She's sitting by herself, cradling it in the palm of her hands and running her thumb along the edges. She can't look at it.
She can't let it go but she can't bear to look, and she knows if she does, she might not be able to stop herself. Suddenly, there's a groan, rustling as someone sinks into the seat besides her.
Without hesitation, she grips the robin in her hand, and lowers it to hide it from his view.
(She doesn't really know why.)
May narrows her eyes, crossing her legs and shifting in her seat. It's defensive. It's familiar. She bristles, glancing at him silently as she waits for him to announce why he's decided to sit besides her.
But Mack simply stretches out, tilting his head back against the seat and folding his hands against his lap.
"Hope you don't mind I joined you." His deep voice rumbles. He jams his thumb backwards, and gives her a sly smile. "Just needed some space from those lovebirds over there."
May turns around. Behind them, Fitz and Jemma are sitting at their computer screens, their bodies so close they're almost touching.
She turns back around.
"You know they're engaged?" Mack resumes, fighting back the silence. "Didn't even think to tell any of us. I mean, sure, there was the aliens, and the time travel, and the whole world ending—well, actually that's still happening— but you'd think they could've mentioned it."
May blinks.
Mack rubs his head. "Honestly, they probably weren't ready to say anything. They are the same people who took forever to admit they liked each other. Didn't even really tell any of us that they were dating in the first place." He snorts. "Heck, I had to basically pry it out of Simmons after they shut down their comms in Bucharest-"
"Mack." She says abruptly.
He stares at her for a moment, then sighs. He shifts, leaning forward to rest his arms on his knees, clasping his hands.
(She hears Fitz mutter something. Jemma whispers back. She hears them scoot out of their chairs and the sounds of their footsteps as they leave)
"I like to think that, on some level, we're friends," Mack says. "I hope that's okay that I say that." When she doesn't contradict him, he continues on. "But, honestly I don't really know you, May. I know what I've been through, and I know what I've seen, but I don't know you at all. I mean, the only time we've really had a conversation was in..." He swallows, and shakes his head.
She decides to finish the sentence so he doesn't have to. It's the very least she can do. "The Framework. When I forced you to weed out Daisy."
"Yeah." He replies, his voice cracking a bit. "That wasn't a very pleasant conversation. And I don't blame you for that, obviously. Or for anything else."
She nods.
(She doesn't tell him that even if he doesn't blame her for that or for anything else, she does)
"We did have a conversation once," May says. "About how no one talks to me about their feelings."
He laughs, and it's genuine. Real. May decides that it's a nice one, and that she wouldn't mind hearing it more often, although she'll never admit it.
He stops laughing and rubs his eyes, sitting up in his seat.
"I'm in so much pain." Mack inhales deeply. "Every time I think, every time I breathe. It feels like I was ripped open, and nothing's gonna put me back together. Some days it's bearable, but most days, it isn't."
His brown eyes meet her brown eyes.
(She thinks that they look so… sad, weary. Tired.)
"You understand." He finally says.
"Understand what?" she finally replies.
(She grips the robin tightly)
"What it feels like to lose a kid," Mack says, his voice cracking when he says 'kid'. "Over, and over again."
May remembers a little girl, with bright eyes and a bright smile, before she ripped them apart. She remembers her screaming for her father, and Mack screaming for his daughter. She remembers telling Mack that if he doesn't talk to Daisy then he would never see that little girl again.
And she's never known how to describe it, but she thinks Mack is right: it feels like someone's gutted her with a knife, and she can't stop the bleeding no matter how hard she tries.
"You're talking about the Framework. Your daughter." May says.
Mack gives her a wavering smile. "She was real. Her name was Hope. She was just a baby when she died. I didn't really get a chance with her, but it didn't stop me from loving her and missing her. Missing what she could've become." He takes a shuddering breath. "In the Framework, I got to be her dad. That was the one thing I wanted more than anything."
May lifts the robin up from her side and holds it out to him. He looks at it, looks back at her, and gingerly takes it from her hands.
She keeps her gaze on him the whole time.
"I don't remember raising Robin. It's not the same." She says, taking care that her tone remains calm, and her voice remains firm.
"Thinking like that won't make it mean any less. It won't make it any less easier." Mack pauses. "I have memories, years of my life where I raised Hope. Years. Just because that life and those memories and that Hope ended up being a lie doesn't mean that it feels like one. It doesn't mean that it feels like you don't deserve to mourn."
He holds the robin out to her.
May stares at him.
"Do you know what changed for me in the Framework? What was the one thing I wanted more than anything else?"
He shakes his head, still reaching out to her.
"That Katya lived. That I was able to save her."
Mack doesn't hesitate. "The Cambridge incident."
"Yes."
"She was real, too."
"Yes."
"But she died."
"Yes."
"How?"
"Me."
He looks surprised, and that pain, all that pain of looking in the mirror and feeling disgust, looking at her hands covered in blood, looking at the very fingers that pulled the trigger—
It's never gone away. It's another wound, another way she's been gutted and another reason she's never, ever gonna be whole again.
"I'm sorry that you had to do that. It wasn't fair." Mack slowly enunciates. "And I'm sorry that you have to live with that, and I'm sorry that I don't know what to say to make you feel less guilty. But I believe, I have to believe, that everything happens for a reason. That I had to lose my daughter, lose Hope, once when she was a baby and again when she wasn't and there's a reason for that. It's how I keep on going."
(May wonders, really, if he means 'hope' in a different way)
"Well," May says, "I believe that if I was a bit quicker, a bit stronger and a bit smarter, then I could've saved her."
"And that if you don't let anyone get close, if you push them away, then they won't get hurt?"
He's staring at her, but it's a different kind of stare than the ones she usually gives, and the ones she receives. No anger, no pity, no sadness. Just, understanding.
"It doesn't work, does it?" He asks, softly.
"No." She softly replies.
He holds out the robin again, and she takes it lightly, letting herself look at it, just for a moment.
She closes her eyes.
"I don't think I need to tell you that it's not gonna get easier. It won't."
She feels a hand on her arm, and she opens her eyes.
"But you have people who love you, and you love them." Mack says, meeting her gaze. "It never gets easier, but it doesn't have to get harder."
"Thank you, Mack."
He nods his head, and stands up, brushing invisible dirt off his pants.
"Mack?"
He looks down at her.
"How did you know about Robin?"
Mack blinks. "Daisy told me. She's worried about you. Knows that you say you're fine, but you're not. Thought that you should talk about it"
"Daisy should keep her thoughts to herself."
"When has Daisy ever? "
They both smile, and as Mack walks past her he reaches out, brushing her shoulder. He smiles, and heads out the door.
And just like that, she's alone. She exhales and leans back into her seat, and she finds herself in the same position that she was before.
She's sitting by herself, cradling it in the palm of her hands and running her thumb along the edges. She takes a deep breath, and looks down at the robin. Really looks at it. Traces the carved lines of the head, the beak, the tail, the wings.
She traces the feathers, each and every single one of them.
She lets herself cry.
She lets it all go.
(She finally feels free)