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brooklynislandgirl · 2 years ago

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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.

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