Phil Coulson (agentofsass) wrote in the100, @ 2015-12-04 13:32:00 |
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Entry tags: | !log/thread, phil coulson |
Who: Phil Coulson & Melinda May
When: last week sometime
Where: Their bedroom
What: It's time to put the suit back on. With a little help.
Status: Finished
Rating: PG13
Melinda May didn’t let herself think much these days. Her days began early (she didn’t know if she rose before the sun between the non-stop blizzards and the impenetrability of the mountain) slipped out from beneath warm sheets and an even warmer body to throw on this world’s version of a clothing in which to move. And move, she did, constantly. Warm-up and drills and forms and katas and then the roughest sparring partner she could find for round after round until even the roughest sparring partner begged off and tapped out. She ran out of willing sparring partners soon enough.
She only left when she exhausted herself.
The shower was running when she returned to her room. The suit was laid out on the bed, cleaned, ironed, and surprisingly well kept. The sight of it gave her pause.
Everything seemed to take longer with one hand. The prosthetic was functional, but nothing like what Fitz or Tony could come up with if they had a real lab. He finished up his shower and then awkwardly dried himself with the towel. Phil came out of the bathroom humming, a towel wrapped around his waist and his body still slightly damp. Towel drying oneself was one of those skills he still hadn't mastered one handed - at least not fully. Shaving, however, had been more of the learning experience.
He raised an eyebrow at Melinda in the room already. "Beaten all the competition already? That reminds me - I want to start training with you again."
It was almost habitual, gaze skirting across every visible scar, both old and new, as if they were familiar landmarks. The missing hand still pulled her up short, but she only folded her arms across herself, studiously ignored the increasingly tacky feeling of her own skin from her prolonged morning session, and raised a brow. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”
He didn't flinch, but his hand twitched slightly under her inspection, not used to the vulnerability in the full (flourescent) light of day. It was different in bed, when the lights were off. Perhaps part of him thought she would find something wrong, or find more secrets. The werewolf claw marks were still new to him, but at this point, what was another scar. He was softer in the gut than he had been when he'd last seen him. He hadn't felt the need to train here, had been too despondent some days. "I thought you'd jump at the chance to kick my ass, Melinda. But if you want, I can ask someone else. But you know my weaknesses and you won't go easy on me."
“I think we’ve found other ways to settle our differences.” Finally moving further into the room to gather up her own sparse belongings for washing up (and in a way, there was comfort and familiarity in possessing the most standard necessities once more -- she lived most of her life as a SHIELD agent too used to carrying light and making do). “Why now? Why not Captain America or Carol before?”
"Because neither of them care if I'm out of shape." Melinda would hold him accountable, he knew. And with her here, SHIELD felt more real instead of just a dream. He undid the towel and worked on finishing drying himself off before pulling on his boxers. "And Skye will go easy on me. So will Cap."
“Maybe you underestimate how much they’d want to kick your ass.” Skye had not exactly been happy about the ATCU affair, even if it hadn’t been this particular Phil’s fault. It was all too easy to subscribe the same deeds to the same face. Sins of the father, of a sort. “Preparing to go back into battle, Director?”
He raised an eyebrow, then glanced from Melinda to the suit laid out on the bed. "Hmm? Oh, no. But I've let some things slide too long while I've been here." The casual attire, the lack of training, the not getting involved with much beyond his job, and even that had been simply doing what was assigned. Fake it till you make it. Maybe if he put the suit back on, the rest would come back as well. He pulled the pants on and awkwardly managed the zipper before reaching for the shirt. It took longer, but he managed to do up most of the buttons before holding the tie out to Melinda. "Would you do the honors? I can't.." he trailed off, not really wanting to even admit that much.
She both tried not to and couldn’t help watching the immense efforts involved in the simple tasks, but Coulson was stubborn enough to see them through. But she didn’t move until he asked, and even then, she only dropped her own things back onto the bed and wordlessly took the tie. Even closer still, to stand before him and run her fingers over his shoulders, beneath the collar of his shirt (not quite stiff -- no starch here for that) and loop the sliver of cloth around his neck, eying the ends critically before adjusting their lengths.
Her actions did not come without their own haunting sense of mundane familiarity. The shoulders then, though, were even higher and broader. But she wasn’t going to think about that.
“Windsor?” she murmured as if to account for the proximity.
"Please," he replied quietly, settling his hand on her hip as if to keep her present, keep her from running away. He watched her face as she worked, spotting the briefest flicker of something, but he knew enough not to push unless he wanted the tie to become a noose - albeit a temporary one. "It's getting easier," he commented to the unspoken observation. "And Tony's working on a new hand."
“Knowing him, it’ll probably shoot repulsor beams,” she said, injecting enough of a withering tone and a quick Don’t even think about it look into the statement to forestall any ideas about turning it into a reality. “But even if he wasn’t.” You’d still be enough. One last tug of the end through another loop, then adjusting the newly formed knot to sit properly at the base of his throat, settling the collar over it once more and finally simply letting her palms slide down and stay splayed against the planes of his chest as she looked up at him. “Lookin’ good, DIrector.”
"Just Phil," he said, covering one of her hands with his own and squeezing, enjoying the brief moment of intimacy. "And I could make the repulsor beams work. Think about how awesome that would be." Coulson's face had the look of a kid in a candy store. None of it would be as good as having his own hand back, of being able to feel something besides the pain of an arm that wasn't there. His face shifted as his brain provided the sensation to remind him. "Well, someone's got to raise the dress code around here. Even if we are in blizzard conditions. "
“Yet another delightful perk of living in purgatory.” She and all those who had spent a good year of their lives living on a continuously moving jet were fortunate to have adapted to small, closed confines; she could only imagine what psychological somersaults were being visited upon others. Here, with her hand enclosed within his in the quiet of their private room, she felt, if only for a moment, grounded. If she closed her eyes and concentrated on the soft stretch of fabric beneath her fingers, and the warm muscle beneath that rising and falling beneath her hand, she could even image they were back home again with the world on their shoulders and their backs to each other’s. “I missed the suit. I liked the dress down too, but...there’s something to be said for nostalgia.”
"Well, we could start a SHIELD versus Avengers snowball fight," Coulson offered with a smirk. It wouldn't be exactly like the games of tag or the prank wars on the bus, but he wasn't about to suggest a prank war because he knew the women in front of him would always win that.
For a moment, it was just them and Phil felt that he could handle anything, endure anything, as long as he had his second by his side - no, if he was being honest, she was his partner, not his second. He bent his head and kissed her, an unusual moment of tenderness between them, not caring that she was still sweaty from her workout and he was freshly showered. The suit grounded him, and he had the feeling it might ground his team as well. And they all needed something if they were going to survive this without going insane. "Just be glad it's not the ill fitting suits from when I was in New Mexico. Although it's a shame you don't have that silver dress here for you… "