing I’ve written to date. And I was struck with inspiration for it two nights ago. 

I wrote this backwards. This is the first time I’ve ever written anything out of order. It was a challenge but super fun! 

Also! The “[i]t’s been ten years” thing always bothered me because if she was referring to how long they’ve known each other, it was really more along the lines of twelve/thirteen years, right? So this is my way of reconciling the two bits of canon in a way where neither contradicts. 

Also! FitsSimmons mention having Dr. Hall their second year in “The Asset”, and Fitz mentions them graduation three years early in “Repairs” and then Jemma says “third year” in “Absolution” so I’m just making the call that both of their concentrations were typically a six-year program that they completed in three.

Crazy belated but tagged accordingly because I really just wanted to finish this challenge. It became a personal thing. Just tell me, and I’ll stop tagging! For week five of #fsww. 

Check out Who Needs Space and Something Magnificent, play-by-play in-depth narratives of the bunk scene (with a few additional ones) from Fitz and Simmons’s point-of-view, respectively. 

[brooklynislandgirl]

@tangleweave {{xx}}

No ounce of curiosity lurks behind Beth's demeanour. Not how she scored, because she knows her groupings are impressive. Whether it's a natural aptitude or a little nudging of her mana is left up for him to decide on his own but even Phil can't deny that she's had a lifelong training that has a militaristic bent to it. The way she polices her brass, the way she is careful in the draw and the return, her frame and form. A fluid comfort and grace. The ICER is larger than she might prefer but she isn't unused to large side-arms. She prefers the Sig Saur P228, a compact version of her brother's favoured P226. An older design, made the year before she was born and having improved design over the years but she does have a fondness for older things, doesn't she? She doesn't appear pleased by his praise. If anything, she shifts from one foot to the other before her shoulders shed the stiffness of parade rest and curl slightly inward. Making her even smaller than she normally is. Shrinking from his even tone. What she can't deny is that along with the way her stomach knots, she finds validation in his belief that he would have trusted her with his life. Those simple few words get the gleaming light of actual confidence in her eyes. What is she if not a self-espoused guardian of all life? A consoler, a confidant? "Would that…have changed things for you, Agent Coulson?" She already knows the answer. Of course it would. But what she really means is would he think or act in a different way if not for the fractured fates that keep getting woven back together? Is he tired of reaching the brink, ready to either enter an afterlife of his faith or come back to the Cycle as someone or something new? Did he feel relief or depredation? Even enunciating carefully, she doesn't know how to ask him that.

[brooklynislandgirl]

Start a book club with, read a book to, hit with a book : Close between The System, Raylan, Phil Coulson

Three of a Kind || Accepting {{tagging for reasons: @silverjetsystm, @goodlawman, @tangleweave }}

Beth might be a little tipsy after her third sea-breeze in about half an hour, and maybe she giggles a little too loudly from behind her hand when Jay asks the question. The bar isn't packed yet and so the music is mellow and the dim interior is a respite from the bright hospital lights that she's been dealing with for the last fifteen hours. She leans into Jay and rests her head on her hanai-sister's shoulders, spanning one hand out and waving slowly in panorama in front of them. "Pictcha it. Manhattan...sometime in da las' two weeks..." Yes, she just made a Golden Girls reference. "F' a book club? Hones'ly goddah choose Moon-Moon. Steven got exquisite taste in literature, while Jake got alla sarcastic comments on da side but sittin' in his cab he got plenny time t' read, an' mebbe dat give Marc sometime t' chill out. I t'ink da man really need a time to take brea'd an' jus'...stop for a while, you know wha' I mean. Plus if it jus' da five of us, den we can make da meetings easy, you know?" She purses her lips aside for a moment and ponders the other two men mentioned. "Read a book to? Probably Uncle Phil. Man's an incredible boss. Nevah have someone so intent on protectin' an' supportin' his team but I swear I nevah see him take a vacation, or even be late for work. If all t'ings remain true? Den he probably doesn't even really take time to eat propah, or rest at night, so I'd cheat. Small kine use of Life...tiny hanging effect t' make him drowsy an' den I'd read t' him. Probably from: Captain America: Avenger, Hero, Icon... or Captain America and da American Journey, 1940-2022." She giggles again and pulls back only to fix Jay with The Look. The one that says she knows what's going on and that they will have to discuss that very soon. "An' finally, dat leave Raylan. Who is very pretty, by da way." Yep, there it is, the confirmation nod. "An' I hit him wi' da book f' not tellin' me you an' him are seein' each oddah outside of any work relationship I can faddom, which mean he nevah aks me if it okay to aks you out. Now it's possible you did da aksin' but you're fastah dan me, especially wi' Time an' Correspondence, so...moral of da story, he gets smote...an' you owe me anoddah drink." A pause. "How did he get into Shield, anyway?"

[brooklynislandgirl]

@tangleweave {from this ephemeral moment}

In another life, Phil would be an explorer. A tenured professor who would seek adventure in pristine jungles and dark caves. He would be a prince who, upon losing both family and kingdom, devotes himself to research and supplementing his life by scouring the wrecks of things long buried under the surface of the sea. He would claim to have no interest in terrestrial affairs and yet he'd intervene to aid people in distress. In another life, Phil would be happy. That's the thing she holds onto the most perhaps particularly when he holds that unknowable smile,the one that leads the eye to slip from his face. One that acts like a shield for all the thoughts that hide behind it. Both infuriating and disarming at once, she can hardly fathom what exactly it is that Phil thinks in the wake of her confession. And yet, she has no ability to reclaim it, to pretend she hadn't said anything at all. And Beth should be given credit for not flinching when he bypasses the closeness she had offered and instead ran fingers through her hair. The strands part like watered silk and she doesn't stop him. Yes, her cheek holds embers of a long smouldering fire. Still, it might be even smoother than her hair. Softer. Her breath glides right around his wrist in a sharp exhale. "You are," she agrees with a certain deliberate slowness. Not meant as a challenge, the uncertainty at the words edges seem to make up the whole of her being. He is there. So close she can all but taste him and a million miles removed from her in a place she doesn't know how to reach. When Phil moves, Beth becomes a deer in headlights of that passive gaze. Not literally hooved and furred, though she could if she wishes to, and might if the urge to run grew in its intensity. Her eyes rise as they are bidden by his gentle caress. She can read him in that way but comes up short when the rest of him moves. How he closes her in but leaves her just enough space to back-pedal if she needs to, how his palm seems to burn through the thin grey shirt and how dangerously close his thumb is to the three little studs that decorate the inner arch of her hip. She swallows hard. Audibly. It provides no relief to the words stuck in her throat, and against the irritation of them, emotional nacre begins to coalesce around them. She willed them to be pearls for as slow as they were to come out in the hush between them. "It was rainin' in my dream," she begins but leaves out the fact that it's always raining in her dreams. Sometimes gently, sometimes furiously squalling. "We decided against tryin' to move on while it was stormin'. To maximise on warm and comfort? Sharin' da bed an' da covers. No sleepin' on da floor for you." If anyone could ruin a come close to ruining something that should have been full of sensual imagery, it is Beth and the chiding that creeps into the back of her tone. The misplaced need to nurture those that come and go from her life. " You lay on ya back, while I was curl against ya chest. I couldn't keep myself from tracin' da edges of your scar. Listenin' in on ya beatin' heart, dat life flowin' t'rough you. Your fingers flow across my back, nevah restin' for too long in one place." She doesn't explain how or why they'd come to have little to no clothes on, there is little in the way of logic when it comes to dreams, but maybe that's telling. There isn't a difference these days. The only way she can sleep nights since he came to her rescue is to have some part of her touching some part of him. Her gaze falls away from him as she turns inward to clutch at the remnants of that dream. Half lidded, he is given a glimpse of the bottom portion of her marbled irises through those thick dark lashes of hers. They've gone molten and it wouldn't be hard for him to imagine the smouldering gaze she'd fix him with were she a little less reticent. How she might glow from within were he to reach out and caress any swath of skin that takes his fancy.

"I nevah know who start it, but it all starts wi' da mos' delicate sort of kiss, like we're bo'd afraid we gonna break at da slightest pressure. Dere's reverence dere. Sweetness as we brea'd each oddah in an' exhale soft sounds. Aching, melting, on da verge of..." A heartbeat goes by and her face wears its own mask, one that looks nearly painful. Oh, how she wants that moment back. "I-I'm sorry, you probably didn' mean every detail, did you?"

[brooklynislandgirl]

@tangleweave {{this heart break}}

The time, delivered matter-of-fact, rips through her like a bullet. She doesn't bother to try to hide the flinch it causes. While she may not see the way he looks at her, she can feel his consideration through the sound of his suit shifting. The texture of it whispers that he's putting up an emotional bulwark in place that no one ~friend or enemy~ would have an easy time in cracking. She stands there practically green with envy over that particular skill.

Somewhere in the back of her mind, a much younger and angrier Beth stamps a bare foot on the ground, hands clenched into fists at her sides, and screams until she's red in the face; yes, Mike has a son. A good and sweet boy. But what about the team? What about Beth herself? Doesn't she deserve to grow up and flourish under a kind and understanding man whom she admires and...and maybe even loves? A lot of the people Phil hand picked to be his agents know profound lack of support, loss of family and friends. Without him, what will happen to them? Without them, what will happen to him? Anxiety twists her guts to the point that it's almost hard to breath. Still, she does her best to school her features into a mask of calm that she doesn't feel. She has to trust him to know what he's doing, even if her fears don't agree and are instead circling her like wolves. When he reaches for her Beth can't help but stiffen up. Recoiling from a touch she knows will only push her closer to saying something stupid. Into doing something disastrous. But all of her good intentions go crashing to the ground as she looks up and watches his mouth when he talks about faith. She rushes into his chest, and her arms circle around his waist. She rests her cheek just below the scar-riddled space his heart beats behind. "An' all of me says t' stop you from goin'....goin' in your place. Protectin' you so you can do da same for our team. You want my fait' an' I'm tellin' you wha' doesn't live wi' you is buried wi' my braddah. I can't see da future same as you an' I'm afraid if you go... somet'ing terrible is gonna happen."

[brooklynislandgirl]

[ Devil Driver / Broken SHIELD ]

Days and weeks have passed since Phil found Beth at the AIM facility and took her from it. He's fought tooth and nail to stay hidden while nurturing her back to health. To avoid eyes until the moment he gets a lead on where the team might be… member by member. And there are those few times where the lead is solid enough that Beth's eyes brighten with a spark. But that spark is less of the Life over which she claims domain, and more of the Vengeance that he now embodies.

In a very different time, they had been agents of SHIELD. Now? They are avengers. Not the kind that earns a Stark paycheck or a magic hammer; they are the kind that could not save the world, and now must bring those responsible for its ruin to account.

The desert bunker is dark and relatively small, barely suited to host more than a dozen people seeking temporary shelter. But to Phil and Beth, it may as well be their underground palace. MREs are their sustenance. Beth has cautiously suggested using her talents to inspire edible growth, but Phil isn't certain he wants to tarry here for long. Staying mobile, he's convinced, is how they stay alive. They've only lingered here for three days because the daytime has been so blazing hot, he fears she'll succumb to dehydration before Lola makes it across the wasteland… and his means of fueling Lola to conserve her gasoline at night may as well make them visible from space.

She suggests they stay one more night, at least. And Phil grants that request because she is exhausted, and she deflects that not-quite-accusatory remark by pointing out he is too, and that he should be the one more concerned with slumber, since she can survive -- and has done so -- on less than an hour's sleep nightly for weeks on end. But he insists she at least lie down… and he assures her he will be right next to her, just as he was those first two weeks after freeing her.

When she reluctantly nestles onto her cot, he kneels down beside her and takes her hand gently in his own.

"You should know something… that even though my goal has always been to find everyone, you were the one I wanted to find first. Not just because of the things you can do, but because… you're the one who gives me hope, when all of mine has run out. And I really need that right now."

He looks into her doe eyes in the silence of the ensuing moment. And then he leans down and forward, and presses his lips to the center of her forehead.

Silver Moon Sparkling || Accepting

When Beth languished within her cell, her mind fraying under the strain of torment ~ceaseless experiments on what she could recover from, what she could live without, all while her natural regeneration and her magick stolen from her by the odd always cold metal wrapped around her throat~ she’d tried to hold onto a sliver of faith. That he would not abandon her. That he would pull the team back out of whatever bolt hole they’d found themselves scurrying with the time she’d bought them. She had held hope that even if she’s the least of them, that he would still care. Each day and each new agony, that hope dwindled. But then he came. Though at first she thought him a demon wearing a flayed Phil-skin as fear gripped her through the fog of sedation.She had no ability to shrink away, nor to stop him from carrying her away. If pressed she wouldn’t be able to answer how he got the collar off. She can’t say if she slept or ate or did anything but ache with a bone deep agony for days after he did. The only thing that gives her respite as her body reknits itself and her teeth grow back into place, slicing her gums to ribbons with new sharpness are the tales he has to tell. Each one is a tragedy. They are full of horror and dismay. And they are empty of the family he’s built for himself. Somehow they soldier on; because what else can they do? Beth has always joked about being an endurance predator to those who know her best ~the family she once had~ but the miles they put behind them are gruelling. She’s grateful for the bunker. The heat during the day perks her up some but the lack of any kind of moisture limits its effectiveness. She eats at his direction even if everything tastes like ash. Bit by bit it all does its work and eventually restores her to a modicum of her former self. Sleep is the hardest commodity to put her finger on. There is now never any time to settle in before they move on again starting the entire process anew. She understands why and doesn’t utter a peep of disagreement. She has no right to. Neither can she bring herself to question what sacrifice he’s made, what pact might somewhere be writ in his own blood to have enshrined this… Well, she isn’t sure what to call it. It isn’t exactly a spirit like the kind she knows. She fears using her mana in such a way to draw it out because she doesn’t know how it will react to such direct confrontation and she can’t bear the idea of losing or harming Phil to satisfy what some would call a focused curiosity. But the question lingers as does its symptoms; she occasionally flinches when he comes up on her far too quietly, when he brushes her arm when she isn’t expecting it. When she looks into his eyes and sees Pele’s burning heart before he blinks and is once more the witty and urbane man knows.Tonight though…the exhaustion is too real. Weighs her bones down as if they are encased in steel. But so is he. Even if she isn’t at her best, she can still sense the weariness that sucks at his every step, and the way his hands rub at his stubble-shaded jaw. Her counter-arguments at any other time would never hold water. He’d scoff and pull rank and remind her that her insomnia alone could make her unfit for duty. She doesn’t see the losing end of it all until she’s seated on the edge of her cot and he’s making promises.

His hands are warm when he enfolds one of her own. His voice is soft when he shares a lovely fairytale secret with her and while she gazes up into his face ~even as he kneels, and her head is on the pillow, there is a discrepancy of height between them~ trying to hold back a flood of emotions neither of them can spare at the moment, she nods.

What surprises her the most then is the tenderness of his lips on her brow. The simplest thing but filled with an incomprehensible amount of comfort. Cloaked in nostalgia of what Beth used to dream having a father was like, or remembering the way Andy would make everything all right. Except Phil isn’t her father. He isn’t her brother. He isn’t even the uncle she calls him out of respect and affection, and the feelings buried deep inside of her attest to that.

So does the way she refuses to let go of his hand.

“You have alla dat, an’ more,” she whispers, afraid to disturb a single molecule inside the bunker. “We’ll find dem, an’ we’ll bring ‘em back t’ where dey should be. Wi’d us. I can see it inna stars, you know.” It’s not true. She does not have a single iota of mana tied with stars, with time. She does have the ability to grant a boon from fate. And she gathers it all up now, every ounce of power that flows in her blood, pooling it into the coincidental stroke of luck he needs.

Beth shifts upwards, resting her weight on her elbow and returns the kiss. Petal soft lips and a skittish sort of nerve, but her mouth brushes his, willing into him that luck. A sense of peace. Savouring, however improper, the feel of his mouth, too.

[brooklynislandgirl]

@tangleweave  {{xx}}

Rare are the moments that Beth feels she is more Kinfolk than sorceress, but this... this entity, this cunning umbrood that Phil has made his bargain with, has only made her feel like she is watching a saga about one of the Cousins unfold. It is a thing of incredible rage without any of the cooling elements of gnosis, the connection to Grandmother that often shows up as bouts of wisdom and mercy from her changing kin. But just as it is almost easy to understand, the toll it takes on Phil worries her. For as long as she's known him, Coulson has been an oasis of tranquility, almost to the point of being unnerving, and a stability she and his other agents have never been accustomed to before. It might be a generalisation, but she knows from experience that every last one of them owe him and he's never really been less than patient. That isn't to say he wasn't, in his own right, valiant and heroic. Phil maybe more than anyone understands the right moment for anger, for bravery, for heroism. If she thought about it, she'd shiver at the given answer that one time over breakfast when he spoke of his own rage as being arctic, the colder the better. It was the only time she could recall actually feeling fear of him. But the man who had come and rescued her from her torment, that wasn't Uncle Phil. Oh, in that excruciating pain-wracked delirium, she certainly thought it had been. She'd clung to her belief as tightly as she'd clutched the little makeshift poppet of him. As her mind numbed day after untrackable day, she feverishly whispered to it and to herself that if she believed hard enough, if she endured just a little longer, that he would come and he would save her. The SHIELD against the world, her unkillable Agent Coulson. Patron saint of the unwanted castoffs, the damaged goods he'd turned into a family. Each of them had fought to the last, and she doesn't really think that any single one of his team gave him up. No matter the cost. And seeing him there, even in her red-blurred vision, it'd been a straight shot of adrenaline. Faith rewarded in the temporal sense. She hadn't noticed the change, not at first, though she should have. Her relief, her small burst of joy, had overshadowed any suspicion. In fact it had taken days to realise something was amiss. He had become if not sullen then at least more taciturn than was usual. Then there was that sussurus of murmurs that reminds her of nothing so much as the sound of dying and dead leaves skittering across sidewalks, but she could never be so sure that she heard it. His lips never moved with the intangible words. There were no shrieks, no rending of the flesh. When she started healing, regaining her faculties, she feard the worst. That he'd made an ancient sort of blood pact and had allowed himself to be used as a vessel for the fallen. It took her even longer to realise just how close she was to the truth, and yet how wrong she was. And still, there’s never been time to grieve. If she centres herself now, she can hear it more clearly. But in doing so she can also taste the cost the umbrood takes on him. She has no idea yet what she will do if she has to ever separate Phil from the Spirit, or if she even can. This isn't like anything she's ever experienced before, nor anything she's read about. But for now, it seems to be susceptible to the soothing effects of being lulled. A minor parlor trick for some of the Speakers of Dreams as the shamen are called, somewhat of a heftier cost to herself.  Amongst her kanaka, they do not command but rather cajole. And mercifully, thanks to her grandfather, she knows some of the ways of the Cousins, and their ways of soothing a rage-ravaged spirit. And here she is, fighting his battle for him, as he has done innumerable times before for her, for all of them whether they knew it or not. She doesn't shrink or shirk his touch, not the embrace of his ruined flesh. It is all a part of him, and she loves him as he is without expectation or condition. "I know." Acknowledgement of all that is said and the ocean of unspoken things beneath. She only shifts a little so that she isn't sitting astride on his lap, a discomfort that neither of them needs, but that had been necessary at first to pull him out of his thrashing. She nestles against his side, his partial limb still around her, and her arm settles against his chest, bisecting the space where his scar still runs roughshod over him. The other props her up so she remains in his field of vision. "Rest your head on me. Lissen t' my heart, hear my Maddah's voice in its blood. For once, ku'ipo, le' me take vigil. Le' me be ya vanguard."

[brooklynislandgirl]

@tangleweave  {{xx}}

Everyone hears the stories. Some have lived them. She’d been in Manhattan at the time. She remembers the fear, the loss, the destruction. She remembers the pang she felt when she looked up at the sky in wonder, yearning. All these years later and there are still things being rebuilt, people who hadn’t been found, an outcry against people like her who are different...and the scars of it all.

His is still so livid, an angry red, where it lurks like a gargoyle~ in the centre of his chest. She’s studied entry and exit wounds, trajectory and force, both as applied to bullet wounds and stabbings in an effort to find the best way to alleviate the wound itself and to minimise impact. She cannot use her Arts in such a way to make it a non-issue at all, not with the alarming frequency with which she sees these incidents at work, but this one. Outside of certain biological nano-tech or mana of a level she possesses she honestly doesn’t know how he managed to survive it. And though she tries her best to hide it with the practised distance of a physician, it’s written all over her face, her eyes. The shock, certainly. The disbelief. The wonder of perhaps…

Perhaps Philip Coulson is more like her than she thought. A thought she berates herself for a moment later. She’s absolutely certain when he laid his offer on the table, knowing what he knew then about her, it would have come up as proof of his veracity and belief. That he himself was differently other and still free. She isn’t aware of crossing the room even at his snappish invitation. Nothing about her screams that she is remotely titillated by the revelation of his skin, the subtle but fit musculature usually hidden with suit and tie. She isn’t even thinking about whether or not he can feel the warmth radiating from her hand as it comes to hover a wink away from the upraised flesh. She doesn’t touch though. It isn’t right, it isn’t proper. Not when the echo of the enormity of that pain lingers. She would not allow anyone to cavalierly touch her own. Some stories are far too *kapu* to share. Her gaze drags from the healed wound to his face, inch by inch. Until the steel-blue takes up almost the entire field of her focus. “I wouldn’t argue, sir,” she says with immense care. “Would skew the exam results. I’d simply remind you that you hired me for d-- this, an’ you are now my kuleana.”

[brooklynislandgirl]

"Look into my eyes..." [Coulson]

Eye of the Beholder || Accepting

I SEE:

Absolute Conviction  |  Aggression  |  Ambition  |  Anger  |  Anxiety  |  Apathy  |  Arrogance  |  Bloodthirst  |  Bravery  |  Compassion  |  Confidence  |  Conflict  | Courage  |  Darkness  |  Defeat |  Denial  |  Desire  |  Despair  |  Determination  |  Devotion  |  Disappointment  |  Distrust  |  Dominance  |  Emptiness  |  an Enemy  |  Enlightenment  |  Envy  |  Excitement  |  Exhaustion  |  Elitism  |  Experience  |  Fear  |  a Friend  |  a Future  |  Gentleness  |  Greed  |  Grief  |  Guilt  |  Honesty  |  Honor  |  Hope  |  Hostility  |  Ignorance  |  an Illness  |  Insecurity  |  Integrity  |  Intoxication  |  Kindness  |  Lies  |  Loneliness  |  Longing  |  Loss  |  a Lover  |  Loyalty  |  Malicious Intent  |  Mania  |  Melancholy  |  Misery  |  Negativity  |  Overcompensation  |  Pain  |  Paranoia  |  Passion  |  Perseverance  |  Pettiness  |  Pity  |  Positivity  |  Pressure  |  Pride  |  a Purpose  |  Racism  |  Regret  |  Resentment  |  Resignation  |  Resolve  |  Sadness  |  Self-Hatred  |  Sexism  |  Shattered Remains  |  a Shining Light  |  Something Familiar  |  Spite  |  Stress  |  Stupidity  |  Submission  |  Tranquility  |  Trauma  |  Trust  |  Vengeance  |  Warmth  |  Wisdom  |  Wrath  |  a Cry for Help  |  Something Eating Your Mind  |  the Years have Changed You

YOU’RE:

Animalistic  |  Approachable  |  Broken  |  Closed-Off  |  Cold  |  Crafty  |  Crazy  |  Defensive  |  Devious  |  Difficult  |  Disheartened  |  Emotionally Detached  |  Frightened  |  Frightening  |  Genuine  |  Guarded  |  Headstrong  |  Heartless  |  Human  |  Immature  |  Impatient  |  Inhuman  |  Insane  |  Intuitive  |  Lost  |  Mature  |  Noble  |  Patient  |  Pitiful  |  Primitive  |  Pure  |  Reliable  |  Remorseless  |  Reserved  |  Resourceful  |  Short-Tempered  |  Simplistic  |  Sly  |  Soft-Hearted  |  Struggling  |  a Threat  |  Trapped  |  a Troublemaker  |  Trusting  |  Understanding  |  Unique |   Unpredictable  |  Unwavering  |  a Victim  |  Wicked  |  Feeling Vindictive  |  Guilty of Something  |  Hiding Something  |  Lost in Thought  |  Planning Something  |  Scared of Me  |  Scaring Me  |  Someone I can Trust  |  Someone I Can’t Recognize Anymore  |  Someone to Fear  |  Someone Worthy of Respect  |  Weak to Manipulation  |  Weighed by Something

YOU:

Aren’t Being Yourself  |  Belittle Yourself  |  Don’t Want to Hurt Me  |  Don’t Want to Leave Me  |  Drown Yourself in Something  |  Feel Alone  |  Feel Empowered  |  Have a Plan that Involves Me  |  Have No One Else to Turn to  |  Have Nowhere Else to Go  |  Have Seen Some Things  |  Haven’t Been Sleeping  |  Lie to Yourself  |  Lost Faith/Trust in Me  |  Lost Something/Someone Important  |  Need Me/my Help  |  No Longer Believe Me  |  See Me as a Thing  |  See Me as Someone Else  |  Seek to Hurt/Harm  |  Seek to Manipulate  |  Think Highly of Yourself  |  Think I’m Hiding Something  |  Think Little of Yourself  |  Think You Know Best  |  Want to Hurt Me  |  Want to Protect Me  |  Want to Sleep with Me  |  Want to Use Me

[brooklynislandgirl]

@tangleweave   {{xx}}

She stabs her fork into the pile of vegetables that make up her salad ~slightly seasoned with a pinch of salt and pepper, very lightly dressed in oil and vinegar~ as though it had committed some hideous wrong against her in a previous life. But she doesn’t take a bite. Neither does she stray across territorial lines of the cafeteria table. There is his half and there is hers.

She inclines her head slightly when he asks what she presumes is a rhetorical question. If it wasn’t, she’d tell him that there are numerous things she needs to know beyond the standard health questionnaire formats that read more like insurance tables. She feels she is within her rights. Just as he is to sound uncustomarily pleased. And when he reaches the end, it’s her turn to offer a flicker of a smile.

“Blue. Represents also stability, order. Sadness. Red is love an’ passion, anger an’ power. Da warmest colour, an’ da most intense. Mix ‘em togeddah an’ ya get purple. Den everyt’ing changes. Becomes mysterious, wise, or a touch arrogant ‘cause is often associated wi’ royalty an’ wealth, because of its rarity in nature.”

She lets him make of that what he pleases. “Favourite clean word? Moeʻuhane. Try say it wit’out feelin’...soft. Dare ya.” She lifts a fork full of her salad and takes a bite. Which she chews slowly and carefully, before dabbing at her lips with one of the many paper napkins from the dispenser on the table. “Favourite swear word?”

When you leave the house, you will look like a lady. You will sound like one, act like one. If you can’t, you aren’t leaving the house. “I don’ have one, nor would I like to learn any. If your fruit is hangin’ low, might wan see ya doctah about it.”

If she sees she’s made a joke, it’s hard to tell. She is perhaps in the running to out Sphinx him.

“Favourite dramatic movie is Princess Ka’iulani. Her uncle was King Kalakaua, her auntie Queen Lili’uokalani. It is a dramatic biography of how da US governmen’ came an’ illegally occupied den annex da Kingdom of Hawai’i.” She speaks what is tantamount to treason, and doesn’t seem a bit upset about it, though she does watch his face carefully to see if he reacts to it. And then she takes a sip of the water with lemon on her tray. Lowers her lashes but there’s a distinct pink that colours her cheeks, the tips of her ears. “You strike me as a bit traditional, Uncle. An’ if you no boddah wi’ change from da beginnin’ mebbe you don’ need t’ see about it now. Grey is a nice colour, after all. As for a new bed set, I do recommend you change out ya mattress every ten year, more sooner if you plan on havin’ decent sex. No one like havin’ a dip in da middle.” She takes a dramatic pause. “Charcoal grey, goose down Duvet from Italy, matchin’ sheets.”

[brooklynislandgirl]

@tangleweave  {{xx}}

Her belly had been a garden of nettles since the moment she’d sent the messages. Perhaps it had been unfair of her to count on him being the portrait of chivalry. Being a damsel-in-dis-dress doesn’t come easy to her after all and she hates the idea of tricking someone even if it is for a good cause. The snarkier side of her would defend her choices by reminding her if Phil hadn’t wanted her to know, he would have had the date redacted from his file. He would have let her do her physicals, he would let her do as she pleased with blood and tissue samples, and where as she could read his age, it wouldn’t tell her the relevant day.

No one else had brought it up and she’s not so arrogant as to think the general cold shoulder ~Mack is nice, Fitz hasn’t been unkind~ she’s received has anything to do with it. If anything, it’s Coulson’s choice. So why does she therefore choose to make this forlorn hope? Because Beth doesn’t celebrate either. Hasn’t in a long time. She marks the passages of years in reflection but ultimately they are unimportant things, especially when her hānai sister spends more and more time out of town. Jay says it’s classified but as a handler, there’s more to it than that.  Someone should celebrate his life. Especially when he’s changed so many others. She steps back, drawing the door open with her. The five flights of stairs up from the lobby can take a lot out of a person, even when he’s in fine shape as Coulson is. The tool box looks heavy and contributes to the faint sense of guilt. She doesn’t let that spoil the mood though.  “I wouldn’t argue if ya said ya got an emotional support t’ree-quarters socket wrench. But you could leave it here in  da foyer if ya prefer not to lug it around.” The apartment beyond the entry with its marble topped table bearing a small basket with keys and other pocket-flotsam, a delicate looking potted orchid, and some mail is nothing short of as eclectic as it is large. Strewn about the rooms are lush green plants of various kinds, thriving everywhere they can grow. The floor to ceiling windows give a view of Bay Ridge’s skyline, a small glimpse of the Verrazano-Narrows bridge. All open space, there’s a living room area grouped around a luscious looking rug, a formal dining area where the family sized oak table is perhaps the loudest thing. Designed for at least ten people, the intimate setting for two ~candles lit, wine glasses currently empty~ appears almost shockingly small. The kitchen is along the wall. Including the dismantled sink. 

The walls are half exposed brick, covered in acrylic cases filled with vintage and custom guitars both acoustic and electric. Surfboards are mounted in similar fashion. There are photos everywhere of exotic looking locals, many framing the same four faces; Beth’s, a young man with identical green eyes, the same dark hair and a wide smile. He is only a few years older than her in any given image. The third is recognisable immediate as Sam Wilson. The fourth is a woman about Beth’s age, but much taller than her. Dark hair, dark eyes. Beautiful smile that holds a hint of mischief. Some are of Beth with a young man about her age, some of him along with Queens landmarks in the background. There are a precious few of a tall and older man, with cheekbones that could cut diamonds and piercing eyes. Not a single one shows the image of the Admiral. “E komo mai,” she says softly. Come on in. “Please,make yourself a’ home. May I get you anyt’ing? Coffee? Somet’ing wi’ a lil more kick?”   

[brooklynislandgirl]

@tangleweave   {{XX}}

She can’t help but grin even if he can’t see the slow emergence of that smile. She didn’t expect him to startle like some do when she turns up unexpectedly, and she’s glad he doesn’t disappoint. She delights in his ambivalence about the whole situation which she’d been teasing him about and for a moment tries to imagine what a teen-age Uncle Phil must have been like. First, he wouldn’t be an uncle, he’d be an ‘eh, boy’. Wiry. Gangling limbed. Far fewer worry lines, far more dreams in his eyes. But that same bright spirit that she sometimes fears is going to go supernova one of these days.

She presses a chaste kiss to his cheek then produces a cup of his favourite coffee and a Boston cream doughnut. None of it crud from the corner RoXXon station, but instead brought in from her best friend’s coffee shop and bakery.

Beth eases back away from him and comes around to the side, dumping herself into an empty chair with an unladylike sprawl, yet still manages to remain modest in her skirt. “Wrong, wronger...wrongest an I nevah would suggest you t’reatenin’ t’ nail Agent May to...pretty much any kine. I like you all in one piece, preferably not havin’ t’ put ya back like a jig-saw. An’ how ya don’t know if it’s one of my special talents, eh?”

[brooklynislandgirl]

Do you know me? [Coulson]

In All My Reverie || -

What’s their full name?: 

“Josiah.” Skye wrinkles her nose. “Really?” Beth shrugs and holds up the results of the other woman’s physical. “Is right dere, top of his file.” ~*~ “Jacinto.” Ward raises a brow. “What?” “On a chilly April aftahnoon in Eighteen-T’irty Six, a strip of coastal prairie rang wi’ da boom of cannon, crack of musket fiah, an’ shouts of “Remembah da Alamo!” an’ “Remembah Goliad!”. Despite bein’ outmanned, General Sam Houston’s army of settlers, Tejanos, an’ foreign volunteers decisively defeat General Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna’s forces, an’ won Texas’ independence. T’ commemorate it, Mistah Coulson senior named him aftah-” He leaves before she can finish, so Beth shrugs and goes back to knitting. ~*~ “Jamiroquai. Like da band.” May kicks her out of the cockpit, and she is grateful. She escapes back to the lab. Only to run into Fitz-Simmons. Who half talk, half telepathically communicate over their pet project. They ask where she’s been. She explains, and sure enough the question begins to live rent free in their heads, on their faces. So of course they ask her. She smiles blandly. “Javert. Named aftah main antagonist from Les Miserables.”

~*~ Beth stares at a spot just above his shoulder and to the left, her hands behind her as she stands at parade rest. Exactly as she would if addressing the Admiral. The biggest difference is that Coulson’s face isn’t lemon-sour, but rather simply curious. The question as to why she keeps telling different people what the J stands for in Philip J Coulson, each increasingly worse, lingers between them. When she answers, it’s barely audible. “Because dey aks me, sir. Didn’ wanna seem rude or dismissive. An’ hones’ly, no one seems to know, but I assume it’s actually Julian or Julius, aftah ya maddah. But it’s not my right f’ tell, or anyone else’s f’ demand. I’m sorry. It won’ happen again.”

When’s their birthday?: She doesn’t know the time, exactly. Nor does she try to ask him because she knows he’ll see it as unimportant. But she sits on her bunk, several books open. A multifunctional geometric ruler near her knee along with several different coloured pens, a large drawing pad already marked in pencil as she does her research. Without consulting charts, 8 July 1964 makes him a Cancerian, like her. There’s so much water in Phil’s chart, and it explains so much about him. Though she would argue, even with herself, that a person can be summed up in a mathematical sequence. He’s more than cryptic ciphers and star charts, surely. More than he’d even realise if the question of his identity were posed to him. She picks up her green pen and steadies the ruler against the page.

Where were they born?:

Manitowoc, Wisconsin is hell. Oh it tries to fool her, it really does, sitting in the open mouth of the river of the same name, right there on the edge of Lake Michigan. Depending on the inflection of the Ojibwe word, it is named ‘dwelling of the great spirit’, ‘spirit spawns’, ‘spirit woods’ or ‘spirit lands’. The Menominee people ceded the land in a treaty after a small eternity of negotiation on what to do with the tribes removed from New York, and rehomed ~as if they were pets or burdens~ to Wisconsin. Two years before Coulson was born, a twenty pound piece of Sputnik 4 landed on North 8th Street. It is home of the state’s Maritime Museum, and has a great amount of history attached to it, not all of it pleasant. Just ask Gwendolyn Brooks.

But right now, Beth is absolutely convinced that it is the origin point of Fimbulwinter. The icy teeth of the wind rip right through her, going so far as to turn even Pele’s blood in her veins to slush. Her joints ache, her head hurts. She is never going to see the sun again. This is how she dies, without a rainbow bridge or a last glimpse of Kawela bay and her Mother’s warm waves welcoming her as they race toward the Pipeline. “Fire’s roaring,” Phil says, pushing a cup of cocoa ~whipped cream and cinnamon topped~ into her shivering mitten-covered hands. “Are you sure you won’t come in? Or do you intend to make another snow-angel?”

What’s their favourite colour?:

Sometimes, Phil’s suits are black. Exactly like the movies and the rampant conspiracy theories say it should be. When he does put that one on, he occasionally pairs it with a periwinkle shirt and the subtle colour looks sharp on him. Other times he’ll wear dark navy or slate grey. Besides his trademark sunglasses though, the thing that she notices most is that he always wears a touch of blue; shirt, tie, jacket…ambient lighting. It tends to bring out his eyes, though she doesn’t think that’s why he loves the colour. Rather it’s the meaning that seems to nurture something in his soul. Blue is sky and it is sea. That fact isn’t lost on her. It is associated with open spaces, freedom, inspiration, and sensitivity. It spans depth, trust, loyalty, sincerity, wisdom, confidence, stability. It is the colour of faith and intelligence.

It can represent rest and there’s studies that show that it causes the body to produce chemicals that are linked to calm, and releases feelings of tranquillity. Each and every one of these is a trait he embodies or fosters in others. But none of this answers the question he asks her. “This one,” she says, and runs her fingers over the tie he holds up in his left hand, favouring the deep cobalt stripes over the diamond-patterned maroon in his right. She takes it from his grasp, and slides it around the back of his neck, adjusting it so that she can start to tie it. “Masculine. Subtle. Definitely power move.”

What’s their favourite perfume/cologne?:

The minute his door opens, Beth’s head jerks upwards, her nostrils flaring. Cucumber, hints of water lotus. Szechuan pepper, cedar. Sandalwood and musk. It reminds her of the ocean and deep woods. She lets it trickle down into her senses. The scent is light, doubly so because it’s used so sparingly. Embraces a casual effortlessness, distinctive but not in the least attention-grabbing. The ghost of it won’t haunt a room.

“CK Eternity Aqua,” she murmurs, naming the scent. “Should we not wait up for you, sir?” Beth doesn’t even register the tone of her own voice, or the hint of envy that creeps into the back of it.

Do they like baths or showers best?: I’m going to take a shower, then we’ll debrief. She nods as does the rest of the team. If she’s being honest, it’s probably for the best. Once viscera begins to dry out it also tends to smell, tends to crust and it’s just gross. And she knows that Phil works on his own schedule. Showers work better for him, showers also work better for the team. She forgets what they call this particular bunker but there’s plenty of room for everyone in the locker room style bathrooms.

But she still intends to eventually get him in a bath. Soaking overused muscles. Letting essential oils strip away the layers of ache and grit. She spends the whole fifteen minutes she is scrubbing down planning it.

How do they sleep? Do they snore?:

She never understood how he could sleep on his back. Sure, the pillow cradles his neck. With his eyes closed, Phil seems to be at peace, not even breathing hard. Just deep. Soundless. His chest rises and falls and Beth can’t help but blush a little when she notices he isn’t wearing a shirt. It doesn’t stop her from climbing onto the bed and curling up beside him. Her arm comes to rest across his hips. Her head nestles on his chest, where she can hear his heartbeat change from rest to wakefulness. But he doesn’t say anything. She imagines if she looks up she’ll see that Mona Lisa look, a little confusion etched around his brows. But what Phil Coulson doesn’t do is question her. Maybe because he knows her file like the back of his hand. Maybe because he knows she’d ventured into the lion’s den and barely made it out with hide intact, the Admiral’s jaws all but clenching around her. Regardless, he only shifts a little; one hand lifts the blanket when his fingers graze the cold of her skin before the hand slides up her arm to cup the back of her head. There’s nothing sensual about any of this, not in the way some people would look to take it. He’s offering her shelter. He’s offering her enough safety to let her own eyes close. Neither of them really sleep.

What’s their favourite flower? If they have one which one?:

The gunshot splits the air. They have guns, the team only has icers and she can’t do a thing with that. She doesn’t waste microseconds wishing she had a gift involving the art of seasons…Time. It isn’t a spell, or countermagick, so much as it’s a wild and desperate Hail Mary call, and she flings her mana like water or glitter. Reality takes hold of it and shapes it. Offers a new and different trajectory. What would have caught Coulson in the chest is redirected. But all things come with a price and the impact knocks her back. Pain splinters outward from her lung and she can feel herself trying to breathe her own vital fluids but chokes on them instead. A minute, an hour, an eternity later his hands come to put pressure on the wound. “I’ve got you,” he says. She watches his lips move, but she can’t hear what he’s saying. Her lashes flutter. “Agent Riley!” The darkness rises up like a plunging wave, spawned from offshore winds. They have high energy and travel swiftly, making them dangerous to unsuspecting surfers. “Beth. What’s…what’s my favourite flower?” Whether it’s the wound or something deeply intrinsic to her subconscious, Beth closes her eyes, and blames the tears on not being ready to let go. “Daisy.” Do they drive? If so how’s their drivers licence picture?:

He never asks her why. Neither does she volunteer. She doesn’t fight him pushing the wheelchair out of the sliding glass doors of the hospital entrance, it’s regulation and she doesn’t have the energy to baulk. She knows he looked up the statistics. She knows he wants to ask why she didn’t allow him to get her back to Jemma to be treated, or SHIELD medical. What wasn’t a surprise was that she’d chosen Columbia. And why when she woke she was critically disappointed. All the unspoken things crowd in around them as he makes her sit in the passenger’s seat. No one drives Lola but Phil. Not even Beth.

“Do you even have one drivah licence?” she finally glances at him, slow when she turns, gingerly readjusting the seat belt. He fishes out his wallet and hands it to her. The Coulson in the picture is almost eight years younger. The only difference she can really see is slightly less laugh lines, and slightly more, darker hair. Phil has always been handsome, it seems, in an entirely average way. A warm and friendly mien, an immeasurably wide aura of calm. Of patience. Of basic human kindness that cannot be corrupted.

“So. How’re you doing?” She hands it back. “Not gonna lie, could murder a bacon cheeseburger righ’ now.” A brow raises at the comment. “Kinda low on iron.” “I know just the place.” Coulson pulls smoothly into traffic.

Do they like reading? If so guess how many books they have?:

Her fingertips glance across the spines of the small collections of books on his shelves; westerns, biographies, histories weighed down by the dust of the dry academic language. They might as well be fantasies, of old myths for as familiar as they are to her. But then she stops. Her lips pull tight as she pulls the volume and traces the bright red title on the blue background. The tightness becomes a full sneer over the misspelling. Lost Kingdom: Hawaii’s Last queen, the Sugar Kings, and America’s First Imperial Adventure by Julia Flynn Siler. Beth opens the flap, reads aloud the summary; “Only one American state was formerly a sovereign monarchy. In this compelling narrative, the award-winning journalist Julia flynn Siler chronicles how this Pacific kingdom, creation of a proud Polynesian people, was encountered, annexed and absorbed. Around two hundred A.D., intrepid Polynesians paddled thousands of miles across the Pacific and arrived at an undisturbed archipelago. For centuries, their descendants lived with almost no contact from the Western world but in Seventeen-Seventy Eight, their profound isolation was shattered with the arrival of Captain Cook. Deftly weaving together a memorable cast of character-” The book slams shut with very little regard for its safety. Sneer becomes vitriolic rage burning in her eyes, choking her throat. “You’re upset,” his voice is mild. Beth turns, imperiously lifting her chin despite being nearly a foot shorter, and far less intimidating that he could ever be. Here it is. A descendant of those ancient kings and queens, royal blood from both sides of the family tree, standing ready to defend her homeland. This might be the one time the Admiral could show any pride. “Of da hundreds of books you own, dis? Dis is da one you bring wi’ you?” “I thought it was a good place to start-” “Betrayin’ da Kanaka Maoli? Relishing in da illegal occupation of our lands, deposin’ our Ali’i Lili’uokalani?-” “-To understand the mistakes of the past, so that we don’t continue to make them in the future.” His tone is low, as it is tight. She bears her teeth. It isn’t a smile. Phil closes the distance between them, gingerly laying his hands atop hers before gently prying the book out of her grasp, returning it to its place on his shelf. “May I suggest something else to take to bed with you?” She leaves him standing there as she flees his space, cheeks impossibly red. It took almost a precise two weeks and a movie with the younger agents for him to understand what exactly had happened.

Public or state school?: “So, d’ you t’ink dere’s a difference between governmen’ school like you went to, as opposed to a private one?” The question posed comes on the heels of her trying to explain how important one’s high school alma mater was to the Hawai’ian identity. By government, she meant public school where as private meant a religious institution, a military or prep academy, charter, or otherwise funded by the often very rich parents that patronised them. It might not be a surprise that she could name his schools, ~Jackson Elementary, Washington Middle, Lincoln High School~ even if everyone, including himself, is reasonably sure she doesn’t much know the difference between Wisconsin and Minnesota. “Of course there is,” he begins carefully. “Allocated and logistical resources for one, the varying arts and culture that can be offered based on funding by a state rubric that makes no fiscal sense. I’m pretty willing to bet that aside from sadistic nuns, you would have been more comfortable at an integrated Kamehameha school than you did at Sacred Heart.” She raises a brow and he has to confess. “It’s because everyone has at least one Catholic school called Sacred Heart.”

Did they attend university? If so which one and what is their degree?:

As the night progresses, they talk of opportunities and the importance of providing safe avenues for education, they talk fond memories, embarrassing incidents, and Phil maybe laughs more than he has in a while. Beth becomes highly animated when she’s passionate about things, and she makes him remember things he hasn’t thought about in decades. She seems most embarrassed about receiving early admission to university, and was offered a scholarship that would have provided for everything she could need to succeed, and she turned that down. Said someone else benefited from her family’s ability to pay for pre-med and medical school a hundred times over without feeling it. But then her tone softens. “D’you t’ink, Uncle, dat when you retire….ah…if.... If you retire, ya might go back to school? Mebbe take up ya teaching degree? I know Director Fury poached you straight out of high school, an’ I no can help but feel dat might be one of ya regrets.”

Who’s the chef and who’s the taster?:

There is something indescribably sensual the way she breathes and then exhales that into a moan, all while hovering by his side. Her kitchen is a wreck and he knows it, but she did offer to do the clean up. It’s also taken him hours to do all the work; creating the roux, scalding the milk so it’s not scorched, then slowly stirring in the various cheeses. Then there was boiling the noodles while the dough rested and rose, then got punched down to rest again. It’s an old recipe from his childhood, but it seemed like the perfect thing to make for his vegetarian leaning shark; macaroni and cheese pizza. Now it’s baking in her oven, and he’s putting the final touches on the salad that is going with it, a token nod to health concerns. Like a cat, Beth seems content to prowl around him, stopping on occasion to put a hand on his exposed forearms, and looking up at him with a beatific look. He plucks a halved cherry tomato from her wooden bowl, and offers it to her. Then Beth becomes a goblin. She doesn’t take it from him with his fingers, instead carefully putting her teeth close to his skin, close enough that her lips form around his fingertips. Weaker men have toppled empires for less. Phil only smiles. “Table set yet? Can’t let you eat out of the bowl.”

Do they like wine? If so Róse, red or white? Beer? Whiskey?: “It is, yes.” Full words, a rarity. And like a ghost, she vanishes from view. When she appears again, she’s just on the edge of his periphery. A splash of colour from her floor length, gauzy skirt, but sleek and tawny from the arms up in a grey camisole. The bandage that peeks out might bring a frown to his face. It’s been a while now and the wound isn’t healing like he knows it should. He almost wants to ask her why she doesn’t use her gifts on it but somehow he knows her answer would be similar were she to ask why doesn’t she let him give him his old arm back. Some things need to be lived through, survived. Or maybe the enemy has finally found something that prevents even her accelerated healing to kick in, and that worries him. Almost as if she can follow his train of thoughts, she smiles. This time the expression is a little dreamy at the edges, lacking the sharp physically longing look from moments ago. She holds up a glass of wine in one hand ~hers~ and in the other… Phil blinks. “Spotted Cow!” A farmhouse ale that can only be found in his home state because it’s not sold anywhere else. It’s never easy to catch him off guard but she’s managed that. “Where did you even--” She giggles. “Magic.”

Any favourite items of clothes?: She sits on the end of the bed, the black lace dress fitting her like a second skin, the scalloped edges flirting with her knees. Her hair is half up and half down, she’s wearing tasteful diamond solitaire earrings. She hates having to leave the safety of the Retreat but rebuilding SHIELD requires funding from indirect sources, and one of her best job skills is the ability to schmooze. She looks up when Phil enters the room. For once his tailored dress shirt is open at the collar, though the tie still hangs down his chest. She makes an appreciative murmur. It will never cease to amaze her that he actually likes wearing ties and suits, and that while they are technically a uniform, they look incredible on him. She rises and meets him halfway where his hand comes up to cup her cheek, his fingertips losing themselves in her hair. “You’re going to do fine,” he tells her. He means it as an assurance. She’s taking it as a direct order. Her hands come up and she wraps the loose ends of the tie around her wrists, holding them tightly in her fists. Her eyes half close and she takes a deep breath for calm, thinking if she can just envelope herself with him, that she can do anything asked. “Can I take dis wi’ me?” She gives the tie a tug. “Only if you promise you’ll give it back. I know you still have my one denim shirt, Agent Riley.” She can’t help but grin. “Yes, sir.”

Anything you like of theirs that makes you smile when they wear it?:

“What….is… dat?!” “It’s a bathrobe.” “No, dat is a crime of nature is what dat is. Where did you even ge’it?” “This little gift shop in Santa Fe, on my way to Puente Antiguo. I think it’s rugged.” “I t’ink it’s…jus’...wow. “You want I should take it off-” Oh the colour in her face. Especially as he unbelts the robe and his chest beneath is bare.

What do they wear on holiday?:

“Absolutely not.” “What?” “Ya not wearin’ suit an’ tie f’ da beach, Phillip.” “It’s a beautiful day, Elizabeth. I was going to leave the jacket behind.” “Soonah ya wear dis bikini.” “Somehow, I don’t think it would fit. But I do like the bottoms.”

What do they wear if they’re just around the house?: Time is hard to tell in an underground bunker, but if she had to guess, it’s just past three in the morning; the witching hour. Phil isn’t curled up beside her when she jolts awake and puts her hand out and all she can think to do is crawl out from under the covers. She’s still in the cargo pants and tee-shirt she’d been wearing when they’d arrived, an almost identical outfit to his. They needed to blend into the dark. Once they’d been certain that the base was still secure, they’d sacked out as is with no energy for anything else. The dark is eating at her as she moves through the fairly narrow confines; this was meant to be a bolt hole, not a holiday hotel room in a five star resort. “Phil?” She whispers as she moves into each new room, only to hear her own footsteps and the hum of electricity in the walls but for no purpose she can gather. She could, if she put her mind to it, find its source and trace its routes but terror and exhaustion make clear-headed thought almost impossible.

After an eternity, she comes into a small space allotted for food and its preparation. A single spare bulb glows overhead, and there he stands, hunched over a map. She immediately rushes him, throwing her arms around his chest, and kneading his arm with her brow. “Phil!” “Hey. I’ve got some of the gps working and for now, it seems we’re safe here in--” A pause. Then a low mixture of concern, and stiffness. “You okay?” She clutches his leather jacket tighter, not thinking about the animal who sacrificed its skin. “I woke up and you…you were…” He presses a kiss to her forehead. “Yeah, I get it. Why don’t you sit, and I’ll make you a cup of coffee.”

Who’s the holiday planner and who isn’t allowed to hold the passports?:

“Okay.” One word is all she says but it takes at least three times as long to pull herself away from him and even then she still feels a little queasy about it. He expects her to be made of sterner stuff, though, and she can’t bear disappointing him again. Her eyes follow him as he moves through the space. There are so many questions but she doesn’t even know where to begin. Maybe it’s the touch of otherness, the Spirit of Vengeance existing within him, that hears her anyway. “The last verified ping on May was thirty-six hours ago at an old second generation secret base, one called Radiant. How’s your Russian?”

“Ya imeyu v vidu, moglo byt' i khuzhe.” It could be worse, she says. “Good girl. Now, our best bet is to get to the Finnish border, drive the rest of the way. What do we have in the way of resources to get there?” Beth looks a little green around the gills. “I think I know someone who can get us there, but…I don’t think you’re gonna like it, and that’s assuming she’ll talk to me.”

Which type of phone do they have?:

Phil pulls out his Vivo. It’s an old generation but it’s running a proprietary OS designed specifically for SHIELD, the same one she runs on her Galaxy. He goes to pitch it once, twice, before he lets go and she catches it. Proof her reflexes are getting better despite the fact that she’s still too thin, too banged up for his taste. Reading her face, he frowns. “What’s the problem?” “She doesn’t use phones.” “Then how do we get a hold of her?” “You’re not going to like it.” “Why? We have to find the others. If that involves--” She cuts him off. “I’m going to need salt, bread, an’ your patience.”

What music do they like? Be specific if you know?: The bunker is entirely too quiet. It’s not anything like the bus where there’s a constant stream of subaudible white noise and the lives of the other people on it. Staring up into the blackness with little else to distract her beyond Phil’s breathing, the urge to toss and to turn, to get up and pace the floors until she’s worn ruts in her circuitous path, is near overwhelming. Drowning on dry land is what she would call it if she spoke aloud. Very carefully, she starts to slide her way towards the edge of the bed. And gasps when the hand not made of flesh and bone coils around her forearm. She’d never felt or heard him wake up, didn’t realise she’d disturbed him. “I’m sorry- I-I couldn’t sleep.” He nods. This is not new for him. He was used to her wandering all over the bus while others dreamed, was used to finding her curled up for those few moments of sleep inside of Lola. Where she felt safe. He is gentle as he pulls her back down, turning on his side and turning her, too, so that her back was pressed into his chest, where his other arm wrapped around her waist. She doesn’t know what to make of the bridge of his nose and his mouth close to the shell of her ear. At least until his voice, which wavers in its own way, a pleasant but raspy tenor, a contrast from her brother’s baritone. But she recognises Assemblage 23, and particularly the words of Lullaby.

“May you find solace…in the gentle arms of sleep. Despite the wolves outside your door. In time you will see them all as harmless, and their idle threats easy to ignore.” His voice pours right through her and she bites back the slightest gasp. “And if ever fate should choose to smite you; stand your ground, never walk away. Please don’t ever let the world defeat you, don’t get buried in its decay. As you drift into the gauzy realm of dreams, may you take comfort in the thought that you are safe…” Beth turns in his arms, resting her face just under his chin and slides one leg between his own.

Any favourite movie/tv shows?: “I loved Star Trek and Star Wars growing up,” he says while his eyes never leave the road. “The Man from U.N.C.L.E, too.” Her brows knit. “I dunno what is dat.” “It was a show centred on a two-man troubleshooting team working for the the multi-national secret intelligence agency, U.N.C.L.E ~United Network Command for Law Enforcement~” “Wha’ is it wi’ spy networks an’ dey like ridiculous uhm…breviations? Is dere like a room somewhere dat got a bunch of people from lotsa countries sittin’ around makin’ dis stuff up?” He laughs. She isn’t entirely wrong. “...Anyway, there was American Napoleon Solo played by Robert Vaughn, and Russian Illya Kuryakin played by David McCallum. Leo G. Caroll played Alexander Waverly, the British Chief of the organisation. Barbara Moore was eventually introduced by Lisa Rogers, in the fourth season. Fun fact-- the series, while fictional but probably loosely based on SHIELD, reached such cultural prominence that props, costumes, documents and a video clip are now housed in the Ronald Reagan Presidential Library and Museum’s exhibit on spies and counterspies. They have similar displays in the museums belonging to the CIA and other intelligence agencies.” “F’real, how you know all dis stuff?” Her answer is that Mona Lisa smile.

Do you see yourself being with them for a long time?:

When the metaphoric and literal smoke and fire clear, Beth turns away. Phil and May deserve a moment’s privacy to reassure one another that if nothing else, they are alive. Safety will come later, after they’ve left. She’ll assure him that he can take Melinda in the car, that she will meet him at the rendezvous spot and can get there, sight unseen, under her own power. What she won’t tell him is that she will do so by traversing the umbra, and once on the other side of the Gauntlet, she will shape-shift into something sleeker or faster. A bird, a cheetah. The contact that they owe will be pleased to get this favour done, and if Beth has to borrow a few things, the cost won’t be much. The time apart will be all well and good. It will give her time to grieve in privacy for the things that she will lose, now that they are slowly starting to repatriate the rest of the team. She’ll miss the feel of his arms around her. The gentleness in those embraces, the kisses that follow. Her bed will feel like some sort of barren wasteland without the warmth and comfort of his presence.

She will never be far from Phil. There to call on and do as he wants her to at a split-second notice. For as long as he wants her to be. But oh, how she’s going to ache for these last few weeks, fraught as they were. She clears her throat but it sounds brittle, rusty in her own ears. “We need f’ go soon, dey regrouping, sir.”

Do you share a home? If not why not?:

It is a gruelling trek back to the secret bunker. She still doesn’t know what secret name this one is called, but the homecoming is bittersweet. While May is taking a shower and Phil is rustling up a meal for them in the kitchen, Beth is in the room they’ve been sharing. She packs her meagre things carefully, not that there is much, but she knows better than to leave behind any sort of spore. Briefly, she picks up his pillow and hugs it to her chest. She breathes in the scent of him, and holds it in as long as she can. Some part of it should have known it would all be temporary. He’d rescued her first because she’d been one of the last to be taken into custody, ultimately inconsequential. The only threat she really posed was easily disabled by the collar. He’d needed her resources, her informational intelligence, the comfort of not being alone. She turns to go. And nearly jumps out of her own skin when she’s brought up short with a sharp, audible gasp. Startled to the point she drops the pillowcase she used for packing. She hadn’t expected to see him standing there, watching her silently with a face like a thunderstorm.

“Beth?” A wealth of questions in a single word. It takes her a moment to realise what he’d called her, and it wasn’t Agent Riley. “Y-you don’ haf’ worry ‘bout dis being a scene, Phil. I jus’ wan make da transition easier-” “What transition?” She gestures with a head-tilt in the direction of where the shower is running, presumably with May still under the hot water. “Huh.” Not a word, not even an inflection really. She doesn’t know what to make of it, or the fact that he crosses the narrow space and envelopes her into his arms. The embrace pulls her close and he bends down to put his chin on the top of her head. She isn’t treated to the sight of his eyes boring holes into the wall behind them, nor the look of his own grief when he closes them. “You…don’t have to.” “But she-” “Agent May is an adult. My oldest friend. I’d like to think she’d be understanding.”

What quirk do they have that you love?: “Oh, oh! Is this the part where you threaten to tear us limb from limb? Because I’ve got to say, I’ve already watched this movie and bought the tee-shirt.” Clearly, the moke of a HYDRA agent wasn’t sure what to do when Phil didn’t cower under the weight of his threat. Or reasoning that the threat was stupid, as Coulson implied, because half of the enemy were laying in pools of their own agony thanks to Agent May, and Beth herself has fried most of the electronics at his command thanks to a few little tricks up her sleeve. She absolutely loves those moments where, the more dire the situation, the snarkier Phil gets, an unparalleled aplomb of sarcasm and pop culture that is so incongruous with his typical unflappable mien. She gazes from Phil, where she sees that muscle in his jaw pop, to the HYDRA jerk, to Daisy’s face, where she can still see traces of pain from the jolt the woman received from the arm cuffs on her, so similar to the collar they’d kept Beth shackled with. It all takes place in fractions of seconds. She mouths the word “duck.”

Lastly what do you like watching them do?: Daisy does as she’s told, confused but understanding that she hasn’t got time to argue. At the same moment there’s the crack of bone that gives Beth an almost uncomfortable twitch through her whole body and the roar of fire. Phil gives himself over bodily to his Vengeful Spirit, and then the gun fires. She can smell the burning ozone of the blast, charring metal and flesh and cloth alike. Honestly, he should have listened to Phil when he politely requested the man turn Daisy over and let them walk away. Sometimes, though, Darwin is right and she feels no pity. If anything, she’s blushing and it has nothing to do with the heat the Spirit puts out. So many people seem to underestimate Phil Coulson. All they see is a mild mannered government angel. They never take into consideration that beneath the veneer, he’s a badass superhero. Even without having the benefit of being the Devil Driver. The Spirit relinquishes its hold, and Phil once more is himself. He shoulders that mini-canon, and helps Daisy up to her feet. Like with May, and Beth before her, he takes a moment to quietly ask her if she’s okay, to promise her she’s safe. Once they’ve had a few moments and May joins them, Beth comes over, and takes hold of the arm cuffs. A quick manipulation of the energy sequence and the hum winds down into a soft sound of unlocking. Daisy is now free to be Quake again. Beth takes her place on the girl’s other side, and for a brief instant, her hand and Phil’s brush. She leeches the lingering heat of them. “T’ree down, two f’ go,” she murmurs and he nods, a weary smile in place. “With that in mind, ladies, let’s go home.” “Wheels up in five,” May says and leads the way.

[brooklynislandgirl]

If anything, Beth hopes that "Uncle" Phil is proud of her, especially with all the work arounds and favours she had to pull in. She used every skill and trick he'd taught her as an agent to plan and manifest this evening, including actually breaking the U bend of her sink and texting him a photo and begging for help. She knew that would get him, he had been a better father figure to her for these years of association than the Admiral had ever been her whole entire life.

She also didn't think he'd want to make a big deal about what today was but she couldn't help herself. She'd enlisted her best friend in the execution of the cake, after all Jay was a master baker, but Beth had done all the piping for the decoration. And while she knew Phil collected Trading cards, she thought he deserved better so she'd spent weeks drawing a much larger one of him, a tribute to his heroism that often went unsung. The man was a storied legend and she wanted him to see himself as she did. The single-malt was an apology of sorts, because how often had she and the others driven him to drink? Might as well make sure he had the best, then, right?

And finally...a home cooked meal. Nothing extraordinary other than she'd made it with love and admiration, and a lot of extra help. She wanted to give him something quiet. Something he could relax into. And if she was lucky, then maybe...just maybe... he'd tell her stories. About himself, his adventures. Share his love of history. Share parts that most other people never asked about, never had the time.

When the doorbell rings, she looks over everything to make sure it's perfect. And when she opens it, she smiles like a kid on Christmas morning, putting one hand on his arm, and rising up on the tippiest of her toes, brushing a kiss against his cheek. "Happy Birthday, ʻanakala!"

~*~

@tangleweave​ {cause submissions are not working for me somehow}