6965/Old Friends Checking In

Old Friends Checking In
Date of Scene:	16 July 2021
Location:	Shooting Range/Armory - Playground
Synopsis:	Phil finds a quiet moment to check in on May. What's said is important. What goes unsaid, even more so...
Cast of Characters:	Melinda May, Phil Coulson

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Melinda May has posed:
It's been a handful of days since May bulled her way out of medical after being extracted from that damned pod in the Sphere. She's still got the faintest traces of red marks on her skin that speak to where the penetrating blue circuitry from the pod ran beneath her skin. But they're fading. Another few days and they won't be visible any longer. The same is true of those rash-like clusters of pinpricks where microwires penetrated her major muscle groups and the back of her neck. They're almost faded.

She sits in a small room that was once a store room. She moved a small desk in and shoved it against the wall shortly after her promotion, accompanied by one of those bent wood office chairs from the 40s or 50s. It's probably been around since the place was built in '49. That and the old metal chair like they have on ships because it's sturdy and can be bolted down when ncessary. It serves as her visitor's chair.

A tablet is in her hand. She's studying schematics of the Triskelion. Sure, she knows the place intimately well, but... it doesn't hurt to look again.

Most of her time, this past week, has been spent between medical, the hangar, the director's office, the gym, and here. Or the range just outside her door. She's not been seen in the lounge at all. Nor often in the cafeteria, tending to take her meals to go. No, she's been in hiding.

And if anyone knows Melinda May well enough to know that, yes, she's hiding and not just busy, it's Phil Coulson.

Phil Coulson has posed:
Phil doesn't believe in knocking. Never has, never will. It's one of those things that announces a presence and gives the people on the other side a chance to either answer or not, and if he wants to see someone?

They don't get that option.

The door, then, opens, and rather than making himself a small target on entrance, his form and figure fills that doorway. His hand is still on the door, lingering before he steps in, looks back at the entryway to check to see if anyone's coming around the corner. Once satisfied, he closes the door behind him, though quietly. There he stands, staring.. waiting for her to say something, his hands finding their way to suit pants pockets in a somewhat casual stance.

Melinda May has posed:
Waiting for Melinda May to say something is like waiting for hell to freeze over. She looks up when he comes in, having already sensed his familiar emotional signature approaching through the armory. Her eyes meet his for a long moment. To any other pair of eyes, save one or two very rare others, her expression holds the same neutral skepticism is always had. That faintly annoyed look that's inevitable when someone intrudes on her unannounced.

To him, however, the microexpressions around the edges are so very clear. Not annoyance, no. Not at him. She's not unhappy to see him. But she's tired. So bone-weary tired... in that way she was after Bahrain, but without the abject devastation that incident left in its wake. Perhaps it's not a surprise, given she's relived that scenario several times over the last few weeks. In so many different ways. You go numb, after a while.

But in her silence, the faint chuff of air as she exhales is telling enough. It's accompanied by a faint relaxing of her shoulders. He's someone she not only trusts implictly, but someone whose emotions, blessedly, don't overwhelm her. That makes him welcome.

Phil Coulson has posed:
They really could simply stare at each other. While expectant, Phil's not really expecting anything. Not a word, not an explanation, nothing. Exactly what does he expect then?

Exactly what he's received.

To break the silence, once he's gotten everything he could from this initial encounter, he starts with the casual, "Hey."

That doesn't remain long in the air, however, before he follows it up with, "You sure you're good?" A hand is drawn from his pocket and waves it in brief gesture across the expanse of office. "If you tell me you are, I'm gonna have to call you on it."

Phil is, well, Phil. His signature is pretty consistent across the board. She knows him, knows his moods, his mannerisms, his thought processes, for the most part. In terms of psychic energy, when he's with her, it's like.. a well-worn, comfortable sweatshirt.

Melinda May has posed:
There are days when Phil will come in and talk at her without her ever having to say a word. Today is not one of those days. "I'm handling it," she says in her usual blunt manner. It's bullshit, of course. They both know it's bullshit. She's got every indication about her that she's burying herself in work. An easy thing to excuse, since she had barely a month to adjust to her promotion before she was trapped in VR for another month.

Thus, because it's Phil and because he can call her on things with a look as easily as she can him, she lets out a frustrated sigh. "I'm handling it as best I can under the circumstances," she amends.

Phil Coulson has posed:
One step, two shuffling steps brings him a little further into the room proper, his gaze moving away from May to the little objects in the office. Since the bugout, it's hard to equate the one in the Triskelion with the digs here. Not as much 'Melinda' in here; it's an office. And as far as places to hide out?

Phil turns his attention back to May, and he stops a few paces from the desk where she's sitting. The first words out of her mouth brings a blank-faced stare, his shoulders dropping in a 'this is me' posture before she adds to it. That brings a nod, and finally, something of a ghosted, fleeting smile. "Yeah. You look like hell."

There's a moment to let that settle in before he looks around again. "It's not home," he muses before looking back over in momentary question, "You do know you can call, right?" Is that a touch of pique that hangs on the end? Could be.

"Besides," and Phil is on the move again, just sort of wandering around the empty office, "needed a date to a building picnic a couple of weeks ago. At least I was able to say 'no', but they do make the best burgers."

His tones are conversational, absolutely meaningless on top, but there is that current that runs beneath in the way he does talk. The need for normalcy, the need for her to think of stupid //nothings// at a time like this, and sure.. maybe a little guilt. Wouldn't be them without it!

Melinda May has posed:
"It's not home," Melinda agrees. She's just not sure where home is. She had that sweet little apartment in Salem, before the fall. She's let it go since then. Had to get friends in to move her stuff out. Relocated most of it to a flat in a warehouse down in Chinatown, NYC. Not so far from that place she likes -- Quon's Cafe. But this is Delaware. She's got a few things in her quarters here on base. Not much.

She gives him a wry, weary smile when he chides her. "You're assuming I have time to breathe, never mind talk," she replies dryly. As if she's ever been one to just call to talk. "Besides, we weren't out two days before House shot Peggy." The current crise-du-jour, of course.

She was off-base, at the time. Riding her Harley down the freeway just to get away from the overload of emotions. At the end of the day, it was probably a good thing. She couldn't have easily handled the emotional spikes then. But that doesn't stop her from feeling guilty about not being here, anyway.

She is and always will be the Cavalry. Whether she wants to be or not.

Her head cants nonetheless. She snirks. "The last burger I had was virtual." Her lips twitch faintly, something of a grimace. "Memorial Day. In the matrix. Peggy tried to cook." She shakes her head. "Doesn't matter if the food is real or virtual. She bricks it every time."

Phil Coulson has posed:
Phil isn't going to sit. He sits enough, and if he did, it'd seem way too much like a real conversation, and he's happy skimming off the top, as it were. He's testing the waters with this 'empathic' thing that he honestly really isn't sure what it is, much less what to do with it. And, well, this is actually the //first// time he's gotten to actually be alone with her to talk. And what does he talk about?

Burgers.

"Breathing? Should come naturally. Sort of like shooting things. So don't give me that." In all fairness, however, he's been kind of busy too, and some of this is most definitely meant to assuage that guilt. He wasn't there either. He wasn't there for Peggy, and he wasn't there for Melinda. That wears on a guy.

Still, there is a strangeness about life, about being here.. and finally, he pulls a chair to finally sit down. "You know.. it's kind of strange. Normally around now, we'd have a fresh batch of recruits, all graduated from college, or fresh from finishing up their 5 years as a detective," the usual requirement for 'on the ground' agents; very much like the CIA and FBI. There are always exceptions, of course. There are always exceptions. His tones turn to something with a remiscent air, "The wide-eyed wonder of seeing a Quin up close.." He chuckles, the sound soft and genuine in the face of the wry joke made by his partner, "And them trying to keep a straight face while choking one of those burgers down. I usually watched the more believable ones. Did you know that's a great way to find a good field agent?"

Melinda May has posed:
"Hah." Melinda shakes her head at his assertion about breathing and shooting. "You'd think," she says dryly. Somehow, she sounds unconvinced -- though that's likely an act.

When he sits down, her demeanor changes subtly, too. Again, it's almost like a bit of tension eases from her with her exhale. She sets the tablet that had fallen against her body down on the table. Its screen is dark now, anyway.

"Yes," she says, that dry humour still in her tone. "And all of them would be whispering about what they'd heard in the Academy about The Cavalry." She shakes her head, her brows dipping. "Somehow, the stories get bigger every year." Encouraged, no doubt, by people like him who know she's one of the few instructors who doesn't wear her resume on her sleeve. Sure, the *excuse* is that it's a test to see if the cadets can sort good intel from bad, but... She knows the truth of it.

She just wishes they'd stop calling her that.

She snirks again at the comment about the burgers. "Oh, I know," she agrees. "Just like you can tell a lot about them from how they hustle at the pool table in the lounge."

Phil Coulson has posed:
"Just giving them a heads up," Phil returns in a light defense. He's got a hand up, palm front sort of gesture in a 'stop' coupled with a 'mea culpa' half shrug with the gesture. "I knew about some of your tricks too."

Nothing like the first time he'd heard that Melinda had whispered to a recruit, 'Watch out for him' while referring to the suit and tie persona of Phil. He doesn't //look// dangerous; doesn't even necessarily //sound// dangerous for all that. No swagger, no bravado. Just... him. Who'd believe her anyway? It must have been a great barracks joke- until Phil took them down, one by one in one way or another.

Old age and sneakiness beats youth and strength every time. Well, most of the time.

"As for the stories? Like a fine wine," and Phil lets his voice trail off on that. "We'll have you breathing fire soon enough." She already flies.

The lounge pool table. One of his suggestions years ago. Didn't matter if he played it or not. It was the //thought// of it. Every spy organization needs a pool table in their lounge. It's //cool// and gives agents the chance to acquire a skill AND relax at the same time. Mostly, it's cool.

"I think I've broken about even over the years." Phil, bet on a game of pool? Never.

Mostly never.

Okay, sometimes. But never when he's in the same room. It's always while he's away. It gives him a connection back, and home. That, and it reminds people that Phil is never far.

"How is Chief Carter, anyway?" Proper respect due, of course. "I should go visit." That sounds less an idea and more in the 'action' category. It'll happen, no doubt.

Melinda May has posed:
When May and Carter became partners back in the fall, she never thought she'd refer to the Director by her first name. For all that, at the time, Peggy had been busted down to L4. By the time May returned from 1949, not only was Carter an L6... she was 'Peggy'. A friend. Not surprising, really. Phil knows as well as she just how quickly work in the field can build trust between agents. Personal connections.

So, Melinda long ago stopped thinking of Peggy as the formidable Grande Dame of SHIELD, its founding Director and a figure as legendary to Melinda when she was a mere probie herself as what The Cavalry is to neophytes today. Thus, the weight of her concern is almost as deep as it would be were it Phil in that medical ward and not the Englishwoman.

"She's awake," she tells him, masking her grief -- though he'll see through that. "Conscious. Alert. Trying to command armies from her death bed." She resists the urge to roll her eyes as she says that. In the end, she just shakes her head and runs a hand through her dark hair. "She's dying. Bobbi says by the end of the week whatever's been protecting her all these years will start actively and aggressively harming her. She says she's got another week, at most..."

She taps on the screen of her tablet, waking it up. The plans for the Triskelion are clear on its face. "Her only hope is a machine hidden in FitzSimmons' lab at the Triskelion. That, and a vial of blood I brought back from 1949. So..." She looks up at him and almost smiles, the corners of her lips twitching upward while her eyes convey anything but humour. "We're going to beard the dragon in his lair. Get in, steal the treasure, and get out... all without leaving a trace." They should be good enough to do that. Her experience tells her it will never go that smoothly.

Phil Coulson has posed:
Phil doesn't have that kind of relationship with Peggy, with Chief Carter. He hasn't had many partners, really, and certainly none of them 'at that level'. When it comes down to it, it's either Melinda, or he's on his own, commanding the troops, as it were, looking out for the younger, more junior agents. While he doesn't hold that familiarity, and consequently, doesn't have the 'would die for her' mentality like he has for Fury, there is a fair bit of respect.

And he respects and trusts that where May hangs her loyalty, there lies a special person. He trusts her instincts, except for boyfriends. She's horrible at those.

"Okay," and he nods, looking and sounding a touch on the apologetic side for bringing it up now. Emotions can't be easy for her, and the last thing he wants is for her to hurt. He never wants her to hurt. Never has, never will.

"The Project serum wouldn't work?" Of course, it'd be just as hard to get his hand on //that//, too. No doubt it's in someone's lab somewhere in the Pentagon.

"Now, were you going to do this without telling me?" It's a fair question, and in the asking, he leans forward slightly in his seat, his eyes searching her face, looking for that tell. "Or just that you weren't going to ask me to go." There's a pause before he continues, "Because Melinda, I can't see you," and he's shaking his head as he's talking, "being ready for something like this right now. I mean, just from sitting here.."

Melinda May has posed:
Hey. Melinda held onto her last boyfriend for a good long while. She's got the wedding pictures and the divorce papers to prove it. Sure, they imploded in the end. But that wasn't because Andrew was horrible. That's because she was.

Bahrain was.

She feels his concern for her, beneath that affable calm. His loyalty and desire to protect. It mirrors her own, but sits separate from it. He's one of the few people, she's slowly realizing, whose emotions don't intrude on her. Don't barge in and smack her in the face, whether she wants them or not. His just slide in and wrap around her like a familiar, comfortable security blanket. It's a strange thought, really. Not one she expected to have.

She blinks a little as she puts the thought away for later examination.

Instead, she purposely pushes a more typical reaction to the fore. "I'm telling you now." Would she have told him if he hadn't stopped in? She doesn't actually know. He may have the right of it. She's not prepared to admit that, yet, though.

Then he's suggesting that alien serum. Her immediate reaction is to want to say 'no'. Mainly because she doesn't think anyone should be subjected to any more of that stuff. But the results speak for themselves. So, she pauses, forcing herself to inhale deeply before saying, "I don't know. I don't know where there is any, anyway, outside of the Triskelion, so we'd still have to run an infiltration op, regardless."

She shakes her head, flicking the side of the tablet to turn it off again. "I don't have to ask your permission, Phil," she tells him evenly. "This is a STRIKE op and I am the Commander of STRIKE." Her nostrils flare a little as she exhales. But he'll recongize it as a mild concession. Not a surrender, mind. But she'll concede the point at least partially. "Look, I've got this, Phil. Yeah. The Framework, or whatever the hell they call it, wasn't fun. But it wasn't real, either." That sounds like it might be a mantra. "You know me. I'm not good at sitting on the sidelines, sucking my thumb. I need to be doing something. So, yeah. I'm going."

Phil Coulson has posed:
Phil will never fully believe that Melinda was horrible. He blames Andrew. He blames him for not doing anything 'right', that is.. could do that which she needed, whether it was to push or back off. To sit and listen and offer a drink. The upshot?

He just didn't understand. No one does that is outside 'these' walls, whether it be here or back home in the Tris. But, it's a life that they've chosen, and anyone who thinks they can handle it probably can't.

He already knows the chances are better than even that they don't have a hand on the serum, but just in the mentioning makes him wonder where it'd been left. Personal as well as professional curiosity.

It's that next bit that is as close to an outburst as could be in the moment. Empath, anyone? Emotions are hard, and Melinda isn't one for yelling. But Phil certain does get intent.

"No, no you don't. And you know as well as I do this isn't only STRIKE. This is a home job, on property. That makes it everyone's business, including mine." Phil knows it's a concession but he pushes back, leaning in his seat in the response. "And I'm in charge of Operations. That, and a willing probie will get me exactly one cup of coffee." He leans back a little once he realizes he's leaned forward, and he has his own concession, "Even if your division sounds cooler." It's all in the name!

"I just know you," and his expression softens slightly, "I don't know what happened in that virtual world, and I probably won't ever. But to you, in there, it was real. The thoughts you thought, the things you did, they all had an effect. Everything we do affects us, and, well..." Phil actually pauses, a hiccup in his speech, and is slightly deflated with her pull back of 'I'm going'.

"Well, yeah.. and I'm going too. To make sure you're okay, because someone has to."

Melinda May has posed:
Whether Andrew understood or not, he gave Melinda what she wanted in the end: An out. She has never recovered from the pain of never fulfilling her desire to be a mother. Never recovered from the pain of killing Katya Belyakov. And she took it out on the poor man. She's never forgiven herself for any of that. But she forgave Andrew years ago.

The look she gives Phil as he recites the truth of her experiences in the Framework, just how real they were to her, is almost beligerent. Anyone who could see in -- which is precisely no one, thank god -- would think she was fixing to hit him. Except he knows her too well. She's nowhere near fixing to hit him. She's channelling all her emotions into a simmering anger that allows her to *control* them. To keep the tears at bay behind dark, unyeilding eyes.

Neither is he wrong about this job being important to everyone. (Nor about the only way he's going to get a cup of coffee around here without doing it himself.) She snirks as he cracks jokes and laughs outright when he declares he's coming. Her lips press together into a thin line. But, in the end. She nods once -- that strong confident affirmative she's almost always given him.

Of course, he's coming.

She taps the face of her tablet again. The time displays. Her lips pull into a tight, small smile that's still shadowed by that anger she uses to maintain control. "Well, if you want in. I've got to go have a chat with Agent House." The agent who was subjected to the compliance brainwashing that caused her to shoot Peggy Carter three days ago. "Care to join me?"

Phil Coulson has posed:
Phil rises from his chair when all is said and done. He's aired his concerns, his fears, and coupled it with a touch of levity that ultimately tells both of them that 'it'll be okay'. He's here, he's back. They're good, as far as he's concerned.

Now to see if he can't get his partner back. If he has to raise probies again in this climate, the least he can be given is a little bit of continuity.

He gently slaps his legs before rising to his feet. In most cases, 'good talk' usually exited the man, but in this case? He rises to full height, and he smiles, the expression reaching blue eyes.

"Wouldn't miss it for the world."