Author's notes: This was inspired by Bluesaber3's Not-So-Normal-Week series. Look it up, it's amazing!
"Hi guys!" Agent Phil Coulson walked into S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters. "'Sup?" He looked briefly around, and then made a beeline for Captain America. "Have you signed my cards yet?"
Everyone stared. Then someone screamed, "AH! GHOST!" And it was utter chaos for exactly fifty-two minutes and forty-three seconds, since that's how long it took for Coulson to find his megaphone. "QUIET!" But no one could hear him, since the batteries had run out. So it was another hour and seventeen seconds before Coulson managed to calm the mob.
Suddenly, poor Coulson found himself behind a long table, with flashing lights in his eyes. Lots of flashing lights. And voices. So many voices! He was starting to freak out; but then he realized he was being interviewed. Still, the voices were unintelligible because there were too many of them, and the constant flashing of the cameras made it hard to concentrate. So he pulled out his megaphone. "I WILL TASER EVERYONE HERE IF YOU GUYS DON'T STOP BLINDING ME WITH YOUR CAMERAS AND DRIVING ME CRAZY WITH YOUR VOICES. ONE AT A TIME!"
Dead silence. Not a sound, not a flash. Coulson exhaled with relief. Then, the voices and flashing started up again.
…
After several rounds of such, the S.H.I.E.L.D. agents (who were dressed and acting as reporters) finally realized it'd just make so much more sense and take up so much less time if they just took turns. The photographers had already gotten all the pictures they wanted, so they and the obnoxious flashing were gone. Phil scanned the crowd of reporters. "Uh…you. Sir in the Captain America shirt."
"Why aren't you dead?"
Phil was confused. "Am I supposed to be dead?"
The response was unanimous. "YES!"
Several voices added things like:
"Loki killed you!"
"You were stabbed through the back with a pointy scepter!"
"Not that we want you dead or anything…"
"I attended your funeral!"
Phil raised his hand to silence the crowd. "I am not dead." He puzzled for a moment, and then a look of understanding came across his face. He exclaimed, "It must have been Fil who died!" And then the unintelligible voices came fast and fierce. Phil again raised his hand to calm the crowd. When that didn't work, he reached for his megaphone. Silence reigned. Phil withdrew his hand from the megaphone. "Thank you." And then he launched into his explanation.
"You see, I have an arch nemesis. His name is Fil—Filbert Cowlson. He hates me with a passion and is a master of disguise. For ages, he's been trying to ruin my reputation by getting into S.H.I.E.L.D., pretending to be me, and then doing something or other really stupid. That's one of the reasons why I've never taken a leave until now. I assume he was working on his self-appointed mission when he died."
A woman in a red sweater raised her hand. Phil gestured to her. She said, "A leave, you say? What are the conditions of this leave? "
"Well, since I've been one of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s top employees for over fifteen years, I've been told by Director Fury himself that I can take a leave whenever I want to, provided I leave a note telling where I'm going and about how long I'll be gone."
A man in a black coat spoke up. "Where's this note you speak of?"
Phil sighed. "Director Fury, I put it on your desk in the same place you put your coffee cup every morning. You couldn't have missed it."
An agent who hadn't bothered changing out of his uniform asked, "Where did you go?"
Phil smiled. "I went to visit Clara."
A voice from the far back of the room asked, "Who's Clara?"
Phil's smile spread into a full-fledged grin. "She's my fiancée." He stood up. "Well, I think the whole issue of me being dead and all is cleared up. I'm gonna go get some coffee." And he left.
Behind him, the crowd erupted into noise again, as the agents gossiped about Clara, Phil's former-girlfriend-now-fiancée.
...
Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump.
Agent Maria Hill hurried in the direction of the thumps. Soon enough, she found herself…at the director's office? She knocked.
No response.
She knocked again, louder this time, hoping to be heard over the constant thumping.
No response.
She thrust the door open and stepped in.
The thumping stopped.
Maria stepped further into the room, towards the cluttered desk. She heard the door close behind her, and the thumping started again. She whirled around.
Director Fury was banging his head repeatedly into the wall.
"Director! What's the matter?"
He thrust a paper out at her, while continuing to bang his head into the wall.
Maria took the paper. She smoothed it a bit and noticed what looked like coffee rings on it. She studied it a bit more and came to the conclusion that exactly two weeks' worth of coffee mugs had been placed on the paper. Once she had puzzled out this important piece of information, she read the contents of the paper.
Director Nicholas Fury:
I'm really glad I got to meet Captain America; it was a dream come true for me. As much as I'd like to stick around, however, Clara (you, know, the cellist) and I have been planning a get-together for months. I'm going to visit her; I'll be back in two weeks.
Sincerely,
Agent Philip Coulson
P.S. Look out for Fil, my arch nemesis. Now's his big chance to pretend to be me and ruin my reputation, so be careful.
P.P.S. Could you make sure Captain America signs my cards? I'm pretty sure I asked him to do it, and I'm equally sure he won't forget, but, just in case, would you please remind him? They're in my locker.
Maria finished reading. Then she reread it twice. She held the paper up to the light, licked it (the paper, not the light) a few times, and checked the signature. "It is indeed authentic," she remarked. She turned to Director Fury. "It also explains much."
Fury's answer was a few more head-bangs. It would have been more, but he passed out. Maria placed the paper on the desk, and walked out of the room. On her way out, she pulled a lever built into the wall. She walked down the hallway, accompanied by the familiar and all-too-often-heard splutters and yells about "WHY DO YOU PEOPLE FEEL THE NEED TO DUMP THIRTY-THREE* DEGREE WATER ON ME EVERY STINKING TIME!"
Author's notes: Thanks for reading! Please review!
*in Fahrenheit (0.56 degrees Celsius)