A/N: Pairings will include Phil Coulson/Steve Rogers, Jemma Simmons/Jasper Sitwell, Skye/Trip, and Fitz/Mack. This is basically just pure fluff and kind of just mashed Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. and the MCU together in a way that makes me happy (namely, people being alive and not traitors and such). There will be spoilers for AoS, so if you haven't seen up until the Winter Finale, you might want to do that before you read this.

It starts with a sniffle, a tickle at the back of the throat, feeling a little more tired than usual. As much as Phil hates to admit it, he knows what this is: he's sick. The thing of it is, when you're the Director of S.H.I.E.L.D., you don't have time to be sick. So as much as he loathes it, he marches himself down to medical to be checked out.

The beginnings of the flu, or so he's told. He really does intend to do as they say—take it easy, drink lots of fluids, get sleep and take the prescribed medication—it's just that life sometimes gets in the way. At the very least, he makes sure to take a day or two to work alone in his office; he's not inconsiderate enough to get the rest of them sick. And to his credit, he really did feel better after those first two days. So he may have missed a dosage or two after and perhaps he hasn't exactly rested as much as he should and, yes, he's going into this meeting on very little sleep and quite a lot of coffee within the past sixty or so hours. But he really has tried. Really.

Still, when he rises from his seat as the meeting concludes, he knows he probably should have tried a little harder. His mouth is full of cotton and his head is full of white noise and he feels too hot and suddenly the floor is much, much closer to his face than it has any right to be.

Waking up comes with the slow realization of what had happened along with the blooming apprehension that arises whenever he's done something stupid. Because if he's done something stupid, there will be people who are angry with him. And if there are people who are angry with him, Melinda May will be at the top of that list.

For the moment, he seems to be alone, but there really isn't much to be said about that when he takes in his surroundings. He's not in his own bed, but rather, in a room down in their medical wing. Eyeballing the IV trailing from his hand and the heart monitor beeping softly beside him, he can't help but feel this is a bit much. Alright, so fainting and falling flat on his face was not the most dignified way to end a meeting, and yes, he feels about as awful as he can recall in recent memory, but he's not that sick. Is he?

Sure, it feels like there's an elephant sitting on his chest and every cough feels like someone's rubbing sandpaper on his throat, but it's just a cold. He'd just overdone it, that's all. It's just a bad case of the flu, no need to go this far.

"How do you feel?"

He looks up at the sound of Melinda's voice, followed by the door clicking shut behind her. He hesitates to answer as he tries to gauge her mood, but to his surprise, she doesn't appear to be as cross as he believed she might be.

"I've felt worse," he says, his voice not much more than a soft rasp chased by a barking cough. He lies back, finding that even keeping his head up seems to be require strength he doesn't have. He resists the urge to tell her he's felt a hell of a lot better, too.

"Simmons wants to keep you here for a week," Melinda says, sitting in the seat beside his bed.

"I can't stay in bed for a week," Phil argues weakly, closing his eyes and attempting to smother the cough that rumbles up from his chest.

"You passed out in front of your team and a few superheroes. Steve had to carry you here," Melinda chides him gently. "You don't have much choice in the matter."

Phil says nothing, knowing it will be an argument he won't win and, lacking the energy to continue anyway, quits while he's ahead. Perhaps he dozes off, because the feeling of a cool hand resting on his forehead rouses him with the feeling that some time has passed.

"Did I fall asleep?" he mumbles, trying to clear his throat.

"For a little while," she answers.

He tries not the let the phrasing in the exchange bother him. He's past that. It's not important right now.

"Thought you'd be mad."

"That you fell asleep?"

"That I got sick."

Melinda makes a thoughtful noise, her fingers moving to brush back his hair before disappearing all together. Not a moment later, however, there's something cool and wet being pressed to his forehead and he supposes it says something about him that his sigh of relief sounds more like a wheeze.

"You actually made the effort to try not to, so I can't blame you for that," she admits. "But we've talked about this."

"Mm."

"Phil."

He manages to pry his eyes open to meet her gaze, although he's sure his is decidedly less focused than hers. She doesn't look to be angry or frustrated with him; or at least, not overly so, in any case. If anything, she simply seems concerned.

"You're going to do as Simmons says and stay in this bed for one week," Melinda says firmly. "S.H.I.E.L.D. will be fine without you for that long. It won't kill you to take it easy for once."

Phil makes a dissatisfied noise, but abandons any idea of complaint when Melinda shoots him a look that says he'll regret it if he tries. He's going to have to do as she says, but he's not going to be happy about it. Not one bit. Of course he knows S.H.I.E.L.D. won't fall apart without him, but the idea of sitting in this bed all week when he could be getting things done is something he's not looking forward to.

He considers bartering for a few days at most, but before he can get a word out, his cough is back again. Only this time it doesn't stop. He winds up curled on his side, his lungs violently forcing out the air he's barely managing to gasp in. It's like breathing through a straw and he quickly finds himself growing lightheaded as his body continues on like this, regardless of his desperation for it to be over and done with. For a few brief, terrifying moments, any sense in him goes right out the window as he wonders if it will ever stop.

It does, of course, but only once he's sure he's about to lose a lung or consciousness. There's a hand on his back and a mask being pressed over his mouth and nose, and instructions for him to take slow, deep breaths as the spell begins to fade. If he had the breath to do it, he would've liked to have pointed out that that was just what he'd been trying to do, but that it's not so very easy when your lungs are attempting to turn themselves inside out.

"Take it slow, Phil," Melinda tells him, her hand gently rubbing his back. "Relax and let it work itself out."

He nods his head slowly, involuntary tears in the corner of his eyes after what felt like and episode of near-suffocation. There are a few lingering coughs, like the aftershocks of an earthquake, but gradually his breathing returns to something resembling comfortable—or at the very least as comfortable as it had been just five minutes prior. Melinda continues to stroke his back as he lies still and focuses on his breathing, frustrated that a simple bout of coughing has left him feeling like he's just scaled a mountain.

"Still think a week is excessive?" she asks.

It's probably in his best interest that he doesn't have the strength to respond. Regardless, he's sure of one thing: it's going to be a long week.