June 5th, 2011
Roswell, New Mexico
While the SHIELD hospital didn't smell like normal hospitals, the hyper-clean smell was almost as bad; the flowers next to her bed were only doing so much to make Quinn's room smell more welcoming. Less like a prison. Like the end of the line.
She gazed at those flowers—daisies dyed blue; she loved blue flowers, whether they were naturally or artificially so—frequently. Besides the desert outside the window, they were the most interesting thing to look at. There was hardly anything good on TV when she awake to watch it. The flowers were from Agent Phil Coulson, her boss, her mentor, and a father to her as well. He had hardly left her side since he and Agent Clint Barton had pulled her from the rubble in the small desert town of Puente Antiguo after it had been ravaged by an otherworldly weapon, and he wasn't going anywhere anytime soon if the laptop and pile of paperwork on the table were any indication.
He cared about her.
He was worried about her.
Truth be told, Quinn was worried about herself too, in some part of her mind. Most of her mind was just dark though. Dark, and filled with thoughts about her uncertain future.
About what the shattered bones in her leg could mean.
It had only been a few days since her accident. She'd had three surgeries to fix her leg and was under constant watch, just in case she started to bleed internally again. She was tired and her brain was foggy with painkillers, but she was still sore. Her entire being ached. She wanted to move, but she couldn't, even to roll onto her side. She wanted to eat something more than hospital food. She wanted to be anywhere but where she was. She wanted to be home. She wanted to yell, scream, fight. Do something other than lie around.
But that wasn't what was clouding her thoughts.
Thanks to a badly bruised spine and tailbone, she still couldn't move anything below her waist, except for the toes on her uninjured leg. She could barely even feel anything below the waist, though more feeling was returning every day. And her injured leg… It didn't really look like a leg. It looked like a shapeless white mass with metal pins sticking out of it. Only the tips of her toes, pale and cold, were visible at the very end of the full-length cast. Her leg was completely immobilized and she may never regain full use of it.
Her leg, injured because she'd made a stupid choice, a stupid mistake, might be enough to take her position as a field agent at SHIELD away from her. If she didn't regain full use of it, she would be stuck behind a desk, if she stayed with SHIELD at all.
She could lose the life she had, and it was a life she loved.
"You're up," Coulson said as he entered the room, the sound of his voice drawing her from her thoughts. He had a tray piled with food in front of him, one he set on the little table that swung out over the bed. "I managed to get you a blueberry muffin."
"I want a cheeseburger."
"Maybe in a couple days."
Quinn hit the button that moved her bed up and down, putting it into positon to make it easier to eat. In addition to the muffin, there was a cheese sandwich, carrot sticks, apple slices, blue Jello, orange juice, and water. She went right for the Jello, though she didn't really feel like eating anything, and she ignored the little sigh Coulson let slip. Coulson settled himself back in the chair by the window and pulled his laptop onto his knees, fingers flying across the keyboard. He wouldn't share what he was working on, but Quinn knew that was because he wanted her to rest, not work. And she would work if he gave her the slightest opening.
After picking through the Jello, eating a couple carrots, and taking a few bites of the sandwich, Quinn pushed the tray away. "Has Fury said anything about—?"
"Quinn, you need to rest and get better. You will not relax if you're constantly thinking about work."
"But I can't lose—"
"Fury will arrive tomorrow and he'll talk to you about your position with SHIELD, though you shouldn't even be thinking about that right now. You should be focusing on getting better."
Quinn knew she was pouting, but she didn't care. She slumped back into her pillows as much as she could. She wished she could roll onto her side and put her back to Coulson. Or punch a pillow. Or scream.
"You're not going to lose your job," he said, voice accompanied by the clocking of the keyboard.
"You don't know that."
"I do." Coulson shut his laptop with a snap and returned it to the table before getting to his feet to approach the bed. "Sulking is not going to make your recovery go any faster, Quinn," he said quietly. He put a hand on her shoulder and gave it a small squeeze. "I know you don't like being stuck in bed, but if you try and move too soon, you'll just end up making it worse. You're young, you're strong. You'll get through this, kick your physical therapy in the ass, and be back to normal before you know it."
Quinn reluctantly met Coulson's eyes, took in his fatherly smile. For a few heartbeats, she tried to ignore the affection and concern she found there, tried to remain dour. But, as usual, Coulson's warm nature won out. "Boss…" she started. Her voice cracked and she reached across her body with her good arm, snagging Coulson's hand when he brought it into range. Her eyes began to burn. "Phil—"
He wrapped his arms around her shoulders as he sank onto the edge of the bed beside her and held her head to his chest, stroking her dark hair as she cried. "Oh kid," he whispered, careful not to betray how much it hurt him, scared him, to see her so broken and vulnerable when normally she was so strong and vibrant. "It's going to be okay." He placed a soft kiss on her head, held her tighter. "It's going to be okay."
June 6th, 2011
Roswell, New Mexico
"Aglet is so not a word."
Quinn grabbed her phone and typed the word in to bring up a definition. She turned the device around with a triumphant—and slightly smug—grin on her face. "It is so a word."
Maria Hill, Deputy Director of SHIELD—Fury's right hand—and one of Quinn's friends, huffed in defeat. "Fine." She rolled her neck and it popped quietly before she placed her tiles on the board, each wooden square clicking audibly against the game board. "Tank."
Quinn snorted. "Typical."
The women shared a grin as Maria tallied up her points. Quinn had spent most of the previous evening fretting about Director Fury's arrival and what news he would bring, and then she had slept fitfully, alternating between bouts of pain and painkiller-induced slumber that left her feeling groggy and indistinct whenever she awoke. She'd choked down a few bites of breakfast and though Coulson had urged her to eat more, her stomach just wouldn't take it. After he helped her brush her hair and get herself as presentable as possible, Quinn had flicked through the channels, her stomach turning with nausea that had nothing to do with her medication; even with all her years at SHIELD, Director Fury still intimidated her like nothing and no one else.
When the helicopter had landed on the roof, one floor above Quinn, she'd heard it, felt it. She hadn't expected Maria to come with the Director, though it had been a nice surprise. An even nicer surprise had been Maria staying in the room with Quinn while Fury and Coulson went to speak to the doctors and no doubt have some private discussion concerning Coulson's protégé. She suspected the game of Scrabble was meant as a distraction, but it was welcome. And it had done much to brighten her mood.
"Maria, if you keep throwing down four letter words I am going to kick your ass."
"You always kick my ass at this game."
"You could have picked something else," Quinn said, scratching at her arm just above the cast. "I'm sure there are more board games in this place."
One of Maria's eyebrows rose, the gesture dripping with sarcasm. "Clearly you've never spent much time in a SHIELD hospital before, Scottie. We've got all the most advanced technology and the best supplies—though they tend to skimp on the toilet paper for some reason—but they never seem to think about recreation."
"Well you're right that I've never spent much time at a SHIELD hospital." Quinn looked down at her injured body, currently covered by a blanket which tented awkwardly over her broken leg. "Until now."
Maria frowned, lips drawing together in a thin line. "I didn't mean…"
"It's okay. I mean, this whole situation isn't okay, but I—" Quinn paused and gave her head a gentle shake. "This is ridiculous. I don't feel like myself and I don't even sound like myself in my head." She sighed.
"I can't imagine. The worst I've ever been was that time I broke my arm while looking for that 084 in Turkey a few years back."
"You got shot, twice in the side, on that same mission."
"Yeah, but the break was worse. Desk duty. Ugh." She gave Quinn a small smile and laid down tiles to spell out "zipper" on the board. "The painkillers weren't fun though. I mean, aside from being high as a kite, you really don't feel right."
Quinn sighed again, the game largely forgotten even though she was staring at the checkered board. "It's more than just the drugs. I feel weak and…" She looked up at Maria, her tawny eyes dark in the fluorescent lighting of the room. "I'm scared I'm going to lose everything," she admitted.
The bald admission took Maria off guard. Her eyes widened and she blinked a few times before she managed to say anything. "Fury hasn't made a decision yet—"
"Hill."
As was his way, Fury had picked the perfect moment to appear in the doorway. His long black trench coat was absent in concession to the desert heat, replaced by a lighter, shorter jacket. It was still black though, as was the rest of his outfit, down to the eyepatch cutting across his face. Maria rose instantly and moved away from the bed, the slightest tint of red marking her embarrassment at being caught divulging something she probably shouldn't have. Fury took her spot, though he didn't sit down. Coulson and Maria hovered behind him.
"She's right though," Fury said. He'd lowered his voice, speaking in a tone Quinn had only heard a handful of times. It wasn't softer exactly, just less intense. "I haven't made a decision, and I don't think I can until we see how your recovery goes."
"That's fair," Quinn said, her own voice tighter than normal.
Though it was better than she'd expected, it also wasn't great. Something had shifted inside her though—she would recover and she would do whatever she could to get through her physical therapy. Then Fury would make the right decision, the decision she needed him to.
Stubbornness flared inside and for that brief moment, Quinn felt more like herself.
Director Fury did sit then, surprising Quinn and, judging by the looks on their faces, Coulson and Maria as well. He leaned in, briefly touched Quinn's good arm. "I know how you feel, stuck in that bed with machines recording your every breath." Fury touched his temple next to his covered eye. Quinn had read the files covering the mission when the Director had taken the bullet that cost him his eye—it had nearly cost him his life. Recovery had been extensive. "You want to move, to do something, but you can't."
Quinn nodded. "I hate it."
One corner of his mouth quirked up in a smirk. "I did too." The brief moment of levity was gone, replaced by a firm expression. "But you'll get through this. You're tough. Hell, you survived having a building fall on you." It was more an order than anything else and Quinn had to supress the desire to respond. "Coulson will stay here with you unless he's needed elsewhere, and we'll be keeping tabs on your recovery. As soon as the doctors are sure you can handle the flight, we'll get you back to New York."
"Thank you, sir."
"Being closer to home will help," he said as he rose from the chair. "Oh, and the doctor said you're not using your morphine drip much."
"I don't like feeling cloudy."
Fury nodded. "Use it. At least at night. It'll help you sleep."
"Okay, sir."
Without command and with only a quick goodbye—there was no need for anything else—Maria followed Fury as he left the room, leaving Quinn and Coulson alone. Coulson took up the vacated chair and peered down at the Scrabble board.
"How the hell did Maria get the 'z' tile?"
Quinn just shrugged.
June 7th, 2011
Roswell, New Mexico
Quinn pulled herself a morphine-aided slumber slowly, her vision alternating between blurry and really blurry with every sluggish blink. She felt light, but she didn't feel trapped or in pain. She felt like she was still stuck in the weird dreams she'd had: mostly flashes of colour and sound, faces, voices, memories. That damn icy wasteland and echoing metal tunnel. It was weird, feeling stuck halfway between stages of being. But not unpleasant—Fury had been right, the drugs helped her sleep. Sleep would be instrumental in her recovery.
After a moment of reacclimatizing to the waking world and blue-silver-white prison of her hospital room, Quinn realized what had awoken her.
She wasn't alone.
Sitting in two chairs they'd brought to the end of the bed, quietly chatting, were Agents Natasha Romanoff and Clint Barton, also known as Black Widow and Hawkeye, also known as Strike Team Delta. They were some of SHIELD's best agents and part of Coulson's team. They were also two of Quinn's closest friends, despite age differences and wildly different backgrounds. Quinn's reactions were too slowed by the drugs for her to have been startled upon realizing their presence, but she still wasn't entirely happy about their unannounced status.
She knew they'd done that on purpose.
Just because she was stuck in bed, broken and lacking some of her fundamental Quinn-ness, didn't mean they'd treat her any different.
She was glad of that.
"Are you trying to give me a heart attack?" she mumbled, fumbling for the button to raise the head of her bed. She found it without too much trouble; three days had given her intimate knowledge of everything she could reach, everything she could see. She pulled the blanket off her legs; she was usually too hot when she woke.
Natasha rose in a fluid motion, her red hair floating around her unreadable face. She moved to the side of the bed that put her in reach of Quinn's good arm and placed a hand on her friend's shoulder, giving it a small squeeze.
"We didn't mean to alarm you," she said simply.
"Sure."
One corner of Natasha's mouth quirked up. "We just got in early and you were still asleep. Coulson needed a shower and to sleep in an actual bed, so we sent him off."
Quinn nodded, leaned into Natasha's touch a little bit. That she believed. "Good. He won't leave when I'm awake, unless it's to get food, and even then he makes sure there's someone to check up on me if he's gone for longer than ten minutes. I'm pretty sure he even turned down a job from Fury."
"He just turned down taking point," Clint offered. He'd moved to stand beside Natasha and had a hand on Quinn's leg. "Nat and I still took the job. Still got it done."
"Good," she said with a sigh. "I'm glad he hasn't left me alone here, but at the same time…"
"You can take care of yourself." Natasha smiled in the way she sometimes did that reminded Quinn of the way her oldest brother had smiled when they were younger, before they'd been split up by Social Services. "I know. Coulson knows that too."
"We didn't come here to talk about Coulson though," Clint said. He sat gently on the end of the bed. Since it was larger than most hospital beds, there was plenty of room for him to sit without jostling Quinn. There was also enough room for Natasha to sit on the bed near her head. "We came here to see how you were doing."
"I'm going stir-crazy is how I'm doing." Quinn shifted a bit, as much as she was able.
"I can't imagine you like being stuck in bed."
She raised an eyebrow at Natasha. "Of course I don't. Do you like being stuck in bed when you're injured?"
"Not one bit."
"And you've never had a limb shattered. You've never faced the possibility of losing your job and there being nothing you could do to try and stop that. You heal crazy well," she said to Natasha; to Clint, "And you seem to have a horseshoe up your ass when it comes to avoiding serious injury." Quinn rapped her knuckles against the top of the cast on her leg. "All I can do is lie here and hope all this time and medication is doing something to make my leg feel better. I can't do anything until I'm in physical therapy." Her eyes began to burn as they often did when she thought about the future. "I can't do anything."
"You never were very patient," Clint said, barely suppressing a smirk.
She nudged her foot against Clint's leg. "Hey. You're supposed to be nice to me. I'm an invalid."
"You are so not allowed to complain about being stuck in bed one moment and then use it to your advantage the next."
"I can so. I'm an invalid."
Natasha chuckled. "I wouldn't argue Clint."
"I could never win an argument against her anyway, even when she wasn't full of pent up stubbornness and fight."
Quinn grinned, the wave of self-pity banished in the presence of her friends.
For a while they chatted idly about Clint and Natasha's current missions, about movies and music, about the state of Quinn's apartment—which Natasha, Clint, and a few other agents had taken turns tending to—about the latest gossip at SHIELD headquarters in New York and at the Treskelion in Washington, DC.
Apparently, there was a Level 8 mission being planned in the Arctic, but neither Natasha nor Clint had picked up any more details beyond that the agency was looking for something. And that though the mission was supposed to start soon, if they weren't successful, they would have to delay until the spring since the winter in the Arctic would prevent the kind of investigation they needed. Fury had ordered the mission, though they hadn't been able to find out why. Natasha had tried to get on the mission but it was science-focused. Very little need for field operatives.
"I wonder what they're looking for," Quinn mused.
"Something they want," Clint said, scratching at his cheek. "There's a while drawer of files about missions to the Arctic."
Quinn frowned. Something was pulling at the back of her mind—she should know what they were looking for. It was right there, but the thought wouldn't form in completion. She shook it off. Damn painkillers. "I hope we find it then," she said instead. She caught site of the clock on the wall. "Didn't you say your chopper would be here at noon? It's almost noon."
"It won't leave without us." Natasha slipped her arm around Quinn's shoulders and gave her a hug, being careful not to put too much pressure on her injured side. "Call me if you need me, okay?"
"You can call me too. We'll come if we can."
Quinn, her head on Natasha's shoulder, smiled at her friends. "I know I can guys. Trust me, one thing I don't feel is alone or abandoned. I'm just stuck and I hate it."
"We'll help get you through this. And help get you through physical therapy. That," Clint said, his tone shifting, "is always a bitch."
"Good. If I'm lucky, I can do my therapy in New York. I want to get out of this desert."
Clint peered out the window. "Yeah, there's not much going on out here."
"And there is nothing on TV."
Natasha chuckled, gave Quinn another squeeze. "As much as I loathe to leave you to all this drudgery, we do have to go."
"I understand. Go get 'em."
Quinn accepted a hug from Clint as well, after Natasha had risen from her seat. "We'll check in with Coulson when we're back and then come and visit again when we can."
"You'd better."
Quinn smiled as she watched them leave, but the darkness that hovered at the edges of mind was already creeping forward again, eager for any emotional dip to slip to the forefront, to take over. She did her best to keep it at bay, but when she was alone… It was harder. Her eyes dropped to her leg again and with a huff, she pulled the blanket back across her lap, covering as much of the cast and pins and metal she could. She wasn't cold, but she didn't want to look at the source of her depression.
"Damn. I was hoping to catch Romanoff and Barton before they left." Coulson, looking more alert, more rested than he had in a long time, came back into the room, another tray of food in his hands. "I got you clearance for a cheeseburger."
Quinn perked up, the darkness sliding away with the small proof that Coulson was there, listening to her. That he was taking care of her. "Was it made in the hospital?"
"Nope. A little diner that's not too far away. Even got you fries and a chocolate milkshake."
He set the tray on the table and slid it in front of her, displaying the food he'd mentioned, along with a glass of water, her pills, and cucumber slices. The burger was topped just the way she liked it, bacon included. Quinn gave him a wide grin. Leave it to Coulson to find a good burger in the middle of nowhere. "Thanks Boss. I can't imagine the doctors were too happy."
"Oh, they're not, but there's no reason you can't have a cheeseburger. They just want to know if you feel sick at all after eating it."
"Of course they do."
Coulson took up his post at the table and set to work as Quinn ate. It turned out the newest Star Trek movie was on, so Quinn watched that as she ate and felt more content, more like herself than she had in a while. She knew it was probably temporary, but she enjoyed it while she could.
June 8th, 2011
Roswell, New Mexico
When Agent Antione Triplett walked through the door to Quinn's hospital room, she found herself a little taken back. Her and Trip hadn't ended their relationship on bad terms or anything, but last she'd heard, he'd been in Asia somewhere, chasing a lead about a gifted individual for the Index.
"I didn't expect to see you all the way out here," Quinn said lamely as she watched him approach.
He was looking at her with something between cold calculation and worry. His eyes widened slightly as he took in her injuries, the worn and tired look on her face, the slightly sunken look to her cheeks. Trip dropped heavily into the chair, moving with none of his usual fluidity and grace. All the calculation left his face in a rush, the worry taking over his being. He reached out and took her good hand.
"When Coulson said you'd been in an accident… I didn't expect this."
Quinn squeezed his hand. "I didn't know Coulson had contacted you."
"Well would you have?"
"Not while I thought you were on a mission. I would have called when I was back in New York probably."
"Probably."
Quinn sighed and settled back into the pillows, her tawny eyes locked on Trip's face. She reached out with her good hand to cup his cheek, thumb brushing gently under his eye. "Trip, I would have called you. I am a little preoccupied though."
He smiled then, a shadow of his normal bright grin, some of his normal swagger creeping back into his posture. "I guess so. You've got a lot of recovering to do." He gestured at her chart where it hung from the end of her bed. "May I?"
"Go for it."
She watched Trip read through her chart, his dark eyes moving methodically through the information. Occasionally, he'd run a hand over his shaved head or scratch at his beard, but he didn't move otherwise, focused completely on the reports, the diagrams, the photos. Quinn knew there were photos of her from when she was brought into the hospital in Puente Antiguo right after her accident. She'd been broken, bloody, bruised, and faintly burned. Barely recognizable. Clothes and hair torn, dirty, tangled, and singed. She knew when Trip saw those pictures because his mouth fell open and when he looked at her, there were tears in his shocked eyes. He dropped the chart on the nightstand beside her bed as he rose, shifting to sit on the bed, facing her.
He said nothing, just leaned forward and kissed her softly.
Quinn returned the kiss. It was a different kiss than those they'd shared before. It was chaste but still full of love. She reached up with her good hand and wrapped it around the back of his neck, held him there as they parted, their foreheads touching, the tips of their noses brushing.
"How are you doing? Really," he asked quietly.
Quinn settled back again, groaning slightly at the pain lancing through her spine. Trip remained on the bed, one hand on her leg. "I'm in pain. The more feeling and control I gain below my waist, the more pain I'm in, but I am getting feeling back, so that's encouraging. I'm still worried about this leg," she said, rapping her knuckles against the cast. Her voice wavered a bit when she tried to speak.
"It's not going to be easy, but you can get through it."
The smile Quinn gave in response was almost sarcastic. "It's funny that the only person who doesn't fully believe that is me."
Trip squeezed her leg. "You're strong, Quinn, and Coulson said the doctors think you'll heal well. As long you don't push yourself," he added, looking up at her with a steady stare.
Quinn snorted. "And therein lies the rub, because we know I will."
"As soon as you can move your good leg?"
"Probably."
"Quinn…"
"Look, Trip, it's not like I'm going to intentionally damage my leg further, but I'm going stir crazy in here. I hate being stuck in bed and every little bit of a movement…"
"You really think Coulson's going to let you run off?"
"It's not that, Trip," she nearly spat. "I'm scared. I'm scared that I'll push myself and make this worse. I'm scared that I'll be the reason this all falls apart—that I lose my job—"
"Hey, hey—calm down." Trip shifted closer, his hands on her shoulders, squeezing gently. He and Quinn had known each other for long enough for him to anticipate a moment when she would lose control. Like most who knew her, he had never seen her as vulnerable as she was in that hospital room, but he was intent on not letting her unravel. "Quinn, just breathe girl, just breathe."
She gasped down a deep breath and dropped her forehead against Trip's again, relishing the contact, the small display of affection, of comfort. "I'm sorry," she finally breathed.
"Don't apologize." His hands brushed across her cheeks as he sat back. "You're allowed to be a little out of control, but you gotta try to keep it together, okay?"
Quinn nodded, gulped some more air down. She forced a smile, one which Trip returned.
"Do you know when you'll be going to New York?" Trip asked, taking the opening and changing the subject.
Gratefully, Quinn answered: "Whenever the doctors think I'm stable enough. I have some more scans and tests today to measure my progress."
"Good." Trip gestured to the window. "There's not much to see out here."
After that, they kept the conversation lighter, focused on their friends, their past, their missions. Quinn goaded Trip into telling her stories about his grandfather, who'd been one of the Howling Commandos, Captain America's—and later Agent Peggy Carter's—elite squad. Quinn and Coulson shared an interest in their exploits, in the history of their organization, in anything relating to Captain America. Trip had told her most of them before, but hearing them again distracted her, calmed her, even made her laugh. At her behest, Trip dug Colonel Phillips' journal out of her bag and brought it to her; it was the first time she'd looked at it since being in the hospital. She didn't read it, just held it, ran her fingers along the pieces of paper, the edge of the photographs she'd tucked between the pages, let the familiarity of it comfort her, centre her.
Their conversation was interrupted by the appearance of the nurses who'd been attending to Quinn—Denise and Christina—come to take her down to get X-rayed, to have her blood taken, to do whatever else they needed. Quinn nodded at them and then turned back to Trip.
"Thank you for coming, Trip," she whispered.
She handed him the journal, trusting him to keep it safe, put it back where it belonged; she knew he'd take out the photograph of the Howling Commandos and Captain America he'd given her first and smile the smile that matched his grandfather's perfectly.
They kissed again, the same soft expression as before, and Trip gave her a gentle hug. He kissed her head as he stood up. "I'll see you when you're back in New York, girl."
Quinn smiled at him, loving the sound of the simple term of endearment. He squeezed her good hand and then moved out of the way as the nurses unhooked Quinn's bed and wheeled her out into the hall. They passed Coulson as he was returning to the room. The older agent went to stand with Trip and together they watched Quinn vanish into the elevator at the end of the hall.
June 9th, 2011
Roswell, New Mexico
"I've got some good news."
Quinn dropped the book she was reading into her lap and looked up at Coulson. The remains of her lunch covered the tray to her right—she'd almost eaten everything, which was progress. Trip's visit had also left her in good spirits. Better spirits. She'd slept well and spent the day reading. Her great-grandfather's journal had taken up permanent residence next to her right hip. She felt far less trapped, less stuck, than she had since being pulled from the rubble.
"What is it?" she asked, doing her best to keep her hopes in check.
"Your scans and tests from yesterday were all good. Your shoulder, arm, and leg are healing as expected—your leg better than expected, actually—and there have been no signs of further internal bleeding. Your head's clear, and the swelling in your spine is almost gone. Can you move your good leg?"
Quinn gnashed her teeth and groaned, but she bent her knee slightly. She'd been moving it a little bit a few times a day, determined to get the mobility back in that leg as soon as possible. The effort left her sweating and exhausted and sore, but she'd done it. Raised her leg off the bend, bent her knee, wiggled all her toes, flexed her foot. She looked up at Coulson, who was smiling proudly at her, and she smiled back.
"Kid, that's excellent."
"So what does all that mean?"
"It means you're good to be transferred to the SHIELD facility in New York in a couple of days. I'm working with the hospital at home to arrange proper transport since you can't really walk yet, but as soon as you're in New York, they want to begin your physical therapy, first to deal with the swelling in your spine, and then, eventually, your bad leg. Once it's out of the cast in however many months."
"Facility? Not hospital?"
Coulson's grin grew and turned into the one he wore when he was hiding something. Especially hiding something he knew would make someone else happy. Or maybe he only did it with Quinn.
"No hospital," he said. "It's a medical facility, but you'll be in a small apartment, not a room like this one, and there won't be any machines or restraints. Just a monitor you'll have to wear on your arm to keep an eye on your vitals and scans twice a week unless you show any negative signs, but you'll be left mostly to your own devices, with a button to call for help if needed." Coulson settled on the edge of the bed, his hands clasped loosely in his lap. "I'll check on you as much as I can, and I'm sure Romanoff and Barton will too, but you'll see your physical therapist more than anyone now."
"Eugh—what if I don't like them?"
Coulson snorted. "They'll find you a new one. There has to be some degree of compatibility. You have to trust your therapist."
"I forgot you had physical therapy for your arm a hundred years ago."
"Hey now. I'm not that old."
Quinn grinned. "Sorry Boss." Her smile turned to a thoughtful frown. "How hard was it for you?" she asked, a little apprehension crawling into her voice.
"It was difficult," he answered after a moment. She could see that Coulson didn't want to tell her this, that he wanted to lie, give her some comfort, however false. But he didn't. "It was painful, horrible, and much of time, I felt it was futile. But I knew that if I didn't keep up with it, I would—"
"Lose your job." Quinn sighed. "I can only imagine mine will be worse."
"Probably. I'm sorry, kid."
"Don't apologize. I knew it was going to be hard." Some of that darkness swirled inside at the thought of the hard work ahead of her, but Quinn had never shied from hard work before. She wouldn't now. She inhaled a deep breath and exhaled slowly. "I just want to get through this, want to be back on my feet." She forced herself to move her foot again, bend her knee slightly. "I need to move."
"Soon. Although, I'd be careful about pushing it too much."
"I'm already doing it," she huffed, letting her leg fall back onto the bed. "I'm already putting myself in danger of damaging myself further."
"Would you like me to go and find out some more information about the transport?"
"Yes please."
"I'll be back soon then. Go back to your book or check Facebook. Keep your mind off of it, okay?" Coulson tilted his head in a fair approximation of Director Fury's stern look.
"Yes, sir."
Coulson rolled his eyes but he left the room. Quinn picked up her phone in her good hand and started scrolling through her various feeds, the fingers of her left hand itching to hold her phone the way it used to. There was nothing new or exciting, though she read a couple interesting reviews about some movies she wanted to see. About five minutes into her Facebook feed, her phone started to ring.
It was a call from Natasha.
With a frown, Quinn swiped her thumb across the screen and brought her phone to her ear. "Hey Nat, what's up?"
"Coulson just told me you're heading back to New York in a couple of days."
"Yeah. I'm being transported to some sort of medical housing facility."
"It's called The Greenhouse. I spent some time there after I got shot in the hip. It's much better than a hospital, and the physical therapists are top notch. Barton was there when he broke his hand right after joining SHIELD and he has full dexterity back."
"That's good to hear."
"We'll be in New York in a couple days. I should be there when you arrive. I can help you get settled if you want. Bring some stuff from your apartment?"
"That would be great, Nat. If I have to stay there for who knows how long, it'll be nice to have it feel a bit more like home. Make sure to grab some movies too. Then I can at least keep myself occupied when I'm not trying to relearn how to use my limbs."
"Of course. I know what to grab." It didn't unsettle Quinn that Natasha knew her so well; it comforted her. "I'll even bring you some good food."
"You're an angel."
Natasha chuckled. "I've got to go now. Target's on the move. I'll see you in a few days."
"See you then."
Quinn ended the call and dropped her phone back on the bed beside her. She picked her book up, but the words didn't stick as she read them, so she sat it back down after only a few moments and picked up Colonel Phillip's journal.
She opened it to the pages describing the birth of Captain America, traced the familiar letters, the patches of paper worn smooth by her touch. She pulled out of the photograph of the Project Rebirth team, studied the faces: Colonel Phillips, heavily lined, but eyes shining brightly; Agent Carter, full lips quirked in a silent challenge; Steve Rogers, small but with a defiant tilt to his chin. Those were the three faces she looked to every time she pulled the worn photo out. Next, she pulled out the picture of the Howling Commandos Trip had given her. It was in significantly better condition than the other photo, and the group of smiling men standing around a stoic Peggy Carter made her smile just as much. The last photo in the collection had come from Peggy Carter herself. It was a candid shot someone had taken of Colonel Phillips and Captain America leaning over a map, deep in concentration. It was Quinn's favourite of the three.
With the photos freshly committed to memory and the journal back on the bed beside her, Quinn trained her eye on the door, the TV on for background noise as she waited for Coulson to return. She tried her best not to think of anything specific. She just waited.
He was gone for another fifteen minutes or so, a smile on his face. "Everything's all set for your transport in two days."
Quinn felt something in her chest loosen at the prospect of going home. Even if she wasn't going to be in her apartment, at least she would be somewhere familiar and she would be somewhere more comfortable. She wouldn't be in the desert. She beamed at Coulson.
"I can't wait."
June 10th, 2011
Roswell, New Mexico
After a night of restless sleep—her morphine drip didn't seem to be able to combat the worst of the pain in her broken leg, and moving her good leg had resulted in some pain as well—Quinn spent the morning and early afternoon dozing, the TV on as soft background noise as she slipped in and out of consciousness. In and out of dreams. She was aware of Coulson working. She liked the sound of his fingers on the keys and knowing he was there. Every so often, Coulson would leave, but he always came back. If she was awake, he'd smile or squeeze her ankle as he passed.
When she finally felt alert and clearheaded enough, Quinn lay still for a while, staring at the darkening sky out the window; without the fog of civilization, the sunset was a vibrant orange and pink, darkening to a deep purple, a velvety blue. Coulson was gone. He hadn't been there when Quinn had come around, but she knew he would be back soon, so she contented herself with alternating between the sunset and the crime drama currently on the television.
Her mind wandered as the detectives went through the steps to solve the murder. She'd seen the same episode once already since being admitted to the hospital so she knew what was going to happen. She thought about her time at the Academy. How hard she'd pushed herself to get through training, to learn the ways of SHIELD. She thought about the time she'd spent late at night, early in the morning, putting in extra training to add muscle to her small frame; she remembered the feel of her favourite heavy bag against her taped hands. She remembered the satisfaction she'd felt the day it'd burst, spilling sand at her feet. Though she'd never been really close to anyone at the Academy, she recalled the faces of those she'd been friendly with, about the activities, the training exercises they'd run.
She thought particularly about a game her class had played in the last month of their program—it was called War, though the students tended to call it Murder Month. Each person was given the picture of a classmate, their target, and a prop knife. If they managed to land a deadly hit with the fake knife, they took out their target and adopted whatever targets they had as their own. On and on it went, until there was only one person left: the winner. A young man named Grant Ward had been the winner in Quinn's class. He and Quinn had been partnered together many times throughout the year, since the admissions staff had marked them as potential partners upon graduation, so they'd formed an alliance early on in the game. When the pool of participants had been whittled down to about six, Ward had turned on Quinn. There were no rules in War—other than you couldn't attack someone in their room or if they were naked—so she should have expected something of the sort. Ward had taken her out for drinks after his victory; they'd lost touch after graduation and hadn't been partnered up.
The whole game had been exhilarating. It was one of Quinn's favourite memories.
She thought about how it felt when she graduated, when the Director had handed her that badge, the one sitting on her nightstand, the leather of the case singed and the metal of the badge dinged from her accident. She'd wanted that badge so much, wanted what it represented to her: belonging, doing something for the greater good. She'd felt so alive on her first mission, and that feeling never left as she moved her way through the levels of SHIELD, as her and Coulson bonded, as she found her family. As she found her home.
Quinn had worked hard for what she had and she wouldn't lose it.
"You look very serious."
She gave a start as Coulson entered the room. "I was thinking about the Academy."
"War?" Coulson asked, a smile lifting his lips. War had been a tradition at the Academy for a long time. Coulson had won his year.
"Yeah. And just… the work. The feeling I had when I graduated." She grabbed her badge, flipped it open to stare at the eagle of SHIELD. With it open on her thigh, she ran her fingers over the cool metal. "I'm going to work hard to recover, Boss, but I'm afraid to make it worse, that it won't matter how hard I work. That I'll…" Quinn felt emotion welling inside, making her throat thick. Her voice came out strangled. It cracked.
Coulson was there, sitting beside her, his arm around her shoulders, holding her to his chest. "You won't be in this alone, Quinn. You call, I'll come. Nat'll come. Clint. Your physical therapist will be close by twenty-four-seven. They'll help you, keep you from making it worse. That's their job."
"Rationally, I know that, but I can't stop this fear."
"I know, kid." He stroked her hair, kiss her head. "These nerves are because we're heading to New York tomorrow?"
Quinn nodded against Coulson's chest. "I'm looking forward to actually doing something though. To getting up and moving. I am so sick of this bed."
"We'll have you running laps in no time."
"Ha."
June 11th, 2011
In transit between Roswell, New Mexico, and New York, New York
"This is a lot more comfortable than being strapped into a bed," Quinn mused. She wiggled her hips a tiny bit in the seat of her surprisingly squishy wheelchair, her broken leg propped out in front of her. She was strapped in to the chair, but that just felt like a normal seatbelt.
"Be glad you've regained as much movement and feeling in your legs as you have, or else you would have been in that bed."
"I'm not looking forward to being aware of my ass falling asleep though."
Coulson snorted, flipping the page of the mission report he was reading. It was a detailed account of Strike Team Delta's latest mission—a success, of course. All Coulson would tell Quinn was that they'd been tracking someone in possession of old Hydra tech to try and find where he was keeping it. Quinn had tried reading her book, but she was too excited to be going home. She couldn't focus. Instead, she'd spent most of the trip staring out the window or talking inanely about whatever came to mind, accepting the few words and noises Coulson gave as invitation to keep speaking.
The chatter was also to distract Quinn from the pain blossoming in her lower back, her good leg.
She had lied to the nurses, the doctors about how much pain she was feeling; she'd pushed the movement in her lower extremities because she didn't want to spend another moment in that bed. Quinn was regretting that now, but the plane was almost back in New York. She could hang on for a little while longer. Then she could lie back down—
"Quinn? Are you okay?"
"Huh?"
"You're sweating and you're pale." The mission report was forgotten on the empty seat beside Coulson.
"I'm fine." Even as the words left her lips, Quinn knew the statement wasn't convincing. "Really."
"Quinn," Coulson said in his best father voice—and it was good. "Are you in pain?" She nodded. Coulson sighed. "Quinn…"
She could hear the words though he hadn't spoken them: stupid mistake, unnecessary risk, doing exactly what she'd been afraid to do… Quinn felt her cheeks flush with shame, felt tears burning her eyes. Coulson said nothing. He just placed a hand on her shoulder, rubbed her back. He knew how eager and impatient, how trapped she felt. He touch, his understanding, brought the tears forward; the excitement in her gut turned sour, made her nauseous.
"We're almost home, kid. It won't take long to get from the airport to the Greenhouse. Then we'll get you comfortable." Coulson's hand didn't stop moving, rubbing small circles on her back. "Do you have any of the painkillers the doctors gave you left?"
Quinn nodded and Coulson retrieved them from the bag attached to her wheelchair. He handed them to her with the bottle of water she'd drank half of earlier and she settled back after swallowing them, eyes closed. The pain wasn't the worst she'd experienced since her accident, but it wasn't fun either. It was a persistent ache, sharpening whenever she moved. The small movements she'd been revelling in had hurt, but movement was precious.
She was doing exactly what she'd been so afraid of, pushing herself.
Why couldn't she just relax? Be a good patient?
Quinn banged her head against the back of her chair with a small groan, willing the painkillers to work faster. Willing the plane to land. Willing time to skip forward until she was safe at the Greenhouse, in her new room. With another morphine drip.
Knowing his words would have little impact, Coulson just placed a hand on her good knee and squeezed, letting her know he was there, that she wasn't suffering alone.
"Talk to me, Boss," she said after a moment. "Distract me."
"Uh…" She heard paper rustling, the snap of a folder. "Your physical therapist's name is Mike Vaughn. He's relatively new to SHIELD and The Greenhouse, but all reports of his abilities and his manner have been very positive. Also—" Coulson paused long enough for Quinn to hear the smile in his voice "—he's got a reputation as a movie buff, so you two should have lots to talk about."
Despite her pain, Quinn laughed. "Good. That's good. Maybe that'll make everything easier."
"Oh, and, I contacted your parents."
The way Coulson dropped that information, tagged on at the end of a thought, meant he knew she wouldn't exactly be happy to hear it. It wasn't that she didn't love her adoptive parents—she did, very much; Jared and Margret Nolan were loving, if very busy, people, and had done everything they could for Quinn—it was that she had barely spoken to them since joining SHIELD because she hated lying to them. They knew she worked for the government, in intelligence, but that was it. They called Quinn a couple times a month, and she called them on holidays and birthdays. She went to Washington, DC before Christmas to celebrate with Jared and Margret. She hadn't wanted them to know about her accident because they would worry.
"I know you don't want them to worry or stress about you, but they have a right to know, especially since you wouldn't be able to go home next month without a cast on your leg."
Quinn, who was looking at Coulson again, sighed. "I hadn't thought of that."
"I knew you wouldn't. They're coming to visit you tomorrow."
"Will you be there when they are?"
"I can be."
"Please," Quinn said, disliking how much that word sounded like a plea.
He squeezed her knee again. "Of course, kid. Of course I'll be there."
The plane gave a lurch as the landing gear came out. Quinn heard the pilot say they were descending and would be at the SHIELD airfield in a few minutes. She closed her eye again. The Greenhouse was a twenty minute drive from the airfield. She knew, based on the throbbing, dulled by the painkillers, that she wouldn't sleep well, but at least… at least she would be more comfortable soon.
June 12th, 2011
New York, New York
"Are you in a lot of pain?"
Quinn smiled at Margret, shook her head. "They're keeping me plenty numbed, unless it's time for physical therapy. It wouldn't be any good for me to further injure myself because I couldn't feel anything."
Margret tucked some of Quinn's dark hair behind her ear, cupped her cheek. There were tears in her blue eyes, and her auburn ponytail was messy; on a normally neat woman, this was shocking. There were more lines on Margret's face than Quinn remembered and suddenly she was kicking herself for not visiting more. She leaned into Margret's hand, put her own over it.
"It kills me to see you like this," she whispered. "You were always moving when you were younger, always so full of energy, and to see you like this… stuck…"
Quinn laughed, but the noise came out as a half-sob, tears springing to life from nowhere. "I feel the exact same way."
Margret laughed sadly, as did Jared, from his position in the chair next to the bed. Jared had barely said anything since they'd arrived, but he'd never said much and his face said it all anyway. His dark eyes were sad, his mouth a straight line. His hands were folded in his lap. He hadn't looked away from Quinn since the conversation had begun, except to study her casts with an intensity that made Quinn feel both guilty and sad. Quinn looked up and her eyes found Coulson's. He nodded. Quinn extended her hand to Jared. He took it and squeezed.
"I'm sorry Coulson had to tell you," Quinn said quietly.
"Oh honey, it's okay." Margret smiled. "We understand why you didn't tell us."
"We're just glad you're alive," Jared said. His voice was deep and reassuring. It had the same ability to calm Quinn it always had. To make her feel better. "We know there are things you can't tell us. We accept that part of your life, but please—"
"I promise I'll call you if something like this ever happens again."
Jared gave her one of his small smiles. It was an expression most would regard as something insincere or mocking, but Quinn knew Jared. He wasn't an overly expressive man. That smile was a big thing.
From there, the conversation shifted away from Quinn's injuries, from her oversight in not calling them. Margret and Jared filled Quinn in on how their life was going back in Washington, on how their friends Quinn had met growing up were doing. They discussed plans for their annual celebration of Quinn's birthday and the Fourth of July, and then plans for Christmas, all contingent on Quinn's ability to travel. Quinn told them what she could about her life, which wasn't much, but they didn't seem to mind. They talked about movies and books and TV shows. Food.
"We brought you a gift," Jared said at a break in the conversation.
"Oh?" Quinn perked up. She loved presents.
Her adoptive father produced a small gift bag from under his chair and placed it in Quinn's lap. Smiling, she pulled the tissue paper out and scattered it over her leg cast. In consideration to her broken arm, there was no further wrapping. Sitting in the bag where three Captain America comics that Quinn needed for her collection.
She grinned at Jared and Margret. "Thank you!"
Quinn leaned into Margret's hug and then dug into the comics, pulling them out, one by one, gazing at them fondly through the protective bag. She wanted to pull them out and flip through them, smell the old book, old paper smell of the comics, feel the paper beneath her fingers. The comics before her, like the rest in her Captain America collection, weren't in mint condition. She would read them once and then put them away with the others. Or, she'd get Coulson to do it, since the rest were at her apartment.
Maybe Natasha would bring them when she showed up.
"How many more do you need?" Jared asked. He'd always been interested in her collection, in her fascination with World War I, her great-grandfather's work.
"Just three for this run. I still have two more runs of comics to collect."
"Well send me the details and I'll keep my eyes open for you."
"Thanks." Quinn smiled affectionately at Jared. She'd never been able to call him Dad, just like she'd never been able to call Margret Mom. She associated bad things with those words. But she did love them. "I love you guys," she said, emotion creeping into her voice.
Margret hugged her again and then even Jared hugged her. She clung to both of them and let herself cry. She met Coulson's gaze, saw tears in his eyes above his smile. Quinn smiled at him. She felt oddly buoyant having all those she thought of as parents in one place.
When the group embrace ended, Margret and Jared had to leave. Quinn had to begin her physical therapy and neither of them could take too much time off from work. Quinn promised to call and visit when she could, and they promised to visit when they could next get away, if they could. But they would call. There would be so much calling. When they were gone, Quinn collapsed back onto her pillows and cried again, this time in sadness. She covered her eyes with her good hand and didn't react when Coulson settled himself on the bed beside her, taking up Margret's position.
"Hey kid."
She pulled her hand away from her face and smiled at Coulson. "Thank you for calling them."
"You're welcome."
Quinn inhaled a deep breath, calming herself as she'd been trained to do. With her parents gone and the physical therapy looming, Quinn felt her pain again, every little bit of it. She couldn't take anything stronger than over-the-counter painkillers. Mike Vaughn would need to be able to assess where she was so he could plan her physical therapy, coach her, push her through it.
There was a knock at the door to her suite and a young man entered, an easy smile on his face, in his greenish eyes. He instantly put Quinn at ease—a good sign, considering how amped up she'd been about her physical therapy for the past week. Coulson introduced himself and then said goodbye, squeezing Quinn's shoulder and placing a kiss on the top of her head. Quinn watched him go in silence.
"You must be Mike Vaughn," she said.
He nodded and remained standing at the foot of her bed. There was a folder tucked under one arm. Quinn guessed it contained her chart and any paperwork she had to do. "I am. It's nice to meet you, Agent Scott."
"Call me Quinn."
He nodded once. His hair was cut close to his head, but it was a little longer on top. A couple strands fell across his forehead—Quinn decided he was fun to look at. "All right, Quinn. Today I just want to do a couple tests on your right arm and leg, and test the motion in your spine. We won't do too much today, but I need to get an idea of where you're at before we get started."
"Sounds reasonable." She wished they could do something about her broken leg, but at this point, that was impossible. She knew that.
"Hey Quinn?"
She looked up; her eyes had dropped to her cast, the metal pins still sticking out. "Yeah?"
"Focus on what you can do, okay? Focus on the parts of your body you can move. We'll get to your bad leg sooner than you think."
Quinn coughed a laugh and forced herself to smile up at Mike. "If only that were true. The doctors have told me I'll be in one cast or another until at least the end of the year."
"You will, but if you focus on the rest of your body, it might not seem so long."
Quinn huffed, knowing he would keep repeating similar words. She summoned up the feelings she'd had surrounded by her parents and Coulson. She closed her eyes, summoned the memories of what SHIELD meant to her, of that sense of belonging. She summoned her desire to impress Coulson and Fury and all her friends, to find her way back to her position in the field. To find her way back to the Avengers Initiative.
"Okay," she said.
Mike made a note in the folder from under his arm. When he looked back up at Quinn, he gave her another easy smile. "Are you ready to start?"
Quinn sighed again. "I am."