NOTES: Anna Ellis was created before Audrey Nathan was made public knowledge; therefore, this series is a wee bit AU.

Thanks to the_wordbutler for the beta and for wanting to hear more from this story.

Phil sighs happily as he beholds the sight before him: an empty trio of plane seats. With all his global trekking, he'd learned to be one of the last passengers on the plane. He always has Koenig book him aisle seats near an exit door; a parachute lines his suit jacket in case something goes to hell. Boarding just before the gate closes lets Phil take a good look at everyone else on the plane on the off chance (or what feels like an incredibly likely chance lately) that there is an unfriendly face on the passenger manifest.

The flights and constant recruitment are exhausting. Phil used to be good at bringing in potential agents with lures of making good on their name and fighting the good fight, but that stump speech is no longer an option. Part of him even fears speaking the word S.H.I.E.L.D. in public; who knows who could be listening and make him a target.

But flying coach is worse than all of the crap he's endured lately. He spends the duration of most flights cursing Grant Ward's name. It's because of that traitor that his team was put in danger, Fitz's mind was compromised, and why Phil no longer has a plane of his own. He really misses his plane (also Fitz being healthy and team being solid).

There are other things he misses, too. One person in particular, but Anna is safer and happier without him around and as much as he hates it and misses her, things can't change. Not anytime soon, at least.

He pushes those thoughts out of his mind as he decides how to best settle himself on the row of three empty seats. But of course, his dream can't last long—a muttered apology behind him causes Phil to turn around. A harried man ten years his senior shuffles up the aisle, a hard plastic case in his arms. He smiles apologetically at Phil's fallen face. "Connecting flight ran late," the man explains. "Made it just in the nick of time."

"Congratulations," Phil replies with a fake smile. He sweeps his arm towards the seats as he steps out of the way. "Go ahead."

"Thanks," the man replies. He takes the window seat and then carefully straps the plastic case into the middle seat. Phil pretends to check his e-mail on his phone, but really pulls up a threat detector app Skye built. Whatever is inside doesn't appear to be threatening. "My bassoon," the stranger says, apparently able to read Phil's thoughts.

"I'm sorry?" Phil asks as he straps himself into his seat.

"I'm a professional musician. Sticking Bessie here in the cargo compartment is hell on a woodwind. Just slightly more of a hell than having to buy two plane tickets everywhere."

"Bessie the Bassoon?"

The man shrugs. "My daughter named her. She was seven at the time."

Phil smiles and returns his attention to his phone for one last check of incoming messages before he has to shut it down for the flight back to New York from London. His goal is to try and sleep a little on the plane, but the musician next to him apparently feels chatty.

"You have any kids?"

"Three," Phil answers, the lie slipping from his mouth before his brain really processes it. God, he needs to sleep.

The stranger smiles wistfully. "My wife and I wanted more, but it just didn't work out." He pauses to stretch out his hand. "Doug, by the way."

"Peter," Phil replies. He doesn't think the man is threat to anything but his sleep cycle, but better safe than sorry.

"You married?" Doug asks.

Phil shakes his head. "Recently divorced."

"Sorry."

"It happens," Phil says with a shrug. "She's a musician, too, and I work all the time at a job that demands a lot of travel and attention."

Doug nods sympathetically. "A lot of my friends stayed together until their kids were grown."

"Yeah," Phil breathes. He wants to end the discussion, but his exhaustion is apparently giving his tongue a mind of its own. "My older daughter doesn't speak to me anymore. Our son is just confused about everything. The younger daughter has been living with me while she gets settled into her first big job, but it's different. I'm pushing her away. Not that I want to, it's just—"

"Self-punishment," Doug finishes for him. "My wife and I split five years ago for pretty similar reasons. It was hard being around my daughter for the first year after that. Felt like I'd let her down. And then you look at her face, and all these memories come back to you—birthdays, Christmas, whatever—and even though you know ending things was the right thing to do, it just makes everything hurt again."

Phil never spent a Christmas with Anna. She hates celebrating her birthday, but made sure to help Pepper make a big deal of his a couple months ago.

Had it really only been seven weeks? Because it feels like ages. The days have been long and challenging, as to be expected when trying to rebuild an organization that is barely holding on, but the constant ache in his chest doesn't make things any easier, either. He's come to close to calling her while lying in the dark of a hotel room, his thumb hovering over the glowing send icon. But what would he say? He has to devote his life to S.H.I.E.L.D. right now, and probably for the rest of his days. She deserves better than that, so as much as it guts him to do so, he has to leave her be. He's already barged his way back into her life once. She'd thought then that he was dead, and from now on he just needs to be completely gone to her. Let her live her life without the fear of Grant Ward attacking her, the worry that she might have to bury Phil again, or the heartache of hearing that one of their "kids," as she called them, was injured on a mission.

His life, like flying coach, blows. But this is the only option he has now.