Chapter Text
She tries. Tries hard. So damn hard she fears this "smile" might crack her face even though it's clearly unnatural; to keep her arm wrapped around his as they're lead to their table. Tries to seem as in love with the person a half-step in front of her as he seems to be with her. As they should be for this mission. As they were… But it's difficult because she does love that face, has loved it one way or another for years, longer than she's willing to admit sometimes, but it isn't him. She learned her lesson the hard way, but she learned it.
The slightest twitch will end this facade before it begins, send this unenthusiastic smile into the grimace it fights to be. And he seems oblivious to the distress he's willfully causing her as his gaze slips to her, a twinkle there she misses, before continuing to chat up the waiter.
Suppressing a shiver, she wants nothing more than to free her hand, add the space she needs. The distance is—has been…rough, but no more so than the nearness. It's grueling, she won't suffer this nightmare again. Twice is already two time too many, more than enough for one heart.
Then he let's go, and the relief almost pulls her under, stings at her eyes. He pulls a chair out for her, and she stares for a moment, lost in thought and indecision. Not long, but enough time that the waiter looks between them at her hesitance. Then she rearranges, beams as brightly as she can, resuming the role of doting wife. The ache in her chest widens with the act. His brow ticks as she gets closer, like it knows she's pained by this. Like it can see through her, knows the thoughts running through her head. Knows this could have been them. That they could've had this. Could have made time for it if he'd just given them the time.
Throat tight as she sits, she keeps her gaze down as he pushes her seat in, heads around the table to his own. When he sits, she breathes deep, composing herself once again, strain erased from her features as she takes the menu offered, and thanks the man. Then pretends to read the words weaving in front of her as Non-Coulson orders some kind of beverage she won't be drinking.
The waiter gratefully leaves, and she closes the menu, sets it aside, not able to stomach the thought of food in this moment. Or any moment really. Turning her attention to surveilling, it's best to focus on work, to focus on anything but him. Their targets are behind her though, and he pounces while she struggles figuring out a plausible reason to switch sides. Scoops up her hand in his, and every muscle freezes solid at the contact.
She doesn't think her silence has ever begged harder for him to not do this, not force her any further into this charade then she's already buried. But he pushes forward despite her wishes, ignoring the un-voiced boundary.
"This is nice. We should do more thing like this," he says, thumb lovingly brushing along her knuckles.
It fits the role, but how dare he. Gut twisting miserably, it takes more effort than she'd like to stay in the present, to not yank away, make a scene. To craft a more affectionate expression though it doesn't soften the blow she offers for it. "You're not him."
For a second she thinks his face will crumble, that her inability to believe, acknowledge, that simple statement will derail him at the most inopportune time, but it doesn't. Ever the professional. Instead he feigns, laughs lightly as if what she said is amusing in someway. And she feels no better for the wound she causes every time she reminds it of that fact. Hurting it doesn't bring him back. But fighting the urge to be cruel to something is a losing game at this time.
"I am. I have his memories, his feelings, all the parts that make me, me."
He explains it again like he has a thousand different times, each one sinking the knife in deeper. She understands his viewpoint—all of their viewpoints—she does, but… "I'm not having this discussion again." She's had it endlessly with everyone, even herself. And none if it has made this process easier. Not one conversation makes her believe it more than she already did.
Smile tight, she knows it must look severe, but she can't seem to thaw it any. "Why am I here?" She isn't ready to be in the field, wound barely holding together as is. She isn't ready to even accept she's here, had waken with a ghost hanging over her, had waken at all. "You could have used Carter. Anyone would have worked."
His thumb skims back across. "They know her face. Everyone else is too young, would have drawn too much attention."
"There's someone. It didn't have to be me." He squeezes tighter, and she withholds a shudder.
"I understand this last year's been hard on you, that you probably won't admit it, and that this is—"
"There is no this."
Shaking his head, his eyes never leave hers. "This is no different from your LMD." Another thing he's said a thousand times.
"It's completely different."
"Explain it to me."
"I already have."
"Then do it again."
"I was still out there. You're—" Voice cracking, she looks away again, gathers herself as quickly as she can. The restaurant is still as calm, predictable as one can expect from Hydra, everyone dead to her turmoil. "You're in a box. You aren't him."
He isn't. It isn't. Her Coulson is dead, rotting in the ground where she left him. This is just an imitation. A pale one at that. Hardware and programming. Everything that made him, him - memories, personality - broken down to be played back, give the illusion of life. A machine. All done with the intention to help. Not hinder, not harm, but it hurts all the same. It never stops.
"Melinda—"
"Don't call me that." The name threatens to drown her, the way he says it, the softness, reminiscent of the end. she swallows hard, blinking rapidly.
"May, I…I—"
"Stop. Please, stop." She doesn't want to hear any more, doesn't want to be here pretending. It's the closest she'll come to begging out loud, and he thankfully nods, leaning back in his chair. Hand falling from his, she hides them both in her lap, ignoring to urge to reach for him, make sure he's still there, hand burning where his touch was. She can barely stand to be around him, but when he's gone from her sight, her chest tightens in panic. It hurts when he's there, and hurts when he isn't. There's no winning in this. They both just sit there, losing hand after hand after hand.
Then he shifts, eyes casually drifting around the room. "They're gone," he says simply, as if it isn't a problem.
Shoulders tensing, she keeps herself from looking back. "Where?"
"Not sure."
It'd be easy to blame him. They'd been behind her, there'd be no reason she'd see them go. All he had to do was watch, and instead it'd sat there harassing her for the last forty-odd minutes. But it won't solve anything, and she should have noticed when their waiter never returned. So it's both their faults. They're better trained then this… Or they should be. Had been once.
He's out of his chair, up and turned toward the door, a wide wall of windows. And now that he's not staring at her with that haunting gaze, she can breathe again. The respite is short lived though, the next moment he's lunging at her, sending them both to the floor. Heart in her throat, she barely hears the glass shattering, bullets whizzing above them. It's over before she truly registers it's begun, and in the deafening seconds after, she's still tucked protectively under him. The squealing of tires doesn't even break the paralysis.
They haven't been this close since she woke up, unsettled to be waking, traumatized to see him there. She'd torn her stitches trying to escape. Now, she's pinned, face to face, and if she were forced to pick the differences between the two, she can't. Whether his memory has faded so much in a year or she's glossing over inconsistencies, she's unsure but these are the eyes she's known for more than half her life, it even smells like him. How had they managed that? Or maybe it's all in her head.
She swallows past the forming lump in her throat. "Phil…"
Then he smiles, bright and endearing and real, one that constricts her heart the same way it did the last time she'd seen it. "It's really me in here, Mel."
She almost believes it, welcomes it, stares into blue and falls head first. But…
What's left of the door bursts open, and seamlessly he stands, undisturbed by the close call. A chill creeps up her spine at the lost, eyes following his every move. He relaxes after he's upright, but she knows it isn't a threat.
"Hey, you guys okay?"
Daisy. It's always Daisy.
"We're good."
"What's the point of trying to save these assholes if they're just going to try and blow us up?"
Coulson shrugs. "I mean they didn't try to blow us up…"
"Figure of speech."
"And because if we don't, everything we've done up until this point will have been for nothing."
Daisy's hand smack against her thighs, clearly not up for technicalities today. "Yeah, I know the spiel, Danny Downer, I'm just…"
"Letting off steam."
"Yeah, kinda."
It's not him. It's not. It isn't. Can't be. He's gone. Gone, gone, gone… In a box. In the ground. This is just a phantom pain she can't shake. A ghost always in her peripheral. She won't fall into the same trap twice. She learned her lesson. She learned it. There's no going back. Her stomach tightens, breaths short, their voices just a hum in the background.
"You're bleeding."
Then it's sharp focus. Of course she is, she's can smell the iron already. Glancing down, her hand's already pressed against the wound in question. She ripped her stitches again, silken blouse plastered to the growing patch of red. Its burns, pain spiking through her chest as she pushes harder against it.
Her recent run through makes getting back to her feet challenging, more work than she cares for after everything. Non-Coulson comes to the rescue again though, despite many previous warning. He hooks an arm around her waist, takes one of hers over his shoulders, and lifts her up. Stretching out, she hisses at the pull, sting, but keeps her eyes a head. Won't look at him, doesn't want to be this close ever again. Can't be for her own sake.
Feet solid on the ground, she pulls away, hunching in on herself. "I said I wasn't ready."
It's soft, pained, and Daisy wants to say something, but nothing comes to mind—nothing that would help anyway, and May leaves before she has a chance. They should all go before the authorities arrive, but Coulson looks so crestfallen—it's an expression he wears often these days—she pats his shoulder. "She'll come around. Don't worry."
"I don't think so, Daisy, not this time."