Missing Scenes, "TRACKS"
by Sammie
DISCLAIMER: Doesn't belong to me. The name "Cloudesley Shovell" is from the name of the English admiral (and c'mon, it's a great name) and "McPhail" is also a real surname. :-D
RATING: T.
SUMMARY: The elderly gentleman on the train is less than impressed by this absentee father; he doesn't deserve that sweet little girl he has for a daughter. POV of "debonair gentleman"
A/N:
- THANK YOU to everybody who took the time to read and to review my other FF.
- Not sure this FF was a good idea, but it popped into my head and wouldn't leave until I wrote it. Would never happen on the show, and it also takes not a few liberties with "TRACKS". And, of course, things are never what they seem - I'm just writing what Stan Lee's character believes he sees. :-)
- "TRACKS" was my favorite episode of the new year (though there hasn't been many). Stan Lee, the comedy (Simmons and Coulson undercover, Fitz and Skye undercover, the holotable), the use of different POVs, the cool grenade freeze effect, the Coulson/May medical scene.
My only WTH moment: Coulson/May/Ward triangle? Really, show? Really? Even the kiddies - Simmons, Fitz, and Skye - don't act like this. Maturity, please. This May/Ward thing is making me hate all the older agents. If this is some insidious plot to make Skye less irritating in light of the other agents, it's working.
Hmph. No wonder the poor little dear was so hurt, the elderly man grumbled to himself. Her father was very un-father-like, and that was the kind way to put it.
Yes, McCloudesley Shovell-McPhail had lived a good many years, and he'd seen that type before, where everything seemed about work and money - described weakly as "giving my children the life they deserve" and often used as an excuse to spend more time at the office. The man didn't seem to have given his daughter the time of day when she was growing up, and his one chance to be a father - after his poor, long-suffering wife had died - was being squandered as he furiously poked away at his smartphone like his life depended on it. One would think he was on his targeting computer with only one shot to get proton torpedoes down a thermal exhaust port, given the sort of concentration he was putting into his phone.
And all this right after his poor daughter had been bumped by some rude, clumsy boors, causing her to spill her mother's ashes along the train car.
Yes, it had been a nightmare. They'd been fighting (about her dad's prostitutes - that man had no shame), and she had stood up, still cradling her mother's urn, indignantly hurt at her father's outrageous behavior. Then these unclassy men in classy suits strode by, not even bothering to excuse themselves as they passed. They bumped her arm, and the ashes went all over them and their luggage and the floor. Her gasp of tearful horror seemed to register with everybody on the train except these oafs. They only glared at her, telling her she got in their way, and stepped through (and on) the ashes and continued their journey down the aisle.
Her eyes brimming with tears, she quickly got to her knees and tried to clean up the mess - though it seemed that even the strangers around her were more solicitious than her own father. A young man stooped down, helping to brush the ashes into a pile with his bare hands; a middle-aged lady got up and gave her a hug and a handkerchief. A couple traveling together set the urn right side up and helped the young man get what they could of the ashes back into the urn. A couple of the others offered her packets of tissues to wipe her tears.
The young lady was so sweet and polite, thanking them all for their kindness. Her mama, God rest her soul, had taught her well.
And still, the bespectacled businessman was on the phone, now furiously whispering at somebody on the other end. Some of the other train passengers glared at him, but he continued on, oblivious.
Just then, one of the other passengers reappeared, a little old lady with a determined look on her face, her hand pulling the sleeve of a reluctant train conductor. He was a tall young man with dark hair and, currently, a look of supreme irritation in his dark eyes and a frown which only accentuated well-defined cheekbones. Of course, the irritation lasted right up until he saw who it was involved in the mess.
Yes, the elderly man grumbled to himself yet again, these young pups. It was like a wolf seeing fresh meat. Fresh meat completely unprotected by an absentee father, who was still on his phone. Still.
Old McCloudesley Shovell-McPhail had seen his type before: tall, dark, frighteningly good-looking and most likely never needed to do any work in order to attract female attention. All caring and gentle and doe-eyed concern - until he got what he wanted. The conductor was all kindness and solicitude, taking his sweet ol' time to "help" the mourning daughter. He got a clean dustpan and brush and helped the poor girl clean up; then he'd guided her to a nearby train car to wash her hands, a rather possessive hand at the small of her back.
He then brought her back, all cleaned up, holding one of her hands as she wiped her tears from her face, then giving her back the cleaned-up urn. He said something, and she smiled sheepishly and looked down. The conductor bent to the side so he could look up into her face, and then grinned when she smiled. The young pup wasn't even trying to play down his flirting, holding her small, delicate hand in his larger one the whole time.
And still her absentee father kept being an absentee father and didn't seem to notice his daughter wasn't sitting in front of him - and of course missing her getting propositioned by a train employee right in front of him.
The young man then leaned over to whisper in his ear, taking off his conductor's cap as he did so, hiding their faces behind it temporarily. When he stood back up, she was blushing, and he playfully set his hat on her head briefly.
McCloudesley Shovell-McPhail finally had enough. He stood up, his two assistants standing up with him, and he marched over to the seat where the father (using the term loosely) sat, still on his phone. He snatched it out of the businessman's hands and waved it at him. "When I suggested you start acting like a father," he growled, "I didn't mean tomorrow! You're just going to let that young pup of a boy calling himself a train conductor put his hands all over your little girl?" He pointed a long, indignant finger down to the end of the train car, where the sweet-talking train conductor was still flirting with the sweet young lady, both of them smiling.
The elderly man then straightened up, mentally patting himself on the back at what was a look of true shock and murderous horror on the father's face as the man stood up so fast he nearly hit his head on the luggage railing above him.
Satisfied that the American businessman was finally paying attention to his daughter, the elderly man huffed in irritation and then continued on his way towards the young lady. She was beaming up at the conductor, whose hat was back on his head and now was using his relative height to lean over her as he grinned down at her. Before anybody could say anything, McPhail snatched the conductor's hat off and smacked him twice on the back of the head with it.
(Never let it be said that McCloudesley Shovell-McPhail's reflexes were dulled. Years of intense badminton had kept him in tip-top shape.)
The boy jumped, not managing to duck fast enough to avoid the blows. He whirled around, nearly punching Shovell-McPhail before staring in surprise at him. "You!" The well-dressed, elderly man stuck a bejeweled finger in the younger man's face. "You should be doing your job, not making unwanted advances on vulnerable young ladies in your workplace! The poor dear just lost her mother! Does your employer know you use your job to seduce women?"
The conductor just gaped at him for a second, completely speechless, as the young lady behind him squeaked in shock. Before the conductor could open his mouth to speak, Shovell-McPhail glared and held up one finger to silence him. "Your employer will hear about this from me," he paused to read the nametag "Luca Perugia." He then reached across and grabbed the young lady's hand, pulling her firmly behind him while glaring at the conductor again. "Come with me, my dear. Helen and Sophie will make sure you have a nice hot cup of tea and some biscuits in the dining car. They'll take good care of you."
With a hmph, he opened the door leading to the next car and let his two assistants guide the shocked young woman out.
Ward stared after the biochemist, open-mouthed and still clutching his dented conductor's hat, as Coulson came up behind him, looking on with the same consternation. As she was led out, Jemma paused briefly to look back over her shoulder at the two ops-trained agents, a panicked expression on her face.
"What the h-ll just happened?" Ward whispered in shock, then determinedly set his hat on his head and started to head after Simmons.
"I'll go after her," Coulson corrected in just as quiet a tone, stopping him. "Contact May, get a sitrep."
Both men turned around and stopped short, seeing the condemnatory expressions of all the passengers on the traincar in front of them. It was hard to tell if they were judging the horrible father or the amorous conductor or both. The little old lady who had brought Ward into the traincar in the first place glared and shook an accusatory finger - at Ward or at Coulson, it was hard to tell.
Coulson blinked, then wordlessly reached across, grabbed Ward's conductor hat, and hit him on the back of his head with it - to a smattering of applause.
Ward jerked forward at the unanticipated blow and then turned to the team leader, a betrayed look on his open-mouthed face. "Just doing my fatherly duty," Coulson intoned as he disappeared out of the car after Simmons.
end