"Did I fall asleep?"
"For a little while."
He feels strange in his own skin. As though the dying and coming back has changed him so much that he'll never again be the same Phil Coulson.
There are days when he wakes up and doesn't recognize his own face. His eyes seem different and strange, the shape and depth a note of discordant harmony. It makes him avoid mirrors as much as he can, not wanting to feel that uneasiness heavy in his chest. As though he might have come back wrong.
He'd died. Melinda had pointed out that of course an experience like that would change him. He'd died, and even though it had only been for a couple of minutes, it had still happened. He was never going to be the same again.
He'd found himself haunted by dreams of his time in Tahiti, and he didn't know why they bothered him so much. He would wake up panting and terrified, his heart pounding hard in his chest and tears burning the backs of his eyes. There would be the ghost-memory of hands massaging over his skin and beautiful scenery and he didn't know why they scared him so much but they did.
Memories of his convalescence felt distant and strangely unreal. He'd been drugged to the eyeballs for nearly the whole time, and he guessed that had affected his memories. There was no reason he should feel so uneasy. So alien in his body. So helpless and out of control.
Phil scrubbed a hand over his face and stumbled to the head. His tee shirt and boxers were sticking to his skin with panic sweat and there was an uncomfortable roil moving through his stomach. He'd barely slept two hours and exhaustion pulled at him.
He didn't bother with the light, just flipped the taps and plunged his face under the gushing water. His heart was still beating faster than normal and his hands trembled as he washed his face and neck, but he could feel himself regaining some semblance of control.
Then he turned off the water and straightened up and the dim light from his sleeping cabin fell across the mirror and he couldn't help a startled shout. He stumbled backward, his elbow impacting painfully against the door as he slid down into a crouch.
He clutched at his chest and squeezed his eyes tight shut. He tried to force his breath under control, but it felt like he was having a heart attack. He was going to die again, right here and now, and there was no one to help him.
After a small eternity, Phil's heart had gentled its frantic pounding and he was able to lever himself to his feet. He stayed leaning against the door for several minutes, then forced himself forward. He'd never run away from his fear before and he wasn't going to start now.
Phil splayed his hands against the counter and lifted his head to look at his reflection in the darkened mirror.
Phillip Coulson looked back. There was the same thinning dark hair, the same blue eyes as always. He looked tired, a hint of quiet terror, but he looked like himself. There was nothing wrong with his face.
But for a brief moment he'd looked and another face had overlaid his own. A younger face, conventionally handsome and framed by thick black locks. Dark gray eyes had speared through him with such horror that it had felt like his own shock and fear. Had become his own terror.
Phil leaned closer to the mirror, turning his face from side to side, peered into his own eyes, but whatever he'd seen was gone.
"Oh, geez. That was weird." He huffed a not-laugh and stumbled out of the head. He didn't think he was going to get anymore sleep tonight. He figured he might as well get some paperwork done. S.H.I.E.L.D. ran on bureaucracy, and he prided himself on always having his affairs in order.
He needed some make work to settle the disturbed feeling in his chest. Otherwise he would start worrying again that somehow he hadn't really been resuscitated. He was dead and buried somewhere, or maybe someone - something - else had come back in his place and he only thought he was Phil Coulson.
They were at a S.H.I.E.L.D. base for routine maintenance and resupply. Grant had taken Fitz, Simmons, and Skye with him at Phil's behest, though Grant had made sure to give that "I'm doubting you but I'm too well-trained to say it" look before they'd left. Phil was just glad to have a moment to breathe without little eyes watching his every move.
Ever since that night when he'd seen that stranger's face looking back at him, Phil had felt strange and out of sorts, even more so than usual. There was this sense that something was very wrong, and he hadn't been able to relax. His sleep had been disturbed by dreams of places and events that he had never experienced.
A worrying tremor had developed in his left hand and he'd been hesitating about going to medical. They would either tell him that it was psychosomatic, a result of weeks of sleep-deprivation, or they would tell him it was something he really needed to worry about. He could lose his team. He could find himself permanently retired. He could lose everything that mattered to him.
"You've been acting strange lately. Is there anything you should tell me?"
Phil barely kept from flinching. He turned with forced casualness to face Melinda. "I don't know what you're talking about. I'm better than I've been in years."
She cocked her head. "Really?"
"Really."
"Hm." She shrugged, letting it go. "What are you going to do with your downtime?"
"I thought I'd catch up on my shows, maybe get some reports done. What about you?"
Melinda raised an eyebrow at him. "You have paperwork to finish? I would have thought you wouldn't have anything left to do. I think you even finished some of my reports."
"There's always more paperwork," Phil said. There wasn't. He'd been caught up for over a week and had taken to making up new tasks to perform, anything to keep from thinking, wondering, worrying. Weariness pulled down at him, but he dreaded closing his eyes. He couldn't tell her any of that though. "You know how I am about paperwork."
She hummed softly and walked next to him down the ramp. A black gym bag hung from her shoulder and the heels of her boots clicked softly. "Maybe I'll let you keep doing my paperwork. It's never been my favorite part of S.H.I.E.L.D. life."
"Hey, you know I'm your boss, right?"
"Of course," she said. There was a hint of amusement in her tone. "You are the boss of me."
"I somehow doubt you believe it," he said. He could feel himself relaxing a little. She didn't suspect a thing. She didn't know that he was quietly falling apart and didn't know how to ask for the help he needed.
"Are you ready for a treatment?" Melinda asked.
Phil's mind had been whirling around so chaotically that he would have thought no, but the idea of a treatment centered him, gave him cohesion. "You know what, a treatment sounds great about now."
"Come on then, I'll walk with you. You trust me, right?"
Phil smiled. There wasn't a single doubt. "With my life."
=THE END?=