I don't own Agents Of SHIELD.
This story was written for TYRider, who snuck into my house and fed the plot bunnies when I wasn't looking. Thanks.
Set between 1.08 The Well and 1.09 Repairs. First in the Nature series.
The nature of the game; idiom; the inherent or essential quality or character of something, which cannot be changed.
1. The Briefing
For the fifth night in a row, Phil Coulson wakes gasping from a nightmare about a sandy beach in Tahiti. The words that spill from his lips are gone before he can parse them, dissipating into the darkness like so many sparks from a dying fire. He gropes after them half-heartedly. Maybe this time…
Nothing.
Blue sky, white sand, overwhelming peace —
— or is it overwhelming horror? —
and a litany of words that he can never remember.
He's tried recording his bad nights. Watching himself toss and turn is an exercise in humility. If it could get him useful intel, it would be worth it. But whatever he says in his sleep is soundless, and his mouth doesn't open wide enough to let the visual speechreading program do its thing.
He's trained himself too well to stand up under prolonged interrogation.
Maybe it's not the memory itself that holds the horror. Maybe it's the lack of memory. The horror will go when the memory comes back, he hopes.
He has to hope.
Because if not… if it's the memory and not the lack of it that's causing the tightness in his gut and the phantom pain in his chest and the sickening twisting in the back of his eyeballs…
He shakes his head sharply, cutting off that thought before it can form, and throws the covers back. Scrubs a shaking hand over his face. Swings his legs over the side of the bed. He's drenched in sweat from his balding head to his calloused toes, and there's really nothing he'd like more than to collapse in a shower for the next thirty minutes while he tries to regain some equilibrium.
But it's not an option.
Not now.
The team has noticed, of course they have. He's letting it get to him, and he doesn't know how to stop. He knows that they know that he's on edge. Off balance. Plagued by nightmares of paradise and gaping holes in his memory and a body that doesn't feel right.
Simmons was almost in tears yesterday, and he didn't need Fitz' barely restrained glare to tell him he was out of line, even as Team Lead. He's quicker to snap at them for the smallest mistake, he's doubled his caffeine consumption, he's been taking needless risks on missions, sleeping less, working more. He lives at his desk, that's nothing new, but it's never like this unless they're running a 24/7 operation.
This isn't a 24/7 op.
But his system seems to think it is. The surging adrenaline, the emotional upheaval, the driving need to do more, more, more, to uncover what happened… it's like he's running an op in the privacy of his own mind with little intel and zero backup.
Phil drops his head into his hands and takes a deliberate breath. Lets it out slowly.
Too many secrets. SHIELD is keeping secrets from him, he's keeping secrets from his team, his team is undoubtedly returning the favour if the looks Ward and May have been sending each other are any indication… When did his life become this carnival of carefully woven half-truth?
Enough.
He stands on legs that feel weaker than they should, weaker than they've been in a long time — maybe since he woke up in Tahiti. If he woke up in Tahiti. The weakness is residual. Psychosomatic. Something. It'll pass.
It's the work of moments to slip through into his office on the top level of the Bus and send a message to the rest of the team.
All hands on deck. Briefing in ten minutes. Command Center.
Don't gear up, we're not going anywhere.
Coulson.
He waits for long enough to see the first acknowledgements come through — May first, unsurprisingly, then Fitz and Simmons so close they overlap — and goes to hit the shower. Eight minutes and counting.
He makes it down to the Command Centre with ten seconds to spare, skin pink and tingling from the heat, hair damp. The rest of his team are already there, dressed in a motley assortment of pyjama pants and t-shirts, SHIELD standard-issue hoodies and jogging pants. Good. He shuts the door and sweeps a long look around the table at them, taking in the general air of exhaustion, the stifled yawns from the youngsters, the weary expectation from May and Ward. They're both veterans at night ops, and that's clearly what they're expecting.
This time they're in for a surprise.
"At ease," Phil says softly, and steps forward to take his place at the head of the data table. Not coincidentally, it's where the light is strongest. The reactions are worth it.
May blinks. If the movement was a split-second faster, he'd almost think it was natural.
Ward blinks, eyes widening.
Fitz and Simmons draw identical sharp breaths, hold their positions for a second, and then turn in unison to look at each other, comparing data sets and matching conclusions in silence.
Skye's mouth drops. "Coulson?"
It's not every day they see him in jeans. Actually, he doesn't think they've ever seen him in jeans. Even rolling up his shirt sleeves is a concession to informality he rarely makes. The suits are his armour. He likes them. But perhaps he's been doing his team a disservice.
They need to trust him, to see that he can be vulnerable.
So he's wearing dark-wash jeans. The black jersey is an old one, v-necked, soft and warm. He had to patch it at the elbows six months ago, but it's got another couple of years left in it. Black socks on his feet. No shoes.
"Thank you for coming," he says, choosing to take Skye's outburst as a greeting rather than sheer shock. "I know it's an inconvenient time."
"Don't worry about us, sir," says Simmons, taking refuge in nervous chatter as per MO. "I like getting up early, it really, er —
"Gets the brain cells working." Fitz grins.
"Yes, that," finishes Simmons.
"Why are we here?" May is straight to the point as always.
Phil braces his elbows on the table. "First off, I'd like to apologise for my behaviour over the last week or so. There are extenuating circumstances, but that's no excuse. I shouldn't have let it affect my leadership, but I did, and for that I'm sorry."
Another silent frisson of shock runs around the table. He looks at them, holding each person's gaze before moving on. May meets his eyes, inscrutable. Skye blows out a breath. Ward ducks his head. Fitz frowns. Simmons, of course, looks ready to forgive him instantly for anything up to and including mass murder.
Not that that's the issue here. He hopes.
"I think I speak for us all," May says after a minute, "when I say that we're aware you've been under some stress."
It is not absolution, but acceptance. Phil takes that with a nod. It's no less than he'd expected; she's his 2IC for a reason.
"And that no apology is necessary," Skye adds.
That, he will not accept. "No, it is necessary. It is." He drills her with a stare before moving on to Simmons. These two are the ones who need to understand. Ward and May are experienced. Fitz is angry on Simmons' behalf — and rightly so. After all, Phil almost made her cry yesterday.
But Skye and Jemma are both so young, so ready to believe the best in people. To believe the best in him.
He can't let them down. Not again. But they have to understand.
"Coulson?" Skye asks.
"It's necessary," he says again. "I've been under stress, so what? We're all under stress. It's the nature of the game, and it's no excuse for poor behaviour, for bullying — "
Simmons makes a tiny noise of protest, and Fitz puts a hand to her shoulder.
"— for harassment, for anything. I can hound you to get a job done because that's my job, but there is a line, and this week I crossed it. Once you start accepting excuses for that sort of behaviour…" He smiles, rueful. "Well. Let's just say it's best not to start. Don't take it lying down, not from a newbie, not from me. Not from anyone, you hear me?"
"Okay," says Skye, taken aback. But he can see the words sinking in.
"Simmons," Phil snaps.
Jemma jumps. "Sir?"
Too much. He wants to apologise for yesterday, but there's a fine line between apologising and begging, especially in front of the rest of the team. He can't break the walls of the hierarchy that much. Still, his next words are gentle. "Do you hear me?"
"Yes. Um." She bites her lip, eyes downcast. "Yes, sir."
"Good." Phil catches May's eye, and she nods minutely. She'll keep an eye on them. Excellent. "Now. Business."
Ward perks up. "A mission, sir?"
"Not exactly." For a moment Phil hesitates. Maybe he shouldn't tell them. There are secrets and then there are secrets, and this one — this one is very private, for all that a few people seem to know a hell of a lot more about it than he does. But that's the problem, isn't it? Secrets. Time to tell them. Trust the system. Trust the team. "It's… personal. In a manner of speaking. What I'm about to tell you does not leave this room without my express permission, understand?"
Five murmurs of yes, sir.
"I haven't been entirely honest with you. And I apologise for that." He rubs his wrists, wondering where to start. Death would be the best place. "You know I died shortly before the Battle of New York. Stabbed through the heart with a Chitauri sceptre by the Asgardian Loki, brother of Thor. Yes?"
"Yes," says May, eyes narrowed.
They're all alert now, or as alert as can be expected at a 3am briefing.
"But SHIELD brought me back. Somehow. They got to me fast enough, Director Fury had a few tricks up his sleeve, something like that. I got sent to Tahiti to recover. Blue skies, sandy beaches, it's a — " and he tries to bite the words off but they escape seamlessly, "— magical place."
"We know," says Ward. He's frowning. Probably wondering why they're here.
"I've been having nightmares about it," Phil says bluntly.
"Sir?"
"You heard me."
Fitz cocks his head. "Nightmares. About an island paradise."
"Yes. Exactly. Doesn't make sense, right? I feel nothing but peaceful when I think about it, it's the most relaxing thing I can remember, but something about it chimes wrong. Sets me off. And I wake up in a cold sweat, gasping for air, adrenaline kicking in, and that's it. No more sleep."
"We've got sleeping pills — " Simmons starts.
"No."
"Taking medication is a perfectly — "
"I know, but I react badly to them. So no."
"Nightmares are a normal stress response to trauma," May says. "Maybe it's not so surprising that they waited until Tahiti to kick in. The pressure came off, gave you some space for your subconscious to work things out."
It's a fair point. "Yeah, I'd think so too. Except…"
"Except what?" Fitz asks.
"After twenty years in the field, I know my own stress responses inside out and back to front. This isn't one of them. It's getting worse. Things don't add up. And…" He swallows. "Before New York, Loki used the sceptre to raise an army."
"Golems?" asks Simmons, eyes alight.
"Orcs?" asks Fitz.
"Metal men?"
"Mud men?"
"Brainwashing," Phil says.
"Oh," they say in unison, deflating.
"Loki used the sceptre to do… something, we don't know what… to some of our top people. SHIELD's top people. Turned them to his side. Later he stabbed me with the same sceptre. And now I'm back from the dead, fighting nightmares about something that should be the opposite of a nightmare, and my body feels… different." He lifts a hand, flexes it, watches the movement of tendon and vein and bone under skin. "Not hostile, not alien. Not even wrong, necessarily. Just different. Off balance. I don't know. Not the same."
"Near-death experiences — " Skye starts.
"Post-death, actually." Phil twitches a humourless smile. "You see my concern. If Loki infected me with some sort of latent brainwashing…"
"You said Psych cleared you for active duty," Ward says.
"They did. But circumstances change, I think we all know that." He splays his hands on the table. Looks at his team one by one. "We can fix this. I know we can. In the meantime, you have a blanket apology for any behaviour of mine caused by sleep deprivation and too much caffeine." He cracks a smile and sees them smile back. "And you have my promise that I will not compromise this team. I will not compromise your safety."
"Of course you won't," Simmons says. It's almost a protest.
"We know you won't, sir," Fitz echoes.
Ward and Skye murmur affirmations.
May eyes him for a moment in silence. "You won't," she says decisively, and nods.
Phil knows he's the only one in the room who sees the threat behind the promise. He returns the nod with equanimity. "Thank you."
"Why are we here?" she asks again. "Heartwarming as this is, Coulson, it could have waited for morning."
"It is morning."
"Proper morning."
He grins. "I need your help."
"Anything," says Skye immediately. "Whatever you need."
"I'm going to make a call to an old friend. I'd like for you — all of you — to listen in."
"Why?" Ward asks. "Is your friend dangerous?"
"Yes." It's the truth. "But he's on our side. He's former SHIELD."
"Retired?"
"No, just… former. He's still in the system, but he's off doing some freelance work with our blessing."
"Who would want to leave SHIELD?" Simmons asks.
"He got a better offer."
Fitz snorts. "Better than SHIELD. Yeah, right."
"Nothing's better than SHIELD," says Simmons.
"People leave for all sorts of reasons," Phil says, quiet but firm. "Just like they join for all sorts of reasons. SHIELD is our home, our family, but it is not the be-all and end-all. We do not operate in isolation and we cannot operate in isolation. I won't hear you shaming someone for taking a different path, are we clear?"
Fitz and Simmons meet his eyes with identical guilty looks. "Yes, sir."
"Good."
"So who is he?" Skye asks.
"An expert on Asgardian brainwashing techniques. Loki's brand of brainwashing, specifically."
Simmons beams. "Oxford or Cambridge?"
"Neither," says Phil, and clamps down ruthlessly on a vision of the look on their expert's face if he heard the question.
"Two doctorates?" asks Fitz. "Three? History, Classics, Norse Linguistics, Norse Mythology…?"
"High school dropout. I'm not sure if he ever actually started high school. He might have slipped through the cracks on that one."
"At least tell us he's written a book on the subject."
"Honestly? I had enough trouble getting him to write his field reports."
Ward wrinkles his nose. "Fantastic. So, what, are we going to have to dumb our vocabulary down to third grade to talk to him?"
"That won't be necessary."
May knows exactly who he's talking about, if the gleam in her eye is any indication. "How do you know him?" she asks. She always does know how to nudge the conversation in the right direction.
It's the perfect opening. "I was his handler for ten years."
Skye's jaw drops for the second time in ten minutes. "Ten years?"
"Yes."
FitzSimmons talk over the top of each other, something about working relationship and three years maximum and mandatory rotation between supervising officers.
Phil holds up a hand. The noise stops. "There wasn't always a three-year limit. Even these days, it can be waived if the partnership is right. As long as the job gets done…" He shrugs. "And our jobs got done. All of them."
"You must have gone on dozens of missions, sir," Simmons says eagerly.
"Hundreds, probably. I lost count."
"And you worked with this expert the whole time?" There's something very close to worship in Fitz' eyes.
Whether the worship is for Coulson or for the expert, Phil can't tell. "Most of it. We had solo missions, of course, and rest periods. A few collective missions, joined up with other units. Got loaned out more than once. And then the last four years, we expanded the team to three. Helped spread the load."
"If you were his handler," Ward says slowly, "I'm guessing you were on comms taking mission control. He was a specialist?"
"Yeah, sniper."
"And your third?"
"Close quarters."
"Medical?"
"Shared responsibility."
Ward nods. "Makes sense. Explains how you're so good at patching people up, too."
Phil grins. "Experience, Agent Ward." He slips his phone from the pocket of his jeans and unlocks it. "I'll put the call through. I should warn you, there is one small problem with this course."
"What's that?" Skye asks.
"He doesn't know I'm alive."
Fitz whistles. "You're right, that is a problem."
"I'd like you to stay quiet until I can introduce you. You're mostly here to observe and pick up intel, get a wind of how long-term partnerships work. Give him a chance to react first. He won't be happy. Okay?"
Five mutters of agreement.
Phil flicks his phone connection onto the big screen and hops up to sit on the edge of the table, taking up one end, leaving the team to cluster behind him at the far end. He'll start with audio only. They can get a visual later if their expert is amenable.
The number is a string of asterisks on the screen. There's no name. He doesn't need a name; he's had the digits memorised for a long, long time.
He activates the connection.
"Sir?" Simmons asks as the call goes through.
Phil darts a glance over his shoulder at her. Notes the nervous twisting of her hands. "What is it, Simmons?"
"You haven't told us his name."
He turns back to the screen. "No. I haven't."
The call connects with a beep, and an achingly familiar voice comes through the speakers. "Who are you and how the hell did you get this number?"
Phil smiles. "Hello, Hawkeye."