May 6th, 2012
New York, New York—Quinn's apartment
(sent 05.05.2012.22.02)
TO: qscott
FROM: nfury
SUBJECT: Time Off—NOT A SUGGESTION
Agent Scott,
It's been decided that you will take this week off to recover from the injuries you sustained during the attack on the helicarrier and to allow you time to grieve for the loss of Agent Coulson.
When you return to work on May 14, it will be as SHIELD's liaison to the Avengers.
Do not attempt to work this week, Scott. I know you'll want to keep working, but you need to rest so you can heal and not do further damage to yourself, and you have to take time and process all that's happened. You don't have to worry about Coulson. I'll handle everything.
He would be proud to have you taking over for him.
—Nicholas J. Fury
Director of SHIELD
Quinn had read the email about a dozen times since Fury had sent it the night before, but it didn't get any easier to take. Not the ban from work, nor the promotion. Sure, she'd assumed that one day she would take over for Coulson, but it would have been when he had trained her and they both knew she was ready. After she'd done some more field work, led some more missions without screwing up so bad… After Coulson have moved on or up to something better. Not because Coulson had died and there was no one better to take over; that had to be the only reason Fury had chosen her when her record was far from spotless.
She hit the sleep button on her phone and then dropped it on the end table before curling back into the corner of the couch and pulling the blanket over her shoulders, her eyes going back to the window where she watched raindrops move across the glass. The sound of the rain was the only thing soothing her.
After Steve had brought her home the day before, Quinn had cried until there was nothing left. She felt empty, stretched thin. She hadn't slept. She hadn't eaten. She'd barely moved from the couch since she'd laid down there in the wee hours of the morning. All she'd accomplished was getting a glass of water from the kitchen—which sat untouched next to her phone—and checking her email, hoping for a far different result than she had ended up with.
Her adoptive parents, Jared and Margret Nolan, had called, but she hadn't answered; their voice message had said they were sorry and they could come up and visit for a couple days if she wanted them to, or she could call whenever. Natasha, Clint, Maria, and Trip had called or texted, but she hadn't responded. Tony had even sent her a message, which had surprised the hell out of her, but not enough to make her text back. She hadn't heard anything from Steve, but he was right across the hall. It probably wouldn't be long before he knocked on her door to see how she was doing. She wouldn't answer it.
There was a small part of her that knew being alone right then wasn't the best idea, but she didn't want to see anyone. Quinn didn't feel like a person. She felt like a shell.
She had to figure out how to exist in a world without her mentor, her friend, her father before she could face anyone else, and she had to figure out how to do it without work to distract her from her grief.
Quinn pulled her pillow into a better position between her neck and shoulder and shifted until she could better see the few framed photos hanging on the wall of her living room: Quinn and her parents at her high school graduation, her cap lopsided and her grin wide as she gave the camera a thumbs-up; Quinn and Coulson at her graduation from SHIELD's operations academy, her bandaged knuckles just visible as both she and Coulson gave the camera two thumbs-up; Quinn, Coulson, and Peggy Carter the day he'd taken Quinn to meet her hero. Below hung pictures of her great-grandfather, Colonel Chester Phillips, her graduating class at the academy, and her and Coulson the day she'd been assigned to lead her first field mission.
Phil had been there for most of the big moments of her life. It seemed impossible that he wouldn't be there for any more of them.
From somewhere inside, another wave of tears bubbled up, and Quinn pressed her face into her pillow to muffle the noise. Before the tears had finished, Quinn's body gave into exhaustion and she fell asleep.
The room was pitch black except for the area immediately around Quinn's feet. There was no smell, no sound. When she opened her mouth to call out, she could feel her throat vibrating, but nothing passed her lips. When she walked, the circle of light moved with her, and she kept seeing movement out of the corner of her eye, but when she turned, there was nothing there. Fear held her heart in a tight grip.
She walked forward at a good pace—noticing only then that her bad leg wasn't bad—and she started to catch snatches of sound. Never enough to make out a whole sentence. Just words.
Alone—
Death—
Darkness—
Heart—
Cold—
The words got louder and Quinn stopped walking, spinning on the spot to try and find the source. But there wasn't one. The voice was coming from everywhere. She started to panic, her breath coming faster, her heart beating harder as the noise escalated and pressed in around her. Quinn dropped to her knees and covered her ears with her hands. She screamed, but still nothing came from her lips. She called out silently for help, to be left alone, to wake up, but nothing changed.
But suddenly, the absolute quiet returned, heralded by a new light source: silver and shining and warm.
Quinn looked up, a blast of cold air hitting her face—she'd started crying at some point—and found herself facing Phil Coulson. Semi-transparent and smiling. She reached out to him, expecting him to take her hand and help her to her feet, but instead he just stood there, looking down at her with the annoying fatherly smile he got when he was waiting for her to realize something.
She tried to ask him for help, but there was still no sound. More tears spilled over and she collapsed, unable to find her way up, unable to fight her way free.
Darkness overtook her, swallowed her.
Coulson disappeared.
May 7th, 2012
New York, New York—hallway outside Quinn's apartment
"Has she answered your calls?"
Natasha shook her head as her and Clint came to a stop outside Quinn's door. They'd driven over together from SHIELD HQ, both worried about their friend. Both of them knew what Coulson had meant to Quinn; they both knew her past. "Not my texts, either. Hill and Trip said the same thing. Hill said she didn't even respond to Fury's email telling her she'd be taking over for Coulson."
Clint sighed and turned to narrow his eyes at Quinn's door, like that would achieve anything. "She knows the rest of us are sad too, right?"
"Oh, come on, Clint. Of course she knows that. But, in every way that matters, he was her father, and they worked together almost every day. She didn't go out in the field like us." Natasha put her hands on her hips and looked at the closed door. Dealing with the emotions she was feeling was not her strong suit, especially when there was nothing to focus them on, and nothing to hit. She'd spent most of the morning in the gym and her arms were aching with the aftereffects. If only helping others was as simple as that.
"I know." Clint sighed again and crossed his arms. "I thought Fury would wait a while to tell her she'd be taking over."
"Me too." Natasha knew Quinn would be overwhelmed, but if she wanted to be alone, Natasha wasn't about to force her way inside. Though there was part of her that wanted to.
"So what's the play here?"
The door across the hall from Quinn's apartment opened and Steve joined the two assassins, no doubt summoned by their talking. They were being quiet but Steve could hear better than the average human. He was wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt and looked like he had been doing some sort of workout; there was something restless about him, something that Natasha hadn't seen on the helicarrier or during the battle, when he'd been in his element. For a moment, he just look at Natasha and Clint, and then his eyes darted across the hall. "I think Quinn just needs some time to come to terms with everything."
Clint scoffed but, before he could say anything, Natasha asked, "Have you been able to get her to answer your calls or texts? Have you gone over?"
"I haven't called her and I haven't been over since I brought her home. She knows I'm here."
Natasha raised an eyebrow at the slight defensive tone in Steve's voice, but said nothing. She'd picked up on some connection between Steve and Quinn before, and this only made her more curious—but it wasn't the time. There was part of her that wanted to yell at Steve for not trying harder to get ahold of Quinn, but she knew yelling wouldn't achieve anything. "Well, we might as well try while we're here." She stepped forward and knocked on the door.
No answer. There wasn't even any movement they could hear.
Clint knocked again, after Natasha stepped back, cursing under his breath when there was still no answer. Natasha could practically see her partner's fatherly instincts kicking in.
"She's probably asleep," Steve said. "You should just leave her be. She'll reach out to someone when she's ready."
"Hey—"
Natasha gestured, cutting Clint off. "You'll check on her."
Steve's eyes narrowed slightly. He knew it wasn't a question. "I will."
May 8th, 2012
New York, New York—Quinn's apartment
Quinn was dimly pleased the rain kept up for a third day in a row. Dimly, because she didn't feel much beyond the persistent ache of sadness in her chest. But she'd always liked the rain, and she had fond memories of her and Coulson sitting on the roof at SHIELD or on the balcony of his apartment watching thunderstorms and rain and snow, and she found she was completely adverse to the flicker of something positive. So she didn't fight it.
Her phone had died sometime the day before and she hadn't bothered to charge it. She knew her friends would be trying to contact her, but she still didn't want to talk to anyone. She didn't want to see anyone or do anything. She wanted to stay on her couch with the TV on in the background—she didn't even know what she was watching; it was just noise—so when there was a soft knock on the door, she ignored it. There wasn't a second knock, but she picked up a faint rustling, a small thud.
Probably Steve.
A very small part of her wanted to get up and go to the door, see if she could catch him before he went back into his apartment, but the larger part kept her where she was. For a while longer.
Eventually, she did get up and shuffle her way to the door, one leg of her leggings bunched up around midcalf. Quinn didn't bother to try and fix her tangled hair or untuck the corner of her tank top before opening the door; she didn't check that her face was clean or that there weren't stains on her clothes. She didn't care. The hallway was empty anyway.
Empty except for a pizza box, a two-litre bottle of Coke, and a plastic bag.
Quinn looked at Steve's close apartment door, waiting for him to come out, ambush her with How are you doing? and Is there anything I can do? but he didn't emerge so she didn't have to worry about crying in front of him or yelling at him or anything else she might do. Feeling a little silly, Quinn picked up the items and headed back inside.
She set the pizza on the opposite end of the couch and the Coke on the end table, and then dropped back into her spot on the couch, the plastic bag in her lap. Quinn was glad for the distraction—although she wouldn't admit that out loud. She dumped the contents of the back into her lap. A folded piece of paper, a book, and a DVD.
Quinn unfolded the paper. It was a note, written in Steve's excellent printing.
I know you'll want to be alone right now, but know I'm here if you want to talk or you need help with anything. I remember what it's like to lose someone you love. For now, here's something to eat, and a book and a movie I noticed you were missing from your collections in case you wanted even a momentary distraction. —Steve
Against all expectations, Quinn found one corner of her mouth pulling up without thought.
She looked down at the other items from the bag. The book was the third in a series, one she'd been meaning to buy for a while, and the movie was the sequel to one of her favourites. Quinn had never mentioned the holes in her collection to Steve, but he'd had ample time to browse through her books and movies, and he was observant. It warmed her heart a bit to know he cared enough to remember.
For a moment, Quinn sat there, her fingers on the smooth cover of the book as she stared at the TV, not absorbing anything that was happening. Her stomach grumbled, breaking her trance.
She hadn't felt hungry since Coulson's death.
Quinn transferred the book and DVD to the end table and shifted the pizza box into her lap. The pizza was cold, but it was topped with extra cheese, pepperoni, bacon, and green pepper—Quinn's favourite—and it was good. She ate three pieces and drank some of the Coke straight from the bottle before putting both box and bottle on the floor and stretching out on the couch. She felt marginally better, but she wasn't counting on the feeling to last.
The world was freezing cold around Quinn—it reminded her of the dream she'd had right before SHIELD had found Captain America, frozen in the ice. She was shivering, her teeth were chattering, but she kept walking, her desire to find Coulson driving her forward.
Something told her she would find him at the end of this road, in the shadowy alley she was headed towards.
She would find Agent Coulson, save him, and bring him home, and then everything would be all right again.
It had to be.
Quinn's heart fluttered in her chest. She rubbed her arms and pushed herself faster as snow began to fall. It started as a light dusting, but quickly escalated to the equivalent of a downpour. Soon, the snow was up to Quinn's knees. It was becoming very difficult to walk, but the effort Quinn was expending was keeping her warm. So she kept going.
She had to.
Didn't she?
Quinn stopped and the snow continued to pile up around her legs. Suddenly, she was afraid to step into the darkness of the alley. She was sure something bad was waiting for her in there. But just as she was about to turn and start trudging away…
"Quinn… Quinn, help me."
Coulson's voice.
Quinn's heart fluttered again, her chest constricting around the motion. Panic flooded her body. She began to breathe heavily and sweat broke out across her face and all over her back.
Coulson was in trouble.
With the snow up to the middle of her thighs, Quinn started wading back towards the alleyway, her heart beating faster with every step. Her clothes were soaked and her sweat was turning to ice. Her teeth clacked so hard she was afraid they would chip. Quinn wanted nothing more than to turn around and head somewhere warm, but she kept going. She had to get to Coulson. She had to help him.
She couldn't leave him.
She couldn't let him down.
Not again.
Finally, after what felt like hours, Quinn crossed into the alleyway, the darkness enveloping her like an unwanted hug. She shook off her reluctance and pushed forward, squinting as her eyes adjusted to the lack of light. A dark shape caught her attention. Quinn headed for it.
It was Coulson.
He pristine white shirt was covered in blood, his skin was pale, and his eyes were staring off into the distance.
He was dead.
Quinn hadn't been in time and Coulson had died.
Again.
Quinn woke suddenly. She was still on the couch, buried as far under the blanket as she could get. Netflix had paused, prompting her to say if she was still watching the show or not. Her cheeks were wet. Her heart was still racing.
But that was all secondary.
All she could think about was the fact that she'd been too slow. If she'd gotten to Coulson on the helicarrier faster, she might have been able to distract Loki or… Do something. She might have been able to do something to help Coulson, to save him. But she'd been too slow. And Coulson had died.
A fresh wave of tears welled up and spilled over, her body shaking as she sobbed.
May 9th, 2012
New York, New York—SHIELD HQ, Agent Hill's office
"What do you mean there's not going to be a funeral?" Natasha's eyes narrowed at Agent Maria Hill, sitting behind her desk. If Director Fury's right hand hadn't looked so upset about delivering the news, Natasha would have been angrier. As it was, she was mostly just confused.
"That's what Director Fury said. According to him, that's what Coulson wanted."
"I—" The assassin snapped her mouth shut. She didn't know exactly what she was going to say. Agent Coulson not wanting a funeral didn't sound right, but then, she'd never spoken to her boss about what his wishes might be should he fall in the line of duty. She knew what she wanted—cremated, no-nonsense ceremony where her ashes were planted with a tree sapling, Clint and Quinn and maybe a couple others sharing drinks—but Coulson had never been so cut and dry. He could have wanted a full service, though he wasn't religious. Did he want anything done with his ashes? Did he want his body to go to science? "Can I see him?" she asked.
Hill looked torn. She pressed her lips together into a thin line. "No. Fury took his body for examination. I don't know where. Everything is classified Level 10."
"That doesn't make sense."
"He was killed with an alien weapon, Natasha. No one is sure exactly what that means, if anything. Fury's just being cautious. I'm sure you'll be able to see him whenever the examination is done."
"Unless something potentially dangerous shows up."
Hill sighed. Her way of saying well, yeah. "I'm sorry."
It was Natasha's turn to sigh. Hill was just doing her job, and Natasha knew Hill would have helped her if could have. "It's fine. Not your fault."
"Were you able to get ahold of Agent Scott?"
"No. She's still not answering texts or phone calls, and her voicemail is full, so no one can leave anymore messages. She did text her parents to tell them she was okay, but they haven't heard anything else from her since then. Captain Rogers says she hasn't left the apartment, but she took the pizza he left her."
"That was smart of him."
"He and Quinn have… a connection."
"That's good. That was the point of assigning her as his handler, after all."
Natasha didn't correct Hill. If no one else saw what she thought she saw… Well, it wasn't her place to bring it to light. "I'm worried about her. If she doesn't show up in the office once her leave is done, I'm breaking down her door."
Hill snorted. "I'm sure she's just taking the time she needs. How is Agent Barton handling filling in for Coulson?"
"He doesn't like the paperwork, but to tell you the truth, I think he likes having the excuse to not go into the field. He's… more reluctant than he's ever been."
"I can't say as I'm surprised. He's the only one of us who has people waiting at home for him, and after the Battle of New York…"
"Yeah. I'm looking forward to when Quinn returns and Clint is able to do his real job again. I've got his back. He knows that."
Hill sat back in her chair and laced her fingers over her stomach. "This is a lot of change all at once. I can't say I'm fond of it."
"Me either."
May 10th, 2012
New York, New York—Quinn's apartment
Quinn had made it to the kitchen, retrieved a bottle of Scotch from the cupboard, and onto one of the barstools on the outside of her counter. That was it. She'd planned on returning to the nest on her couch but the burst of energy had run out faster than she'd hoped. The stool wasn't nearly as comfortable, but the countertop was nice and cold on her cheek, and there was no one around to see her drink Scotch from a straw.
She'd been crying on and off since awaking form the dream where she found Coulson dead in the alley; she'd also had the dream several more times, whenever she managed to fall asleep. Her guilt was more pronounced now, and she'd spent hours running over those moments on the helicarrier, trying to figure out if there was something different she could have done, if getting to Coulson faster really would have saved him. So far, her only conclusions were that she might have ended up dead instead of Coulson, or that they might have both ended up dead. The small part of her brain clinging to rational thought told her there was nothing she could have done and she knew there was nothing she could have done, but the irrational thoughts were winning out.
Her mind was going in circles, she felt dried out and exhausted, and she just felt… wrong.
Quinn pushed herself upright, the room wobbling a bit. With very little food and water in her system, the alcohol was doing its thing much faster than usual.
It also wasn't helping her take her mind off the situation or making her feel any happier.
Because, the rational part of her brain said, alcohol is a depressant.
Quinn shut out the thought by picking up the bottle and chugging several large mouthfuls. Her mouth and throat and nose and eyes burned but she weathered it. Savoured the way the room blurred before her.
Oblivion would be nice. No dreams, no nightmares, no memories.
Feeling up to the handful of steps to the living room, Quinn slid off the stool and started walking, holding the bottle of Scotch in one hand by the neck of the bottle. Her bad leg twinged beneath her. The thought that she hadn't put her brace back on since taking it off to sleep more comfortably was dim. She should be wearing it every day. A few steps later and she was mentally kicking herself; the pain was intense.
She was only two steps away from the couch when her leg gave out and she dropped heavily to the floor, the bottle of Scotch rolling away and spilling some of its contents on the hardwood. Quinn closed her eyes. The floor was cold too.
"Quinn?"
Even if he hadn't spoken, Quinn would have known it was Steve. His footsteps on her creaky floor made a particular sound. For a moment or two, she thought about telling him to leave her alone, but then she thought about how good it might feel to see someone, to talk to someone. To talk to Steve. "In here," she croaked, voice raw from crying and booze and disuse. "I fell."
Steve's sock-covered feet appeared. He picked up the bottle and put it on the cluttered end table before he slipped his hands under her arms and helped her to her feet. "Are you okay?" he asked as she sagged against him. His arms went around her in a loose hug. "Physically."
"Maybe a bruise. M'fine."
"You're drunk." He didn't say it with any judgement or disapproval—it was just an observation. "Why aren't you wearing your brace?"
"Can't sleep with it on." Quinn's head rolled against Steve's chest as he adjusted his hold on her. He was warm and smelled like clean laundry. Quinn smelled like booze, stale body odour, and unwashed hair. "Forgot to put it back on."
Still holding Quinn, Steve settled himself onto the couch and then pulled Quinn into his lap. Somewhere in the process, and probably due to the kindness Steve was showing her, Quinn started crying again, silently this time, and pressed her face into Steve's chest. He held her close and stroked her hair. He didn't say anything, just let her cry. She started sobbing—full, body-wracking sobs—and she clung to Steve, her hands balling into fists around his t-shirt, her whole body pulling in towards him. He held her tighter.
It felt good to be held, to be touched, to not feel like she was being pressured to be fine or move on or do anything except cry until she couldn't anymore. Steve kept running a hand over her dirty hair until she began to calm down.
"I'm sorry," she whispered when the sobs had stopped. "I didn't mean—"
"You have nothing to apologize for, Quinn." Steve's voice was quiet and he gave her a small smile when she looked up at him. "This sort of pain… comes in waves. Nothing to do but ride them out. You shouldn't bottle that up. And you shouldn't apologize for it."
The barest hint of a smile flickered over her lips and she put her head back on Steve's shoulder, curled her arms over her stomach. "I just keep remembering that he's gone… that I won't see him when I go back to work in a few days…" She sighed, her breath wavering on the exhale. Tears bubbled at the corners of her eyes, but didn't fall. "It doesn't seem real." She hadn't intended to start talking about Coulson, about the way she was feeling—maybe the booze was loosening her tongue.
"It never does. Granted, I was frozen for a long time, but there are days when I still expect to see Bucky around."
"Is it… easier now?"
Steve nodded, the edge of his jaw sliding against Quinn's forehead. "Yeah, but only because the pain isn't new or fresh. It's still there, and is still overwhelming at times, but it's easier to deal with."
"Good. Maybe I'll get there one day. Coulson wouldn't want me to wallow too long." Sorry, Boss.
"From all I've heard, he was a good man. I'm sorry I didn't get to know him better."
"If he could have gotten past his awe at being in the same room as you, I think you would have liked him."
"You got over your awe at being in the same room as me."
Quinn huffed and lifted her head so she could look Steve in the eye. "I was never that awed."
"You were a little awed. I could see it in your face." Steve smirked when she narrowed her eyes. "But Agent Coulson's awe didn't bother me. It was a little awkward, sure, but he was kind. I feel bad I didn't get around to signing his cards. And now they're covered in blood."
Quinn made a mental note to get those cards back from Director Fury once she was back at the office. Even if they weren't in perfect shape anymore, Quinn still wanted them. They had been one of Coulson's prized possessions. "Our… appreciation of you and your story was one of the reasons we bonded. I brought one of my great-grandfather's journals to my SHIELD interview, the one around Project Rebirth, with the photo of you and Agent Carter and Colonel Phillips in it and he… he was surprised, to say the least."
"Sounds like you and he hit it off immediately."
"We did." Quinn smiled at the memory of the day Coulson had come to tell her she'd get her chance in SHIELD. "He was the reason I ended up in SHIELD. He stuck his neck out for me when I didn't pass the psych evaluation."
"You've always worked under him?"
"Yeah, from day one. I wouldn't be who I am without him." Quinn sighed and stared at her knees for a few long minutes, remembering the sound of Coulson's laugh, of his voice when he was angry, when he was excited about something. She thought about the expression on his face when he'd told her about the 084 in the desert outside Puente Antiguo. Of the relief in his eyes when he'd found her in the rubble after the Destroyer's attack. "When I was in the hospital, he barely left my side," she said quietly, emotion making her voice thick. "I was too slow in getting to him…"
"Quinn, you were injured, and you still managed to fight your way to Agent Coulson's side. There was nothing you could have done to save him. You could have ended up dead yourself," Steve added after a second.
"I know. It just…" She scrunched up her nose as more tears threatened to fall. "It feels like there should have been more I could do."
"There wasn't." The way he said it told Quinn it was probably something he'd told himself after Bucky had fallen from the train during the war. She'd read the reports; she knew Steve had initially thought he should have been able to save his friend. Maybe he still did. "There wasn't anything else you could have done."
Quinn put her head back down on Steve's shoulder and they sat in silence for a while. He was warm and comfortable enough that Quinn thought about closing her eyes and falling asleep again, but as soon as the thought crossed her mind, she started to feel the several days' worth of grime and sweat on her skin and she felt gross. And a little embarrassed for being around Steve in such a state.
"Steve?"
"Yes?"
"Will you stay here while I have a shower? In case my leg gives out again?"
"Of course."
Steve helped her to the bathroom, and she left the door open a crack so he could hear if she yelled. She turned on the water and slowly, carefully undressed, and, for the first time since coming home after her initial accident, she used the bars she'd had installed in her shower to keep herself steady and upright. She got herself clean without issue, and felt markedly better as she stepped out of the shower. Quinn put on her bathrobe and tied the belt tight. She left her dirty clothes in a heap on the bathroom floor and headed for her bedroom, looking forward to sleeping in her bed rather than on the couch.
Steve was standing in her bedroom doorway, hands in his pockets. Behind him, Quinn could see that her bed was freshly made and turned down, and her brace was in its place on her bedside table. She could guess that the Scotch on the floor in the living room would have been cleaned up and the room tidied as well. She smiled at Steve.
"Thank you," she said quietly, unexpectedly touched by the small gestures.
He returned the smile and stayed close as she climbed into bed and slid under the covers. "Do you need anything else?"
She shook her head, but then panic flared at the thought of him leaving. She had wanted to be left alone but now that Steve was here, that he'd helped her, she didn't want him gone. She didn't want to face another nightmare at all, but she especially didn't want to do it alone.
"Could you… stay? Just until I fall asleep?" Her cheeks flushed as she spoke, a little ashamed of her vulnerability.
But Steve didn't seem to notice. Or, if he did, he didn't care. He just laid down beside her, on top of the covers. Close enough to whisper. "Nightmares?" he asked.
Quinn rolled onto her side to face Steve and nodded, a single tear sliding across the bridge of her nose and onto her pillow.
Steve took her hand in his and squeezed it. Quinn closed her eyes and held on.
May 11th, 2012
New York, New York—Steve's apartment
"You don't have to cook for me, Steve."
"If I don't, I'm not sure you'll eat, and you can't eat takeout every day. I'm not making anything fancy. Just grilled cheese and tomato soup."
Steve flashed her a grin over his shoulder as he worked. Quinn managed to lift the corners of her mouth in response, but knew it wasn't a true smile. She was sitting at the counter in Steve's apartment, the mirror to her own, and she felt much more uncomfortable than she would have expected. Maybe it was just being out of her cocoon, or maybe it was because of the emotion she'd expressed in front of him yesterday, but she felt raw and exposed. It didn't help that Steve's apartment was still very spartan. The only thing out of the ordinary was the stack of file boxes SHIELD had sent over, but even those were stacked neatly, not a paper out of place.
The night before, Quinn had slept better than she had since Coulson had passed, and even though her leg had ached terribly, she had awoken around one in the afternoon feeling rested. And sad, since Steve had been gone. She knew Steve would have come if she'd called for him, but the severity of her disappointment at finding him gone had alarmed her. She couldn't let herself get so close to him. So, when he'd told her to come over for dinner, she'd tried to decline.
But Steve was more persistent and persuasive than she'd expected.
And really, she wanted to go.
"When do you go back to work?" Steve asked as he dropped a sandwich into the frying pan.
"Monday," she said quietly. The thought of walking into Coulson's office and sitting behind the desk instead of in the chair she'd normally occupied was extremely uncomfortable.
There was a small clatter followed by a sizzle when Steve flipped the sandwich. "Do you think you're ready?"
Quinn sniffed as a wave of emotion crested through her. She squeezed her eyes shut and put her head down on the countertop. "I don't know," she whispered.
"Oh, Quinn, I'm sorry. I didn't mean—"
She straightened quickly, sensing Steve was about to touch her. If he did, she would start sobbing again. "It's fine." Quinn sniffed again and scrubbed her hands over her face. Steve pulled his hand back instead of putting it on her shoulder and she turned her attention to the soup and sandwich in front of her. "Thanks, Steve."
"It's not a problem, Quinn. Not at all." He set about making himself several grilled cheese sandwiches while Quinn picked at her food. "You've helped me a lot since I woke up, Quinn. This is the least I can do."
Another wave of emotion built inside Quinn. She put her spoon back down and covered her face. This time, when she sensed Steve's hand coming, she didn't flinch or stop him. His touch was warm and, as he rubbed her back, it was comforting. His stool squealed a bit as he moved it over. Quinn leaned into Steve, turning into him when he wrapped his arm around her shoulders.
May 12th, 2012
New York, New York—Quinn's apartment
Quinn was running through the hallways of the helicarrier, the rhythm of her feet loud and echoing. Her heart was beating in time with her footsteps, her breaths coming in ragged pants. She was trying to get to Coulson—he'd radioed her and told her he was going after Loki and that he'd need her help—but she couldn't seem to find her way. It didn't make sense. She knew the helicarrier inside and out and she should have made it to Coulson by now.
"Hold on, Boss," she said as she moved. Quinn was determined to get there; she knew she had to, that if she didn't, Coulson would die. He needed her.
She turned a corner, expecting to see the hall outside the Hulk's holding cell, but it looked like the hall she'd just run down. Quinn stopped and doubled over, bracing herself with his hands on her knees as she regained her breath. Or tried to. The air was suddenly too thin and her chest was tight. Quinn couldn't get a deep enough breath.
Lacking proper air, Quinn began to stumble forward—she couldn't stop; she wouldn't give up. Her vision began to waver as she walked and her lungs screamed in her chest. Lying on the floor and going to sleep sounded like a good idea. A great idea. But Coulson needed her.
She had to get to him.
She had to save his life.
Quinn took a few more steps and then stopped. The next one seemed impossible. Her body felt heavy and clumsy. She couldn't feel things properly and the air that was getting inside her tasted like metal and blood. It took an enormous effort, but Quinn took another step. Her legs—both unbraced and pain-free—began to tremble. Another step and she fell, her knees striking the floor of the hall hard.
The distant hall rushed towards her, shrinking the distance between Quinn and the holding cell. Her body resisted the sudden motion; the world spun. She rolled onto her side, curling into a ball.
Then, the wall in front of Quinn vanished, allowing her to watch as Loki drove his sceptre through Coulson's back, the bloody point shining in the dim light.
Coulson crumpled to the ground, dead.
And then the scene rewound.
And played over and over.
And over.
Quinn tried to move, to claw her way to her boss's side. But all the air was gone from lungs, she could barely see, and her body would not obey her commands. Before her vision faded completely, Coulson, once again lying on the ground, turned his head to her.
"Why didn't you save me, Quinn?"
Quinn woke up on the floor of her bedroom. After a few disoriented moments, Quinn managed to pull herself into a sitting position with her back against her bed. Her left leg was in extreme pain, but she drew her right knee to her chest and wrapped her arms around it as she cried. She wasn't sobbing, thankfully, but she couldn't seem to stop the tears leaking from her eyes or the whimpers coming from her throat.
She sat there until the tears slowed. Her legs had fallen asleep and the tingling was starting to hurt, so she maneuvered herself onto the edge of the bed and waited for the pins and needles to pass before affixing her brace and limping to the bathroom. Quinn's reflection was pale and washed-out, her hair a mess and the bags under her eyes dark and prominent. Her nose was red from crying, and her eyes were a little swollen too. She was a mess.
A soft knock on the door to her apartment startled her. She limped out and, after using the peephole to check that her suspicions were correct, opened the door for Steve. "Sorry if I woke you up—what time is it anyway?"
"Early. 3:00 am, I think."
Quinn sagged against the door. "I'm sorry, Steve."
"I wasn't asleep. I don't sleep much. Are you okay? I heard a bang."
Quinn's cheeks flushed. "I… fell out of bed," she said quietly. Then added hastily, "I'm fine though. You don't have to keep checking on me."
Steve cocked his head to one side, his lips pressed together in a thin line.
Quinn blushed deeper, her eyes dropping to the floor. She was ashamed she kept giving Steve reasons to check on her. She was a grown woman, a federal agent who dealt with magical, mystical beings—superheroes—and she could take care of herself. Really. But she was so shaken, so broken up… Quinn shook her head and stepped back to let Steve into her apartment.
Don't let yourself get too close.
"I'm not just going to ignore it if I think you might need help," Steve said as she shut the door. "I don't have to stay if you want to go back to bed."
"No. I won't be able to sleep. I had another nightmare." Quinn headed for the kitchen and set about making coffee; she could practically feel Steve's eyes, tracking her limp. "Do you want a cup?"
"Please."
Quinn prepared the coffee without speaking, and Steve seemed content to sit in silence as well. After they had coffees in hand—lots of cream and sugar for Quinn and black for Steve—Quinn moved to the living room; she wasn't going to sit on one of her barstools with her leg acting up. She dropped into the cushy armchair against the wall under her framed photographs, and Steve sat on the couch, as close to her as he could get.
"Quinn, you don't have to be afraid to ask for help, or to accept the help I'm offering."
"I know. It just… It feels like I should be able to handle this without help. I don't like feeling… weak. Or vulnerable." Quinn's face flushed again; she hadn't meant to spill so much of what she was feeling. "I'm sorry. I didn't—"
"Stop apologizing," Steve said, his tone more forceful than she'd ever heard him use before. Something of that surprise must have shown on her face. "You are allowed to feel whatever you feel, and you don't have to be ashamed of any of it, especially with me." He moved to the edge of the couch so he could reach over and put his hand on hers, squeezing gently. His mouth opened a bit, like he was going to say something else, but he shut it again. After a moment, he said, "I'm your friend, Quinn. If you need to vent, do it."
"I've vented a lot at you lately." She scrunched up her features, but flipped her hand over so she could hold Steve's. A voice in the back of her head told her to take her hand back. Tears burned her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. Instead, she took a swig of too-hot coffee. "I'm afraid of going back to work. I'm afraid of sucking at this job, of failing Coulson all over again…" More tears. She held them back.
"Would Director Fury have given you the job if he thought you couldn't do it?"
Quinn liked that Steve had asked it as a question, and not stated it as a empty platitude. "No. Maybe. I don't know. It was always assumed I would take over for Coulson, but I thought I had years still… to overcome the mistake I made and get better." She sniffed, took another drink of coffee. "Half of me is sure Fury gave me the job as a… monument to Coulson or something."
"That's stupid."
She snorted and Steve smiled, took a drink of his own coffee. "I couldn't even say goodbye to him probably. Fury had his body whisked away to comply with his will."
He squeezed her hand again; she hadn't even realized he was still holding it. "So say goodbye to him in your own way."
Quinn sniffed again, but she felt a small burst of warmth in her chest. Having a private memorial, with words and things and people who Coulson appreciated and cared about… That was the way to do it. Not some stuffy funeral over a body that was no longer Coulson. Maybe it would even help Quinn feel better about heading back to work in a couple of days.
It was worth a shot, especially if Steve would help.
"You know, Cap, that's not a bad idea."
May 13th, 2012
New York, New York—roof of Quinn and Steve's apartment building
"Somehow, this feels wrong," Clint said as he twisted the top off a bottle of beer. "This feels like drinking in public."
"We're not in public. This roof isn't city property." Natasha, who was lounging in a dilapidated deck chair, took a swig from her own bottle and smiled at Quinn. "It is good to see you out of the apartment though, Quinn."
Quinn gave Steve a quick smile and then looked at her redheaded friend. "It feels good to be outside." With Steve keeping an ear open in case she fell, Quinn had showered and dressed, put her brace back on, and eaten a proper meal—that Steve had cooked. The others had arrived and headed straight to the roof, Clint with a case of beer in hand, and Maria with a bottle of scotch. "Thanks for coming."
"We had to make sure you hadn't died," Hill quipped. She smirked and took a drink. "We don't know Steve that well. It was difficult to leave you in his hands."
Quinn snorted and, beside her, Steve chuckled, smiled when their eyes met.
The previous night, Quinn hadn't had a nightmare, but instead, a rather nice dream. One in which she was crying over Coulson's loss, and Steve had come to her, wrapped her in his arms, and promised she would never be alone, that he would always be there for her. He had kissed her forehead and then her lips softly and then Quinn had woken up, alarmed by how much she felt the loss of the fantasy, especially when she was still grieving.
She's promised herself once again that she would keep her distance from Steve. She had to.
Once she was back at work, anyway.
After all, he'd taken good care of her. Helped her. Let her be alone until she couldn't be anymore. Been a friend when she needed one.
"You were right about this—this is exactly what Coulson would have wanted." Clint took a swig from his bottle and leaned back against the old couch. Someone had brought it up long again and put it under a little overhang to keep it safe from the elements. No one was sitting on it—it smelled funny—but it provided a good spot to lean. "I miss him."
"SHIELD isn't the same without him." Maria's voice wavered a little bit, but she kept all signs of grief from her face.
Quinn listened as Natasha, Clint, and Maria shared memories of Coulson. She smiled and laughed, and tears started to fall, but they weren't sad, not like they had been in the days immediately after Coulson's death. She thought about everything he'd done for her in their time together, every time he'd supported her, stood up for something he believed in, made a hard call… He'd groomed her for the job she was starting tomorrow. She would make him proud.
Quinn held her beer aloft. "For Coulson," she said. Everyone raised their drinks around her. "We miss you, Boss."
May 14th, 2012
New York, New York—SHIELD HQ, Agent Scott's office
The office had been cleaned, and she knew all his high-level files would be gone, but Coulson's things had been left untouched, waiting for Quinn on Monday morning. She stood in the doorway, her bag on the floor by her feet, and stared.
When Coulson had been alive, she'd never thought twice about entering his office. Her chair—the one directly across from his, turned at the perfect angle so she could prop her feet up on the other chair if she wanted—was always waiting for her, the pillow she sometimes used for her bad leg on the seat. But now… stepping over that threshold seemed like a big thing. Anticipating this reaction, Quinn had arrived early to give herself time.
After another moment of psyching herself up, Quinn retrieved her bag from the floor, swung it over her shoulder, and approached the desk. Where she stopped again.
Coulson's Captain America trading cards, blood and all, were sitting in front of the keyboard, zipped in a plastic bag.
Her heart skipped around a bit in her chest and tears burned the backs of her eyes, but they were in no danger of falling; she was, at least for now, all cried out. Quinn set her bag on an empty section of the desk, and settled slowly into the chair, her hands on either side of the trading cards. The rest of Coulson's memorabilia was on shelves around the office—or at home—but these cards, with him at the moment of his death apparently, were special.
Quinn set them to one side, still in view but out of the way.
Every move she was making felt deliberate and slow. It felt wrong to be sitting on that side of the desk, though she knew she wouldn't get in trouble—the sign on the door read "Agent Q. Scott" now, after all.
From her bag she retrieved the framed photo of her and Coulson at her graduation from the SHIELD operations academy. She set it up in front of the few photos Coulson had kept on his desk: one of the two of them posing with Thor's hammer when it was still stuck in the ground, one of his family, one of the cellist in Portland he'd had a thing with—Quinn wondered if anyone had contacted her—and one of Strike Team Delta, Nat and Clint on either side of Coulson and Quinn in front, all of them making silly faces.
"I wish you were here, Boss," she whispered.
With a shaking breath, Quinn pulled her eyes away from the past. She logged in, unsurprised to find over a hundred emails waiting for her attention. The top one though was from Director Fury.
(sent 05.14.2012.06.29)
TO: qscott
FROM: nfury
SUBJECT: Promotion
Agent Scott,
Welcome back.
HR will be sending you your new contract and any other relevant information for your new position today. Make sure all paperwork is done by the end of today.
A list of things you'll need to check on has already been sent to you. Follow up with those associated with the Avengers, and with the city officials. All the information you'll need will be in that email. If you're missing something, contact Hill.
I am sorry you had to get the promotion this way, Scott, but you're ready.
Good luck.
—Nicholas J. Fury
Director of SHIELD