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caladblog · 7 years

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you’ve long seen your downfall spelled out in another’s bones

He’s going through an unconventional grieving process.

[oh man i forgot to crosspost this when i published it on ao3 whoops

title from the scorpio entry in september's Shitty Horoscopes, chapter xii: obituaries.

i've had this vaguely kicking around in my head since i first listened to the s3 finale. One of Them started it coalescing, and Dirty Work solidified it.]

The Maxwell Voice sounds angry this time she comes to visit, angrier than he's seen (heard) her in years, angry in the way she only used to get during that short slice of time between when she first judged him to be trustworthy and when she hadn't yet gotten used to Kepler's paternalism. Back then those rants had made him uncomfortable in ways he couldn't put into words, caught between needing to defend him (ingrained) and wanting to back her (honest), but now he'd pay good money for a reprise, awkward emotions and all. It's ironic that he can't stop noticing every grating thing about the colonel only now that she can't appreciate it, that he can't stop knowing exactly how she'd react to them, a derisive comment under her breath, a bombastic encore once they were alone. She was always better at mocking Kepler than he was, had a better grasp of his affected cadence even though she hadn't been working with him as long. (She was always better than him at a lot of things.) It's ironic. Isn't it?

It's something. Jacobi doesn't particularly care what.

The Maxwell Voice would be pacing if she weren't only a figment of his imagination. Since she is, he indulges the picture for thirty seconds or so: Alana Maxwell, animate and in one piece, stalking back and forth across the room (Magnanimously, he lets her have gravity.) like she's attacking the floor with her feet, gesturing wildly and explosively for emphasis on every other word. She was always so still and self-contained until she got really angry. It was a bit funny to watch, not that he'd ever admit it.

"Daniel Kenneth Jacobi," the Maxwell Voice says in a lethal hiss, "I swear on your duck-fearing soul, if you find Jesus because I kicked the bucket--"

"It's not finding Jesus." He doesn't have the energy to put as much scorn and sarcasm into the words as they deserve. "It's bargaining. Bargaining is one of the stages of grief, right?"

"Three years ago you told me the only real stages of grief are day-drinking and vehicular arson," she accuses.

"Of which I can do neither at the moment," he shoots back. "I'm branching out, okay? Get off my case, I'm trying to think."

"No, dumbass, you're trying to electrocute yourself in a pointless attempt to rewire the comms panel in your cell to broadcast outside the station so you can, what. Ask the aliens to pretty please with a cherry bomb on top air-mail you a new copy of your best friend because somebody was playing with the old one and she got broken? That's a terrible plan on so many levels, I don't even know where to start chewing you out for it."

"It's not a terrible plan," Jacobi mutters. The snapped-off end of his toothbrush makes a passable screwdriver as long as he goes slow enough that it won't break any further, but it's still a bit too thick. He's progressing through his fingernails for the smaller screws. Hopefully there's no more than ten between him and the circuitry, because both thumbs, an index finger, and a pinky are already ragged and weeping tiny flecks of blood.

"It is a terrible plan, and you know it, or else I wouldn't be here yelling at you!"

"If Eiffel can do this, so can I."

"Eiffel's an idiot savant. Eiffel's a level 100 bard who's spent his entire life dumping his EXP into the one skill tree. Eiffel usually has real tools."

"The aliens already popped out a Lovelace and a me. Zhang's ship from the seventies was fucking lousy with clones. This is possible."

"I don't need to enumerate the differences between the Tiamat mission and this one. Professor Kepler would've left them out of the lecture, of course, but you've known him long enough to hear what he isn't saying in the pauses between what he is. And you're absolutely right about Lovelace and you. They've got one of their own on board, and their attempts to load another didn't work, and they're not likely to waste more resources when one mouthpiece is already functioning just fine."

"Not even if I'm reeeally polite?"

"No, Daniel, not even if you're reeeeeeeaaaaaaally polite." Her eyeroll is audible. "This is an utter waste. I mean, God, at least wait until you've managed to steal a soldering gun."

"You wouldn't mind," he says, very, very quietly.

The Maxwell Voice is silent. The Maxwell Voice has not gone away. The silence is the message, and an extremely pointed one at that.

Too damn bad. If she didn't want him to say it, she shouldn't have died.

"You wouldn't mind," Jacobi repeats, slightly louder. "The captain's shaky now. Flinches at her own reflection. I hear you snorting every time I see her do that, you know? You wouldn't mind at all, not being human. Hell, it's practically something you wanted! All your knowledge, and your personality, and your thought processes, and the only thing you have to give up in exchange for being goddamn bulletproof is a few minutes of control every once in a while? I know you, Alana, I know you would have made that trade in a nanosecond, and you're not around anymore so the least I can do is make that trade for you!!"

His words rose to a shout near the end and it echoes off the metal, for you for you for you for you fading into nothing (like the nothing this is), and when the Maxwell Voice speaks up again she's gentle.

Her gentleness has always been so much worse than her anger.

"And that's what this is, isn't it? You, alone in a little box, praying for a miracle from a higher power. It's the same spirit--pun intended--as turning religious."

Two can play the pointed silence game, but Maxwell isn't actually here, she's just in his brain, and he hasn't been able to make his brain shut up since about an hour after he trapped himself on an experimental module for four days.

"I don't want that, Daniel. I don't want you grasping at straws. I don't want you living one moment to the next on the empty wish for a thing that only might be possible. It doesn't matter what I would have done. What I would have done stopped mattering sometime while I was tied to a chair with a gun in my face, and you know that. You also know what I did want, because I told you, and you remember."

Jacobi doesn't respond, but the words are trapped behind his teeth and his breathing has gone (close to a sob) unsteady and he's picking compulsively at a screw that refuses to budge.

She can wait him out. She's always been better at waiting than him, too.

"'Don't make a big deal out of it'," he recites dully. "Extraction out of that one job in Germany that went kind of south. We had seven hours to kill hiding in the train's luggage car. We hadn't slept in over a day and couldn't until we made it to the safehouse. You started talking to keep yourself awake, but then you went and got it frickin' notarized once we were back in the States. 'Don't make a big deal out of it. When I die, you get my stuff, and that's all. Blow up anything that's classified, sell the rest on craigslist, buy yourself a nice vintage grenade or something else equally dangerous and dumb.'"

"'Gotta stay on brand, don't I?'" the Maxwell Voice quotes with a teasing undercurrent, and this is-- he's imagining his dead best friend imitating his words from one conversation three years ago while tearing his fingernails to bloody shreds trying to open up a comms panel that he doesn't know how to adjust in a repurposed room on a broken-down space station seven point eight light years away from the planet where the conversation took place so he can beg some aliens to give him something that's sort of hopefully a little bit like what she used to be. It's ridiculous. It's stupid. It's not going to work. It hurts so fucking bad that he's almost grateful for the pain in his fingertips that stabs in time with his pulse.

That's what he said in Germany, dry and flat.

This is what he wanted to say, but didn't: You're not going to die.

This is what he wanted to say, but didn't: I won't let you die.

This is what he wanted to say, but didn't: I would rip the universe apart at the atomic level to get you back.

"There's no going back, Daniel," the Maxwell Voice says, and she's even gentler. "You know that. I knew that. I don't want you burying yourself in the past. I want your eyes open. Looking forward."

The petty obstinate part of him lashes out, what you want doesn't matter anymore now does it, but a much bigger part straightens up and says, Alright then.

Forward.

It is a god damn travesty that the person responsible for her death is still breathing the recirculated air in this universe where Alana Maxwell isn't. It's a waste, when you get down to it. Energy and oxygen, all spiraling down the drain at a steady rate of twelve to eighteen breaths per minute.

"Now there's the Daniel Jacobi I knew," the Maxwell Voice says slyly.

He could do something about that.

#wolf 359 #daniel jacobi #alana maxwell #text posts #caladblog fics #wolf 359 spoilers

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texanredrose · 7 years

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It’s Funnier in French

Thank you @maburito for helping me with this. Just some Monochrome fluff with a less-than-smooth Blake.

Blake drew in a surreptitious breath as she climbed up the fire escape to the rooftop, highly aware of the woman following in her wake. Strange, she thought, that only four months had passed since she found the German huddled in the alleyway behind her bookstore, yet here they were, standing atop the rooftops of Paris and taking a moment to marvel at the bright lights below. She wanted to take Weiss to the countryside, so she could see the stars better, but this would have to do until she could take a proper vacation. Given the wide blue eyes of her companion and the little smile on her lips, she doubted the other woman was inclined to complain.

"Do you like the view?" Her German had greatly improved, at least to her mind- if the other woman had complaints, she kept them to herself, and there really weren't any others who could give an opinion- but she focused more on her companion's expression instead of her own pronunciation.

"It's beautiful," Weiss replied in her native tongue, white hair stirred ever so slightly by the late fall wind swirling around them. They both wore coats and scarfs to protect against the chill, though the German had second-hand ones a size too big she'd purchased during her escape from the country to the east.

For a moment, the Parisian considered taking the other woman's hand in hers and leading her, but her nerves got the better of her and she settled for lightly grasping the elbow of her sleeve, a small smile on her lips. "Come. There's more to see."

She lead Weiss over to a slanted part of the roof that faced the L’Arc de Triomphe in the distance, all lit up with cars swirling around it like a current, the dull drone punctuated occasionally but far off shouts or other sounds. Pulling the backpack from her shoulders, Blake unpacked a blanket and spread it out for them to lay upon, a bottle of cheap white wine with two glasses quickly following, and a block of cheese for them to nibble on while they watch night descend on the city. It wasn't much but, what with rent being hiked up again and the fiasco last month, it was the best the bookstore owner could afford on such a tight budget. As they settled down, a few inches separating their shoulders, she found herself wondering what her companion did back in her homeland on nights like this, how she must've picked out her favorite hill on the family's sprawling estate to star gaze from while drinking the finest wine from the Rhine, bread and cheese on the side, and maybe even a dessert the Parisian couldn't begin to pronounce for later. It seemed like a poor attempt at mimicking something meaningful to the woman but Blake wanted the night to be special.

One would think, after all the books she'd read, she would have better ideas for romantic overtures.

"Are you cold?" She asked, wincing slightly at what she felt to be a painfully obvious question. The climates of their homelands weren't so dissimilar that she would feel any colder or warmer than the Parisian yet Blake had asked anyway. A blush started rising in her cheeks as she mentally cursed her foolishness.

"I would normally consider weather like this pleasant." The German hummed, shifting slightly closer. "But I'm a little cold for some reason."

"I... forgot to bring another blanket," she replied, feeling her hopes bolstered as she moved, inviting the other woman to use her shoulder as a pillow. "Perhaps... if we lay closer together?"

Blake considered, very briefly, that the pinch to the other woman's brow spoke of an impending rejection, but Weiss quickly scooted even closer and pressed against her side, helping situation the Parisian's arm around her shoulders with a hand on her wrist that didn't let go once they were comfortable in the new position. That certainly improved her mindset, made confessing- which, ultimately, was her goal tonight- a more tangible reality. Ever since they'd met- the beleaguered bookstore owner and the homeless runaway in the early morning light- she'd found herself being drawn further and further into those bottomless blue eyes, at first irked by the woman's confrontational nature before recognizing it for the defense mechanism it was. The months they'd spent working side-by-side in the bookstore were filled with trying times and hopefulness, homesickness warring with a desire for freedom in the German while Blake found herself caught between falling in love with cutting wit and quiet kindness in equal measure. They learned each other's language together, the rolling smoothness of her native tongue juxtaposed with harsh consonants, sometimes feeling as those her uncooperative tongue objected hotly to forming such strange words.

Most of the time, though, it simply had no words to give because all it took was a look from Weiss to wipe her mind clean of any and all language save the rhythmic beating of her heart with her quickened pulse.

"Paris is beautiful- in the daytime and at night," the German said, this time in French and it never failed to make her heart flutter hearing her mother tongue spoken with such care. Practice would make her better, she'd said, and though Blake tried to speak the harsher language frequently enough so she wouldn't feel so out of place among the streets of Paris, her companion often switched back to get a little more when they were alone. "Is your hometown like this?"

"N-no." She swallowed, trying to keep herself under control. "A smaller town without as many lights, but it had its own sort of beauty."

"Would you want to go back?"

"To visit, yes. I miss my parents." Unbidden, the image of herself stepping off the train to see her mother and father, their expressions twisting into one of delighted surprise as they saw their daughter's hand interlinked with Weiss'. Her parents would absolutely love the German, she would bet on it. "But I love Paris. This is where I was born; it's my home." Silence followed her words and she found herself grasping at straws, desperately wanting the conversation to continue. They'd spent so much time learning about language, books, and streets, there were still so many questions remaining as to who they were, or who they were try to become- the bookstore owner dreaming of romance and paperbacks and the runaway searching for a life in a new country. "Would... you ever consider going back? To Germany?"

She held her breath, hoping she hadn't overstepped an invisible boundary between them. For the whole first month, any mention of her former homeland brought forth a pained expression and a biting remark, half the time muttered and too quick for her to catch. That attitude seemed to change in tandem with the healing of the scar marring her left eye, both becoming less angry. In the last few weeks, Weiss had made little comments, referencing places she'd known as a child, experienced she'd had, all tied to that life she'd left behind. Blake had already told as much as there was to tell about her own past, and this seemed like an unequal barrier between them that she wanted to ease away.

"I have considered it," Weiss said slowly, taking a deep breath before releasing it slowly. "I think you would like the Rhine in spring and the markets of München. I think you might particularly like Neuschwanstein Castle in the winter, too. My family often traveled around the south; it would be nice to visit those places again." She paused. "But if I live the rest of my days without returning to that house or that town... I am at peace with that."

Although the melancholy of the woman's tone concerned her, she picked up on something she considered rather noteworthy. "The way you said that makes it sound like you only want to go back if I'm there, too."

"I have no reason to go back otherwise." Weiss shifted, blue eyes finding amber. "This is my home now."

The Parisian felt her heart leap into her throat, caught in the other woman's gaze even as the blush in her cheeks rose- it had to be noticeable now. She wanted to inquire further- what made Paris home, was it the streets and bakeries and vendors or was it the smell of paper and ink- but her tongue would cooperate beyond an unsteady response. "That- yes. Well. I'd love to go. With you, of course. To Germany. Or my hometown. Or the Americas."

One pale brow arched up, a smile coming to her companion's face. "The Americas? Really?"

"They have some wonderful authors, and sights." Trying to get her bearings, her eyes darted past the German's visage to the sky above. "I wonder if their sky is different than ours."

Weiss hummed, settling back against the Parisian's side and turning her gaze skywards as well. "It's sad, isn't it? That the light city has so few stars above it?"

"Well, there's a reason for that," she said, entirely ready to explain about light pollution and her disdain for the man-made lights that illuminated the city instead of the natural beauty of the night sky, but when Blake felt her companion's head turn the same time she moved hers, those stunning blue eyes capturing her once more, the scientific explanation completely flew from her brain, and she instead said the first thing that came to mind. "Your father is a thief. He stole all the stars in the sky to put in your eyes."

Did... did she just...?

Heat suffused her cheeks, going all the way to the tips of her ears as she mentally screeched in impotent rage at her own poor choices. Why? Why? Of all the things she could've said, she chose the single most cliched, most widely derided, most painfully obviously insincere phrase in the whole world? Nothing she said after this would matter- no one could take a person who had the absolute gall to utter that line seriously in any sense, least of all romantically. How could she-

A laugh like the tinkling of bells, so rare when it lacked the sarcastic bite of the woman's humor or the self derision, rang out through the air, pulling the Parisian's attention away from her mental tirade. "Would that he could be so kind. No, the stars you see were put there by someone else."

Blake waited a moment, unsure if the unspoken question was rhetorical or not, if she was about to be ridiculed for her poor choice of words, but curiosity got the better of her. "Then... who?"

"You," Weiss replied, pushing herself up and turning so she was hovering over the Parisian. "When I was lost, you found me. You held my hand in the darkness, you supported me when I stumbled, you taught me what I didn't know; if I have any light in my eyes at all, it's because you put it there." She paused, pressing her lips into a thin line for a moment before leaning down, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of Blake's mouth. "Thank you."

The last two words, whispered as she pulled away, hurt just a bit. Was it just gratitude and nothing else the German felt towards her? She tried looking into the woman's eyes, but she'd turned her head away almost immediately...

"Paris... it isn't only known as the light city, you know." She waited until Weiss was watching her out of the corner of her eye before continuing. "It's also the city of love. I think light and love- they're similar, are they not? Tied together, the one feeding into the other." Now she had the other woman's full attention, tongue darting out to wet her lips as her blush returned in full force. "What I'm trying to say is... if I'm the one who put the light in your eyes, it's because you gave the light to me first. Your presence made it grow and now I can give it back to you." She reached up, her movements slow and deliberate to allow the German more than ample time to draw away. The woman didn't, though, allowing Blake to cup her jaw, thumb brushing just beneath the apple of her cheek and the end of the now fully healed scar. "I'd like to think the love in my heart helped put the light in your eyes..."

"I'd like to think I've done the same." Weiss spoke softly, leaning into her touch.

"Then be my sky, my stars and my moon." With the barest hints of pressure, she pulled the other woman closer, leaning up in the same motion. "Be the light in my eyes as I give you the love in my heart. Be mine, and I'll be yours."

Blake didn't get a verbal response, surprised instead when the German leaned forward the rest of the way, their lips meeting in a tender kiss that had her eyes fluttering closed and electricity singing through her veins. For a few brief moments, nothing else existed besides the other, locked in an embrace that seemed a long time coming despite the brevity of their acquaintanceship. When they parted, their eyes met and neither could hide their smiles nor the rosy tint to their cheeks.

They laid there together, soaking in the ambiance of the Parisian night, eventually opening the wine bottle and pouring it into the glasses. "To us, Blake."

"To us- and a new life together."

Glass clinked and the two snuggled up close, combating the chill of the evening with quiet conversation and idle warmth.

AN: ... Okay, so, some quick things. München is the German... name, I guess... for what most of the world calls Munich. (It confused the hell out of me when I lived there.) Neuschweinstein Castle- also known as the castle from which Cinderella’s Castle draws its inspiration, or the Fairytale Castle- is def a place Blake would want to visit, and probably Ruby too. (And it’s breathtaking in the fall and winter.) “Ton père est un voleur. Il a volé toutes les étoiles du ceil pour les mettre dans tes yeux.” is a really famous and ridiculous pick up line that translates to “Your father is a thief. He stole all the stars in the sky to put in your eyes.” which I’m assured by Mab would never be taken seriously by a French person, hence Blake’s freakout. Thankfully, Weiss is German. (Also, not gonna lie, this shit would totally work on me.) But, if you were wondering what the title references, it’s that line in particular. Now, if I got anything wrong, that’s on me, because I lived in the Bavaria region of Germany for only 2 years and I never went to Paris myself (I ain’t fucking fancy enough for that). I tried to write it from the perspective of someone who’s... like... actually lived in Paris, though, so I tried.

#Monochrome #It's Funnier in French fic #TRR writes

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melindacoulson4 · 7 years

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Sacrifice, fic post-4x13

just how far was Phil Coulson willing to go for Melinda May?

May’s pov

Warning: the descriptions in this may be gruesome to some people.

She’d long ago mastered the skill of waking up while keeping her eyes closed. She was so used to it now, it was almost second nature. She has no idea where she is right now. It’s difficult to orient yourself with your eyes closed. It takes a lot of time. Beeping. She hears beeping. She’s lying in a bed with blankets tucked around her torso and legs. There are things attached to her skin. She can sense things on the top of her hands and on her chest. Someone is monitoring her. The last thing she remembers is waking up and finding out that she was in that damn closet at Radcliffe’s. That son of a bitch had her as his prisoner with the help of his robot assistant. AIDA had choked her and drugged her when she had tried escaping. After that, the dream-like simulations had started. May had thought that she had successfully escaped more than ten times until something so peculiar had happened that caused her to figure out that she was in a simulation. The first time, was when AIDA had stabbed her in the neck with a scalpel, yet she was still able to run around like nothing had happened. Another time, she had reached the front door of the house, opened it, and pure blackness greeted her. There was nothing for miles, just plain empty space. Was this a dream too? The rest of the times had felt exactly like this in the beginning. She woke up, feeling trapped and violated, then tried breaking out. The only difference now was that the feeling of being trapped has dissipated. There were no restraints around her wrists or her ankles and no helmet on her head. She was free to move, free to run. As she prepares herself to spring out of the bed a quiet sob reaches her ears. The sound makes the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. She’s not alone. There’s someone here…..someone watching her. Focus on regulating your breathing. Keep it calm. She decides to blind-side the person. Suddenly, she sits up while opening her eyes and reaches for the person. She immediately feels her head start to swim and her vision going dark. She did not think that through. She groans, but is still able to latch on to the person’s wrist. She squeezes tightly with the intent to pull the person closer to her body and knock him or her out. What she doesn’t expect is for the person in front of her to be Daisy. “It’s me. It’s just me,” Daisy says, thoroughly shell-shocked. May automatically relaxes. She releases her grip on Daisy’s wrist and sits crisscross on the bed. She takes a deep breath, opening her eyes again only to find her vision still blurry. She’s barely able to see Daisy’s figure or the bed sheets clearly. Her eyes are so hot and itchy. It’s hard to hold them open even for a second. They keep blinking uncontrollably, which agitates her even more. Her lips and mouth are so dry that she can barely stand it. She needs a drink. “Water,” she requests, coughing in response to the irritation in her throat. Her voice sounds crackly and rough. She definitely needs that drink. Daisy gets up from her seat at the foot of the bed and that’s all that May sees before she has to squeeze her eyes shut. She can’t track Daisy’s movements; her eyes feel like they’re burning. “You’re safe, May. You’re home,” she hears Daisy say. After some fumbling around by Daisy, May feels the texture of a styrofoam cup pressing against her knuckles. She grabs it and holds it tightly in between her two hands. She pries one eye open to peak at the straw of the cup and then immediately closes the eye again. She guides the straw into her mouth and slurps up the liquid. It’s cold, refreshing, and exactly what she needs right now. May takes her time drinking the water with her body already starting to feel better. They sit in silence, which is extremely odd and very unlike Daisy. “What happened?” May asks, finally able to get a glimpse of Daisy with clear vision. The sight that greets her is troubling. Daisy looks terrible, haggard almost as if she’s aged a decade since May last saw her. Her eyes are bloodshot and swollen, as if she’s been crying for days. Her face appears sickly and pale. Her body frail and thin, hunched over in the chair that she’s sitting on. “Aida took you,” Daisy mumbles. Daisy stares at her wide-eyed, like she’s never seen her before today. Something else is going on; it’s obvious by the way Daisy is acting. She spots Daisy’s hand clutching the blanket on her bed. Her knuckles appear stark white, almost matching the color of the blanket. She’s holding something back. “What else?” May asks softly, trying to comfort Daisy. “What?” Daisy quickly responds, still refusing to meet her eyes. “What else happened?” She asks again. She watches intently as Daisy’s eyes close, taking longer than necessary to blink. Daisy swallows hard. “Um. I…I don’t exactly know how to say this.” She pauses, eyes watering. “So…” She stops again and shakes her head. Then, finally meeting May’s eyes she finishes. “He’s dead." All of the air in her lungs feels like it simultaneously bursts out of her body. She can barely breathe. The beeping on the heart rate monitor increases as her heart rate skyrockets in her chest. No. No, he can’t be dead. She somehow instinctively knows who Daisy is talking about before she even asks for the clarification. "Who?” Please don’t say what I think you’re going to say. Please. Please. Please. “Coulson,” Daisy answers, voice trembling. Her nose burns. Her whole face begins tingling. Blood roars in her ears. "How?” she barely gets out. This can’t be real. Daisy crosses her arms, covering her stomach. The tears that she had been holding back now silently fall from her bloodshot eyes. “He…One of the guys that hooked up with Radcliffe. The guy just shot him right in the head." She wants to sob, but she can’t. She has to hear this. "How did they get him?” Daisy’s eyes immediately drop to the floor. A couple of pieces of hair fall in front of her face. She stays silent. “Daisy!” May snaps. “He traded himself….,” she trails off, but May knows what she isn’t saying. He traded himself…for her.

May immediately kicks the blankets off of her body and scoots herself to the side of the bed. She has to get out of here. She has to see him with her own eyes.

“What are you doing?” Daisy stares at her in shock. She rips all of the tubing and wiring off of her arms and chest, wincing slightly at the stinging pain. “I want to see him,” she says. “May. You’re not in good condition,” Daisy objects, following close behind. “Try and stop me,” she growls. Daisy could. May knows it. They both know it, but Daisy wouldn’t dare try using her powers on her now. May knew that Daisy still had regret for when SHIELD had tried to make peace with the inhumans. She and Daisy got into that fight and Daisy ended up knocking her out. It was still a sore subject between them that they never brought up. If she had to, she would bring it up now just to get Daisy to back down. But Daisy simply moved away, letting her walk right out of the SHIELD recovery room. —————————————————————————————————— When she walks into the room where they are keeping his body, she quickly figures out that she’s not properly prepared for this. Her breath catches in her chest when she spots the dark blue sheet covering the body on the table, in the middle of the room. She knows that it’s him….its Phil. Logically, she knows. But her heart can’t accept that he’s beneath that sheet. She takes a hesitant step towards the table. It was eerily quiet, cold, and dark in this room. Shivers ran through her body as she tries moving forward. She hadn’t anticipated how difficult walking would be. It feels like all of the strength has been drained out of her body. Her gait was unsteady and weak. She doesn’t even know how long it’s been since she last walked on her own. How long had Radcliffe and AIDA been drugging her? Her nerves began acting up, causing her knees to wobble even more as she walked. Her breathing wasn’t any better, but she just couldn’t control the erratic beating of her heart. She didn’t think she could do this. She didn’t want to know what he looked like under that sheet. Couldn’t she live in ignorant bliss for a couple more minutes….before her world would turn upside down? Maybe if she wishes hard enough it would turn out to be someone else. She would lift that sheet up and find someone else lying there, lifeless. Maybe they all made a mistake. Yes, that had to be it. They didn’t know what they were talking about. Nevertheless, she still had to see who is under that sheet with her own eyes. Her palm lands on the metal surface of the table, inches from the body. She had to reach out and lean on it for support. She barely had any strength left to hold herself upright. As she stood there, staring at the outline of the body under the sheet, time seemed to freeze. She couldn’t bring herself to move. If she didn’t move, she wouldn’t have to see Phil’s body. Just the thought of seeing him dead made her physically ill. Her stomach muscles began twitching uncontrollably from the image in her mind. After scrutinizing the outline of the body for an insurmountable amount of time, she finally has built up the courage to reach for the sheet. She grasps it tightly, closes her eyes, and takes a deep breath. She has to be strong despite the fear coursing through her veins. She has to do this for Phil. He deserves nothing less.

She pulls the sheet back, revealing the body. A strangled sob bubbles up from her throat at the sight. The man lying on the table was Phil. She automatically turns her head away due to the wave of sickness that passes over her. She can’t process it; she can’t even begin to believe it. She blinks hard, hoping that her eyes were just playing some cruel trick on her. Turning back towards the body, she’s faced with the same image as before. It didn’t work; it wasn’t just something out of a nightmare. It was real. It was Phil, still there, almost like he is mimicking being asleep. But that’s a lie, she knows, he’ll never open his eyes again.

Her eyes drop to his hand, drawn to the discoloration. His knuckles are covered in cuts. They’re bruised and raw. She reaches her hand out for his own, yet freezes in midair. She wants to touch him, but she’s terrified. The most she can allow herself is a slight brush to the back of his hand. His lack of reaction makes her head pound. He’s still dressed in his clothes. They’re all black: a jacket, pants, and boots. His clothes scream combat; he was prepared for a fight.

Her eyes study the rest of his body, particularly, his face. Her gaze is drawn to his right eye. The skin around it had begun to swell. It was a deep shade of red and she could see a mix of purple and blue bruising where someone’s knuckles must have made contact with his cheek bone. She lightly ran her fingertips over his cheek, afraid of hurting him even though it wasn’t possible. He must’ve taken a punch or had gotten into some kind of fight. And then what? They just killed him? Shot him right in the head after that? His head. She needed to see. She had to see it with her own eyes, the cause of all of this. One bullet to the head and then he was gone, taken from her forever. She focuses on his head, looking for the bullet wound. It’s there, on the right side of his head. The left side of his head appeared untouched. He looked perfectly fine when she stood to his left, like he was sleeping. But, once she moved to the right, she saw the damage. A circular hole that looked like it was drilled into his head stood out. That was the entry point of the bullet. She shudders, turning away, unable to stare at it any longer. “Please tell me it didn’t hurt. I never asked for you to protect me, but you never listen,” she says aloud, lips trembling. All she could think about was how much regret she had. Regret for words unsaid, lack of action, and wasted time. He’s now gone forever. He wouldn’t get another chance to come back like the last time. They both already wasted his chance. They wouldn’t ever have a first kiss. She wouldn’t ever be able to press her body against his just to know what it felt like or to grab his hand when she needed comfort or reassurance. She would never be able to share with him how much she absolutely loves him. She gasps, overwhelmed by all of the things they’ll never be able to say and do together. She collapses, knees banging against the tile floor. Her face began burning from the hot, rapid tears cascading down her face. She presses her forehead against the table, just to feel some relief. Being in this room felt suffocating, she couldn’t get enough air into her lungs. She couldn’t control the flow of tears. They kept falling from her eyes like a waterfall.

After a solid twenty minutes of crying, she feels completely empty and numb. All she can do is stare at the drain on the floor. There was a consistent dripping of water coming from the table where Phil’s body was. She lifts her head and that’s when she notices it. They have his body resting over ice…..to keep him from decomposing. That word makes her stomach clench. She shakes her head in disbelief. How? How could he just waste away? “No,” she whispers.

That’s when the anger creeps up. She clenches her fist. He didn’t have the right to do what he did. She didn’t want to be saved if this was the cost. “You idiot. Why would you do that?” She whispers, heart broken. She lifts herself up on shaky legs in order to scrutinize his face. “Do you hear me, Phil?!? This wasn’t supposed to happen,” she tells him. She smacks her hand against the table. “Not before-,” she inhales sharply. A wave of regret hits her again.

She cups her hand over her mouth to stop herself from throwing up. Tears begin flowing freely from her eyes again. They roll down her cheeks and drop onto the table. She leans over slightly so that she can study his face, to memorize it.

She reaches out and caresses his cheek. He’s cold, but her palm is warm. They always were opposites. The hardest part about all of this is not being able to gaze into his deep blue eyes. They were always shinning with amusement. Her favorite thing was when he smiled. She loved watching the wrinkles around his eyelids from all of his years of smiling. “I’m so sorry,” she cries.

This hurts; fuck, it hurts so much. It feels like someone keeps stabbing her heart over and over again with a knife. There’s so much she wants to say, but there’s a lump in her throat and her eyes won’t stop watering. She can’t get a hold of herself.

Instead of using words, she decides to kiss him. It’s something she had always wanted to do.

She leans down and presses her lips firmly to his, wanting to memorize how his felt. It wasn’t what she was expecting. His lips were dry and stiff. There was no spark, no nothing. She pulls away quickly, frightened by the lack of movement or the sensation of warm breath hitting her face. For a cursed moment, she forgot. She forgot that she didn’t have to worry about his breathing anymore. She didn’t have to worry about blocking his airway because he didn’t need to breathe anymore. He couldn’t breathe anymore. He wouldn’t ever do anything again. The hairs above his lip had tickled her top lip. He must’ve been distracted by her abduction because he never let that hair grow out. It only occurred when he was deeply invested in a case, when he didn’t have the luxury of taking the time to shave. He didn’t like having any hair on his face, she knew. Years ago, when they worked together she would sometimes see him rubbing at his upper lip. It was a tick that he had. He never realized it until one day she pointed it out to him. She had teased him about growing it out, bringing back “the stache”. That’s what she had named his mustache when he had it. He had chuckled and flashed her a wide grin. Then, proceeded to stare at her like she was the only person in the world. Oh how she loved when he did that. It made her feel wanted. It was home.

They had moments like that, back then. When she would get caught up his gaze and forget that she was married to Andrew. She wouldn’t dare cheat on Andrew; she loved him. But there was just something about Phil. She was just inexplicably drawn to him. It was a grey area that they had never dared to talk about. They had always had that natural chemistry. At the time, she had naively thought that it was just a normal thing that happened between best friends: that there would always be some type of longing. But now, she knew better. She knew that it was attraction, chemistry, and love. They had been getting back to that. They were moving forward; it seemed like there was a future goal that they were getting closer to achieving. Both of them were getting bolder with the flirting and confessions. “You’re the only one I trust,” he had told her.

“I saw you,” she had admitted to him. She hadn’t even gotten the chance to tell him what she meant. He was so curious, but she was afraid to tell him. She was afraid for how he would react if she told him that she saw them together. And look where it got her. “When this is over…it’s time. We are cracking open that bottle.” Why did they keep waiting? They had so many opportunities. They had been making plans.

But this cruel world had taken him before they were ready. Before she was ready to give him up and let him go.

Why? Why? Why him? Why now? She just went through this, when he and Fitz were transported to the other dimension by Eli Morrow. That was her chance and she missed it. Why didn’t she just kiss him right then? When he came back through that portal, she had him right there. He was standing right in front of her. Her hands were grasping his shoulders and she was so relieved that he was back. She could’ve just leaned in and kissed him. What was their last moment together? She can’t even remember the last thing that she said to him.

Did he know? Did he know how much she loves him? In the end, she hopes he did. “I love you,” she tells him now, letting out a noise of pure emotional torture. “I’m so in love with you,” she gasps, feeling a sense of relief for finally saying those words. She feels overloaded with emotion for him. There are so many things that he deserved to hear from her, but she felt short of breath and lightheaded again. “How am I supposed to live without you?" she questions, heartbroken.

She reaches over and grabs his hand, cradling it in her own. She then slowly lowers herself to the ground again. And that’s how she stays, for hours. Until Daisy walks in hesitantly, to find her collapsed on the ground, cheeks damp, and hand still clutching Phil’s.

She never wants to let go.

//end//

He would die for her; they all knew. They just never expected it to actually happen.

Don’t kill me. I hope this destroyed you as much as it did to me.

#philinda #philinda fic #philinda fanfiction #melinda may #phil coulson #daisy johnson #coulson x may #aos #agents of s.h.i.e.l.d.#agents of shield

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ecotone99 · 4 years

Text

I Want A Drink [MF]

I want a fucking drink.

Awaken. It’s still dark in my room. I rub sleep from my tired eyes. I immediately know it’s the middle of the night (or morning) and like the houseguest from Hell that she is, addiction, is knocking at my door.

She never announces herself. Like a predator in the night, she creeps into my conscience. She is precise, she is quiet, she moves with stealth. Each step of hers is delicate, ensuring I don’t notice her presence until she’s standing at the foot of my bed. My eyes dart from my bed to my phone, it’s late. Why am I awake? Why do I want to drink? What is she doing here? I went to bed, covered in blankets and peace. My body warm & safe, ready to awake to another day. Tomorrow.

But here I am, in the dark. Thoughts racing. My heartbeat works earnestly to match its pace. They work as a team and they call themselves anxiety. They are undefeated. I become paralyzed in their presence.

I’ve grown though right? Here’s my therapy: casually showing up. Always late to the party, therapy. You want to be mad at its timing, but deep down you’re just glad that it arrived. Better late than never? My mind is racing again. Like the gas pedal in a vehicle, I can feel everything inside of me accelerating. Slow. Steady. But moving faster nonetheless. I breathe. I’ve grown. I know what this. I know who she is. It’s addiction. Back in all her overrated glory, romanticizing a life that I’ve long left behind.

What do you want? Why do you haunt me? I’m anxious. Racing thoughts. Elevated heartbeat. I feel myself biting my lips. Rubbing my thighs. My stomach is in knots. I need to move. I stand & lean confidently into the darkness, relying on familiarity to guide me instead of my eyes. I can’t decide if this is just literal, or both figurative and literal. Bittersweet irony. My uncertainty emboldens me.

I move swiftly. I fumble around and feel for the light in my kitchen. Upon finding it, I feel all my fear depart with the arrival of the light. I look around my kitchen. The dishes are done. My counters clean. It feels like home. It smells like yesterday’s dinner. My heart warms at the sight of hot wheels and dinosaurs scattered beneath my table. It feels safe. It feels familiar. Comfort settles into my skin. I can feel that it’s fleeting, but I take it and hold onto it for dear life. What the fuck is going on with me?

My eyes dart to the fridge. Maybe I need some water? A snack? My body is crying out for something. I know its alcohol, but I quickly silence that voice. Desperate to fill the growing void inside of me, I open the door- a fully stocked fridge stares back at me. Water. Fruit. Leftovers. Marinated meat. It looks like someone with a life owns this fridge. Maybe even someone who cares about themselves? Indecision wins, I close the door- empty-handed. Some demons never leave us entirely: one of mine is named indecision. As I close the door, I glance up and see the door of my fridge. It is littered with papers. Pictures. Notes. Artwork. It portrays a life: my life. I have artwork from my kid on it. I have self-affirmations. I have certificates. I have goals. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say this fridge belongs to someone who loves themselves. Someone who loves their life.

I pause. A long breath escapes my lungs. A reminder of who I am settles in my brain. I feel a warmth run through my veins. Is that you, pride? Is that you, love?

For one brief moment, I feel safe. I feel validated, maybe? I stand in my kitchen and ponder my next move. Seconds go by, just enough time for anxiety and self-debt to creep back into my heart. Sure, I see all this change. This growth. This healthy person I see on my fridge—she is me.

Or is she? Who am I, really? I feel doubt crawling up my throat. I quickly swallow, putting her back in my belly where she belongs. I’ll deal with you later.

I look around, the dishes, the kitchen, absorbing all that is the quiet comfort of my home. I built this. I fought for this. I did this. I feel unsettled. Lost in the familiarity of my tiny kitchen. I can’t help but feel like an imposter in this space. Unwelcome. What is happening?

Seduction shows up to the emotional orgy that is happening in my kitchen. My brain is trying to comfort me. She trades all that anxiety and overthinking for pleasure. A reoccurring theme in my 30 years. My body responds to the thought. The word. I feel warm. I feel… loose. My face is flushed. My joints aren’t as tight. My mouth salivates. I can feel a grin creep across my face.

That’s what she does: addiction. She shows up in your favorite dress. In the sweetest perfume. That one you loved so much You feel hesitant, you feel fear, you feel cautious… but she embraces you. You take a whiff of her perfume. You feel her touch. You hear her voice. Your vulnerabilities and fears cast themselves like stones to the sea. She is a traveler of your body, your mind and your soul. She knows all parts of you. Her passport is stained with stamps, and notes, and signature. Each crevice. Each once hidden valley. She has explored every layer of all that is who you are. She has kissed all your scars. She has undressed you. Once upon a time, you were tangled in her vines. For a long time, she was your comfort. I feel violently conflicted. My heart is racing. I feel the shame creeping in like fog. Thick. All enveloping. Make it hard to see what’s right in front of my face. Why am I struggling like this?

Suddenly hyper-aware of my surroundings, I am painfully aware of the sad fact I am an adult, in my kitchen, struggling to make the choice to go back to my warm bed or get in my car and drive to the nearest poorly-lit convenience store. Didn’t I move past this? This shouldn’t be so hard, right? My mind reaches desperately for validation. Grasping at kitchen appliances and still furniture like straws. I need to hear I am right. I need someone to acknowledge I have changed. I listen intently. Silence. I don’t believe in signs unless they are negative, so this outcome is just the push I needed to start co-signing my own bullshit.

My hands shake as I pull out the pen.

Is this my ego speaking? My addiction? My present self? Who am I right now?

I feel like a car on the highway. Middle of the night. The radio is too loud. The road before and behind me is endless. I am moving, fast. Direction and destination unknown. I can’t see the driver. Who is in control? Am I the driver or am I the passenger? That’s addiction. It’s being in a car that’s on the run, not sure who is driving, running as fast as you can into the unknown to escape your current situation.

I don’t miss that. I like driving. I’ve been driving my own car as of late, and I have grown to love the feeling of my hands on the wheel. The earth of the sun on my skin. Destination unknown? Sure, maybe. But I’m ok with that. I’m driving now. I am in control. But am I? I am immediately aware once again, that I’m a grown adult, almost a year into my sobriety, pacing my kitchen like a forgotten circus animal. Terror in my eyes. A hunger growing in my stomach. Not sure if I should run or attack. I don’t like this. This feeling. The loss of control. It used to excite me, now it terrifies me.

Maybe I’ve grown soft. Maybe all this peace, this growth, this healing… it’s a hoax. It was never real. I am who I am. Aren’t I? Except I have evolved into someone else. If I doubt her existence, all I have to do is look around the place I call home. Her fingerprints are everywhere. There are photos on the walls. There is a calendar. My home is clean. My fridge is stocked. There are tiny shoes and bouncy balls and yoga mats by my door. Insignificant upon first glance. However, for a person who spent a decade not loving themselves, these are symbols. Of my growth. Of my self-love. Of my realization that I am someone worth investing in.

Moving on.

Next stop: anxiety. I can feel my skin, it’s tight and it’s clammy. My heart is doing the dance of indecision, swiftly moving from black to white. Unable to feel settled in the grey. The irony? That’s where the peace lies. That’s where the answer is.

I feel my mind sprint: where are my keys? There she is. Addiction. Twirling her hair. Licking her lips. Welcoming me back into her arms. She smells like home. She looks like home. I hesitate. I feel my mind separate from my body. I feel fear. Am I in control? Who is driving? I grasp for my seatbelt with unsteady hands, oblivious to the fact my feet are planted firmly on cheap tile. I am looking for security- regardless of which seat I am in. I know she is bad news. I know she is a ghost here to rattler her chains, haunt me as she does so well. I know she is the past and I have been living in the present for quite some time. I made a home here, in healing. I forward my mail I have moved on. But not enough, I realize, to be immune to her pull. Her familiarity, fuck, it feels like home. I meet her eyes. Yes, I’ve grown. I’m in a good place. I’m sober. I can say no. But… don’t I deserve a yes? She hears my confliction. She nods her head. I step towards her. Doing all I can to silence my mind, as I knowingly take a step towards all that is her chaos. She is home. I haven’t visited in a while.

Before I can reach her… I hear a voice. My name. Who is calling for me? It’s coming from the abyss that is my hallway. It’s dark. I don’t know who it is? Should I go?

I look back to addiction. She’s waiting, licking her lips, begging me to embrace her. I can feel her pull just like gravity. It’s overwhelming and undeniable. But I am curious. I promise addiction, I’ll be back. Let’s talk about this. We can figure this shit out.

That’s addictions ugly sister: justifying. Co-signing my bullshit. Validating my toxicity. I know this. I am aware, but I proceed anyways with my promises, although they are halfhearted and full of doubt. I guide myself down my hallway in the dark. I keep hearing my name. Someone is calling for me.

I make my way hesitantly back to my bed. It’s recovery. She is enslaved in blankets. Her face is both concerned and full of love. She opens her arms. I open my mouth to apologize. Her presence is overwhelming. Her light is heavy. It’s blinding at first. Uncomfortable. But after some time, it’s warm. It begins to feel… like home. I collapse into her arms. Apology flows out of me like a river. I can’t stop. I am so sorry. I am so ashamed. She looks at me, smiles, wipes tears from my eyes. “It’s ok” she says. “I understand why you went to her. I am not angry. You are loved. You are not judged. You are safe here. I know it’s uncomfortable, but give me a chance.”

My ego dissipates. My body relaxes. I breathe. Her forgiveness, her honesty, her understanding: it makes me uncomfortable. I don’t deserve this. I open my mouth to object but she quiets me. She wraps her arms around me. “You made the right choice, right now” she says. “This is where you belong.” I close my eyes. I may not believe her. But I decide I will accept it.

My mind wanders to my long-lost love down the hall. Will she miss me, I wonder. I feel my heart start to pound… I didn’t get to say goodbye. I have to say goodbye. Am I ready to say goodbye?

I meet the eyes of recovery. With just a look, she assures me I am exactly where I belong.

How did I end up in this bed?

How I arrived here is irrelevant. I have arrived. I am safe. I am sober. I am ok. She can read my mind.

Maybe she is me?

Maybe that person down the hall is a stranger.

I have no definitive answers.

But I am sober.

And for now? That’s all I need.

I fall back to sleep, ready to do it all again tomorrow. I want a fucking drink. But I am ok without one.

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melindacoulson4 · 7 years

Photo

Sacrifice just how far was Phil Coulson willing to go for Melinda May?

May’s pov

Warning: the descriptions in this may be gruesome to some people.

She'd long ago mastered the skill of waking up while keeping her eyes closed. She was so used to it now, it was almost second nature. She has no idea where she is right now. It's difficult to orient yourself with your eyes closed. It takes a lot of time. Beeping. She hears beeping. She's lying in a bed with blankets tucked around her torso and legs. There are things attached to her skin. She can sense things on the top of her hands and on her chest. Someone is monitoring her. The last thing she remembers is waking up and finding out that she was in that damn closet at Radcliffe's. That son of a bitch had her as his prisoner with the help of his robot assistant. AIDA had choked her and drugged her when she had tried escaping. After that, the dream-like simulations had started. May had thought that she had successfully escaped more than ten times until something so peculiar had happened that caused her to figure out that she was in a simulation. The first time, was when AIDA had stabbed her in the neck with a scalpel, yet she was still able to run around like nothing had happened. Another time, she had reached the front door of the house, opened it, and pure blackness greeted her. There was nothing for miles, just plain empty space. Was this a dream too? The rest of the times had felt exactly like this in the beginning. She woke up, feeling trapped and violated, then tried breaking out. The only difference now was that the feeling of being trapped has dissipated. There were no restraints around her wrists or her ankles and no helmet on her head. She was free to move, free to run. As she prepares herself to spring out of the bed a quiet sob reaches her ears. The sound makes the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. She's not alone. There's someone here.....someone watching her. Focus on regulating your breathing. Keep it calm. She decides to blind-side the person. Suddenly, she sits up while opening her eyes and reaches for the person. She immediately feels her head start to swim and her vision going dark. She did not think that through. She groans, but is still able to latch on to the person's wrist. She squeezes tightly with the intent to pull the person closer to her body and knock him or her out. What she doesn't expect is for the person in front of her to be Daisy. "It's me. It's just me," Daisy says, thoroughly shell-shocked. May automatically relaxes. She releases her grip on Daisy's wrist and sits crisscross on the bed. She takes a deep breath, opening her eyes again only to find her vision still blurry. She's barely able to see Daisy's figure or the bed sheets clearly. Her eyes are so hot and itchy. It's hard to hold them open even for a second. They keep blinking uncontrollably, which agitates her even more. Her lips and mouth are so dry that she can barely stand it. She needs a drink. "Water," she requests, coughing in response to the irritation in her throat. Her voice sounds crackly and rough. She definitely needs that drink. Daisy gets up from her seat at the foot of the bed and that's all that May sees before she has to squeeze her eyes shut. She can't track Daisy's movements; her eyes feel like they're burning. "You're safe, May. You're home," she hears Daisy say. After some fumbling around by Daisy, May feels the texture of a styrofoam cup pressing against her knuckles. She grabs it and holds it tightly in between her two hands. She pries one eye open to peak at the straw of the cup and then immediately closes the eye again. She guides the straw into her mouth and slurps up the liquid. It's cold, refreshing, and exactly what she needs right now. May takes her time drinking the water with her body already starting to feel better. They sit in silence, which is extremely odd and very unlike Daisy. "What happened?" May asks, finally able to get a glimpse of Daisy with clear vision. The sight that greets her is troubling. Daisy looks terrible, haggard almost as if she's aged a decade since May last saw her. Her eyes are bloodshot and swollen, as if she's been crying for days. Her face appears sickly and pale. Her body frail and thin, hunched over in the chair that she's sitting on. "Aida took you," Daisy mumbles. Daisy stares at her wide-eyed, like she's never seen her before today. Something else is going on; it's obvious by the way Daisy is acting. She spots Daisy's hand clutching the blanket on her bed. Her knuckles appear stark white, almost matching the color of the blanket. She's holding something back. "What else?" May asks softly, trying to comfort Daisy. "What?" Daisy quickly responds, still refusing to meet her eyes. "What else happened?" She asks again. She watches intently as Daisy's eyes close, taking longer than necessary to blink. Daisy swallows hard. "Um. I...I don't exactly know how to say this." She pauses, eyes watering. "So..." She stops again and shakes her head. Then, finally meeting May's eyes she finishes. "He's dead." All of the air in her lungs feels like it simultaneously bursts out of her body. She can barely breathe. The beeping on the heart rate monitor increases as her heart rate skyrockets in her chest. No. No, he can't be dead. She somehow instinctively knows who Daisy is talking about before she even asks for the clarification. "Who?" Please don't say what I think you're going to say. Please. Please. Please. "Coulson," Daisy answers, voice trembling. Her nose burns. Her whole face begins tingling. Blood roars in her ears. "How?” she barely gets out. This can't be real. Daisy crosses her arms, covering her stomach. The tears that she had been holding back now silently fall from her bloodshot eyes. "He...One of the guys that hooked up with Radcliffe. The guy just shot him right in the head." She wants to sob, but she can't. She has to hear this. "How did they get him?" Daisy's eyes immediately drop to the floor. A couple of pieces of hair fall in front of her face. She stays silent. "Daisy!" May snaps. "He traded himself....," she trails off, but May knows what she isn't saying. He traded himself...for her.

May immediately kicks the blankets off of her body and scoots herself to the side of the bed. She has to get out of here. She has to see him with her own eyes.

“What are you doing?” Daisy stares at her in shock. She rips all of the tubing and wiring off of her arms and chest, wincing slightly at the stinging pain. “I want to see him,” she says. "May. You're not in good condition," Daisy objects, following close behind. "Try and stop me," she growls. Daisy could. May knows it. They both know it, but Daisy wouldn't dare try using her powers on her now. May knew that Daisy still had regret for when SHIELD had tried to make peace with the inhumans. She and Daisy got into that fight and Daisy ended up knocking her out. It was still a sore subject between them that they never brought up. If she had to, she would bring it up now just to get Daisy to back down. But Daisy simply moved away, letting her walk right out of the SHIELD recovery room. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- When she walks into the room where they are keeping his body, she quickly figures out that she’s not properly prepared for this. Her breath catches in her chest when she spots the dark blue sheet covering the body on the table, in the middle of the room. She knows that it’s him….its Phil. Logically, she knows. But her heart can’t accept that he’s beneath that sheet. She takes a hesitant step towards the table. It was eerily quiet, cold, and dark in this room. Shivers ran through her body as she tries moving forward. She hadn’t anticipated how difficult walking would be. It feels like all of the strength has been drained out of her body. Her gait was unsteady and weak. She doesn’t even know how long it’s been since she last walked on her own. How long had Radcliffe and AIDA been drugging her? Her nerves began acting up, causing her knees to wobble even more as she walked. Her breathing wasn’t any better, but she just couldn’t control the erratic beating of her heart. She didn’t think she could do this. She didn’t want to know what he looked like under that sheet. Couldn’t she live in ignorant bliss for a couple more minutes….before her world would turn upside down? Maybe if she wishes hard enough it would turn out to be someone else. She would lift that sheet up and find someone else lying there, lifeless. Maybe they all made a mistake. Yes, that had to be it. They didn’t know what they were talking about. Nevertheless, she still had to see who is under that sheet with her own eyes. Her palm lands on the metal surface of the table, inches from the body. She had to reach out and lean on it for support. She barely had any strength left to hold herself upright. As she stood there, staring at the outline of the body under the sheet, time seemed to freeze. She couldn’t bring herself to move. If she didn’t move, she wouldn’t have to see Phil’s body. Just the thought of seeing him dead made her physically ill. Her stomach muscles began twitching uncontrollably from the image in her mind. After scrutinizing the outline of the body for an insurmountable amount of time, she finally has built up the courage to reach for the sheet. She grasps it tightly, closes her eyes, and takes a deep breath. She has to be strong despite the fear coursing through her veins. She has to do this for Phil. He deserves nothing less.

She pulls the sheet back, revealing the body. A strangled sob bubbles up from her throat at the sight. The man lying on the table was Phil. She automatically turns her head away due to the wave of sickness that passes over her. She can't process it; she can't even begin to believe it. She blinks hard, hoping that her eyes were just playing some cruel trick on her. Turning back towards the body, she's faced with the same image as before. It didn't work; it wasn't just something out of a nightmare. It was real. It was Phil, still there, almost like he is mimicking being asleep. But that's a lie, she knows, he'll never open his eyes again.

Her eyes drop to his hand, drawn to the discoloration. His knuckles are covered in cuts. They’re bruised and raw. She reaches her hand out for his own, yet freezes in midair. She wants to touch him, but she's terrified. The most she can allow herself is a slight brush to the back of his hand. His lack of reaction makes her head pound. He's still dressed in his clothes. They're all black: a jacket, pants, and boots. His clothes scream combat; he was prepared for a fight.

Her eyes study the rest of his body, particularly, his face. Her gaze is drawn to his right eye. The skin around it had begun to swell. It was a deep shade of red and she could see a mix of purple and blue bruising where someone’s knuckles must have made contact with his cheek bone. She lightly ran her fingertips over his cheek, afraid of hurting him even though it wasn’t possible. He must've taken a punch or had gotten into some kind of fight. And then what? They just killed him? Shot him right in the head after that? His head. She needed to see. She had to see it with her own eyes, the cause of all of this. One bullet to the head and then he was gone, taken from her forever. She focuses on his head, looking for the bullet wound. It's there, on the right side of his head. The left side of his head appeared untouched. He looked perfectly fine when she stood to his left, like he was sleeping. But, once she moved to the right, she saw the damage. A circular hole that looked like it was drilled into his head stood out. That was the entry point of the bullet. She shudders, turning away, unable to stare at it any longer. "Please tell me it didn't hurt. I never asked for you to protect me, but you never listen," she says aloud, lips trembling. All she could think about was how much regret she had. Regret for words unsaid, lack of action, and wasted time. He's now gone forever. He wouldn’t get another chance to come back like the last time. They both already wasted his chance. They wouldn’t ever have a first kiss. She wouldn’t ever be able to press her body against his just to know what it felt like or to grab his hand when she needed comfort or reassurance. She would never be able to share with him how much she absolutely loves him. She gasps, overwhelmed by all of the things they'll never be able to say and do together. She collapses, knees banging against the tile floor. Her face began burning from the hot, rapid tears cascading down her face. She presses her forehead against the table, just to feel some relief. Being in this room felt suffocating, she couldn’t get enough air into her lungs. She couldn’t control the flow of tears. They kept falling from her eyes like a waterfall.

That's when the anger creeps up. She clenches her fist. He didn't have the right to do what he did. She didn't want to be saved if this was the cost. "You idiot. Why would you do that?" She whispers, heart broken. She lifts herself up on shaky legs in order to scrutinize his face. "Do you hear me, Phil?!? This wasn't supposed to happen," she tells him. She smacks her hand against the table. "Not before-," she inhales sharply. A wave of regret hits her again.

This hurts; fuck, it hurts so much. It feels like someone keeps stabbing her heart over and over again with a knife. There's so much she wants to say, but there's a lump in her throat and her eyes won't stop watering. She can’t get a hold of herself.

Instead of using words, she decides to kiss him. It’s something she had always wanted to do.

She leans down and presses her lips firmly to his, wanting to memorize how his felt. It wasn’t what she was expecting. His lips were dry and stiff. There was no spark, no nothing. She pulls away quickly, frightened by the lack of movement or the sensation of warm breath hitting her face. For a cursed moment, she forgot. She forgot that she didn't have to worry about his breathing anymore. She didn't have to worry about blocking his airway because he didn't need to breathe anymore. He couldn't breathe anymore. He wouldn't ever do anything again. The hairs above his lip had tickled her top lip. He must've been distracted by her abduction because he never let that hair grow out. It only occurred when he was deeply invested in a case, when he didn't have the luxury of taking the time to shave. He didn't like having any hair on his face, she knew. Years ago, when they worked together she would sometimes see him rubbing at his upper lip. It was a tick that he had. He never realized it until one day she pointed it out to him. She had teased him about growing it out, bringing back "the stache". That’s what she had named his mustache when he had it. He had chuckled and flashed her a wide grin. Then, proceeded to stare at her like she was the only person in the world. Oh how she loved when he did that. It made her feel wanted. It was home.

They had moments like that, back then. When she would get caught up his gaze and forget that she was married to Andrew. She wouldn't dare cheat on Andrew; she loved him. But there was just something about Phil. She was just inexplicably drawn to him. It was a grey area that they had never dared to talk about. They had always had that natural chemistry. At the time, she had naively thought that it was just a normal thing that happened between best friends: that there would always be some type of longing. But now, she knew better. She knew that it was attraction, chemistry, and love. They had been getting back to that. They were moving forward; it seemed like there was a future goal that they were getting closer to achieving. Both of them were getting bolder with the flirting and confessions. “You're the only one I trust,” he had told her.

“I saw you,” she had admitted to him. She hadn't even gotten the chance to tell him what she meant. He was so curious, but she was afraid to tell him. She was afraid for how he would react if she told him that she saw them together. And look where it got her. “When this is over…it’s time. We are cracking open that bottle.” Why did they keep waiting? They had so many opportunities. They had been making plans.

But this cruel world had taken him before they were ready. Before she was ready to give him up and let him go.

Why? Why? Why him? Why now? She just went through this, when he and Fitz were transported to the other dimension by Eli Morrow. That was her chance and she missed it. Why didn't she just kiss him right then? When he came back through that portal, she had him right there. He was standing right in front of her. Her hands were grasping his shoulders and she was so relieved that he was back. She could've just leaned in and kissed him. What was their last moment together? She can’t even remember the last thing that she said to him.

Did he know? Did he know how much she loves him? In the end, she hopes he did. "I love you," she tells him now, letting out a noise of pure emotional torture. "I'm so in love with you," she gasps, feeling a sense of relief for finally saying those words. She feels overloaded with emotion for him. There are so many things that he deserved to hear from her, but she felt short of breath and lightheaded again. "How am I supposed to live without you?" she questions, heartbroken.

She never wants to let go.

//end//

He would die for her; they all knew. They just never expected it to actually happen.

Don't kill me. I hope this destroyed you as much as it did to me.

#philinda #philinda fic #melinda may #phil coulson #coulson x may #philinda fanfiction #aos #agents of s.h.i.e.l.d.#agents of shield #daisy johnson

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