A/N: I'm not sure where all this angst has come from- oh, wait. Blame Mo and Jed, and Clark's superb acting.

I hope you enjoy, and please let me know what you thought.

It had been a long day. A day of fear, despair, and heartbreak.

But also a day of hope: despite everything, every twist and turn, every impromptu space excursion, LMDs, the horrors of the framework, and the atrocities of the dystopian future they were trying to prevent, Fitz and Simmons had gotten married. There was, of course, the question of legality, but no one was too bothered by that – a marriage certificate was certainly not beyond Daisy's skills once they were no longer on the most wanted list.

They had gotten married, with their team – their family – around them, in a forest out of their time-travelling-companion-from-the-future's fears, wearing a second hand dress and no kilt. It hadn't been perfect, but, somehow, that had made it perfect.

And the fact that he'd been there – that he'd survived long enough to witness that moment – was still astounding to Phil Coulson. He'd told May the truth, he was in no hurry to die, but he had half expected to never make it out of that basement.

He'd told Deke to get him a bottle of Haig, whatever else might be true, May deserved the truth and an apology, and he intended to given her that at least. But Deke, being Deke, had instead presented him with a case of Zima – a far cry from the aged Scotch he'd been hoping for.

But as the saying goes: beggars can't be choosers, and when you're already living on borrowed time, you don't second guess opportunities. And so it was, that Phil Coulson made his way through the halls of the Lighthouse – somehow familiar despite his present-self never having actually walked them – Zima case in hand, to the bunk Melinda had retreated to shortly after the wedding.

He planned to apologize. To tell her the truth – the whole truth, LMDs and all. He'd take whatever came, anger, hate, disgust. He'd leave it all in her court, give her the choice he'd so selfishly taken away, because she'd been right: who she chose to waste her time on, was for her to decide.

He knew Melinda May well enough to know to expect silence – she did not process openly, and he'd give her the space she needed for that. He didn't have much left to give, but he could give her that.

To wait even one second to do this is playing with fire. His own words echoed in his mind as his stepped echoed through the empty hallways.

He had no time left to waste – there had been enough waiting.

He was ready for the stony-faced distance, for the subtle changes in breathing-pattern as the only indication of what she might be feeling. Which is why he stopped in his tracks as he reached the door to May's bunk and heard the exact opposite.

The sounds took him right back to his office in the Playground, the day he'd returned, drenched in blood, from cradling Rosalind's lifeless body. He'd be surprised if a single piece of furniture had survived; he could hear glass shattering, what sounded like books, tumbling to the ground, and then the sobs, the sound of bedsprings dipping, and the un-muffled, heart-wrenching sounds of exactly how Melinda was feeling.

It cut through him more viciously than Loki's scepter or the necrotic tissue spreading from his scar ever had. He'd only seen Melinda cry once before. The thought that she'd been hurt that deeply again tightened the vice grip his impending-death already had on his heart just that bit more.

He leaned his head on the wall, his breathing irregular as he fought against the blurring of his vision. Not again. Not now.

"Damn it, Phil!"

He hear her say between sobs, followed by what sounded like a fist against a now-shattered-wardrobe door.

It hurt.

It hurt more than he could express to know he'd cause that. The ever-stoic Melinda May, the Cavalry, had lost the tightly-held control she kept on her emotions, and he was the cause. He'd done that.

He gulped for air as he turned his back to the wall and felt himself slide down, landing softly, his head falling against his knees. And as the wetness seeped through his jeans, he realized it was not his condition blurring his vision, it was not the necrosis taking his breath away. It was tears, and the sobs that he could now no longer control.

And that's how Daisy found him as she'd made her way to her own bunk. It broke her just that bit more, standing at the end of the corridor, watching their leader, SHIELD Director Coulson, the man she'd always seen as a father, sob uncontrollably, his back against Melinda May's door, her own grief filtering from the room.

As a tear slipped from her eye, the hope of the afternoon dissolving and the very real sorrow of what was to come taking over, Daisy turned and made her way back down to level 27. It was empty now – no people, no wedding, no forest. It was just a room, but it was what she needed. Taking a seat on the cold floor, mimicking Coulson's position a few floors up, Daisy, too, allowed the tears to flow.

They'd been strong, they'd gotten the job done, and they'd been happy for Fitzsimmons.

But now the pain was back, and it demanded to be felt.

Phil Coulson was dying. The team would lose a leader she could never replace. May would lose the man she'd never been given the chance to love. And she would lose the father she'd never really had.

It wasn't fair.

It just—

It just wasn't fair.

Can you tell the 100th broke me?

Thanks for reading,

CJS