Scotch and a side of Scot

There was an eerie calm on the bus after Agent Hand and her thousands of cronies disembarked. It was the eerie calm that Leopold Fitz remembered all too well from his childhood, a calm that could break and turn into a tumulus storm that overwhelmed everyone in its path. And Leo remembered all too well, his mum's whispered pleas for Leo to be a good boy, to not piss off Da. He kept his mouth shut when he was a child, now that he was older; he was reluctant to open his mouth for fear of disturbing the peace.

"He's very quiet," Jemma Simmons whispered to her concerned coworkers. "Very internalized."

"What should we do? What should we say," Skye whispered.

"Let him breath. Let him process everything. Don't overwhelm him," May quietly stated. "When he wants to talk to someone, he'll let you know."

Since Melinda May was the walking, talking poster child of Post Traumatic Stress, Leo relaxed, because of all the people on the bus that Phil Coulson would pick to talk with, he would be the last. Coulson was tight with May and Skye. Ward was in bloody awe of Coulson and Jemma... Jemma was a lovely, lovely lass who was very comforting and reassuring to people who were frightened and uncertain.

Then there was poor Leo Fitz, picked last for everything, except for science projects. Poor Leo, socially awkward, who wore plaid shirts and loud ties and who had never really spoken to Coulson about anything besides work.

"He's coming here," Ward whispered, so the group all tried to look innocent. They failed as Coulson just stared at them when he entered the room, as though he was measuring them, looking for something that only he could see. Their team lead appeared haunted and drained, the bruises on his face accenting how he seemed to be holding himself together only by sheer strength of will.

"Fitz," the bruised specter that looked like Phil Coulson announced. "Office."

Coulson turned and walked away even while everyone looked at Fitz.

The young Scot just shrugged his shoulders.

Leo reluctantly entered Coulson's office, most assuredly uncertain of why he was here. Why he had been selected when there were so many more deserving and certainly better qualified candidates to be Coulson's confessor downstairs?

There was a table with two chairs and two glasses. Phil nodded his head in acknowledge and spoke, "I won a bottle of Macallan 25 year old scotch in a poker game. I was saving it for a special occasion, and I haven't opened it. Tonight it will be opened. Tonight's special occasion is that I plan on drinking myself into blessed, sweet oblivion. However, it would be a crime not to share it with someone who would appreciate it."

He opened the bottle and poured. Then he handed one glass to Fitz, saluted him with the other and then drank. Then Phil Coulson poured himself another drink before he sat down in the chair.

"Plus, you don't talk. You're quiet and I am completely talked out about everything that has happened to me."

All the while, he was rubbed his head with his left hand as though he was searching for something.

Fitz took a slow sip in order to savor the taste, before he smiled. "Thank you, this is excellent Scotch."

That was probably something safe... something sane... to say to Phil Coulson who seems to be on the verge of a mental breakdown.

Phil nodded even as he finished his second glass. He drank his Scotch not like a man who savored the finest things in life, but as a very quiet man who was determined to be unconscious as expeditiously as possible. After Phil finished his third glass before Fitz had refilled his drink, Phil spoke, "I asked Simmons for something to let me sleep. She wouldn't give me anything as she was concerned about the after affects of the device mixed with a sedative. You hid the vial for the nightnight gun so I couldn't even use that."

The body that spoke looked like Phil Coulson, but the voice was a hollow... dead... impersonation of Coulson.

"I want just to sleep and not to dream of Tahiti or chain saws."

Fitz didn't know what to say, so instead he held out his glass for a refill.

By his seventh glass, Coulson was still upright, much to Fitz's surprise. However, the normally impeccably dressed Coulson was rumpled and his tie was pulled loose from around his neck. His hair was messy and he was still rubbing his head.

"Question," he slurred. "If say... your best friend in the world, had your head cut off... so they could... use an alien device to poke your brain... and it hurt like a mother fucking bitch, ... while you screamed and screamed for death, would you be angry?"

"I think I would be," Fitz admitted.

"I'm pissed," Coulson admitted. He took a long swallow and stared at the empty glass. "Bastard could have slipped in a hair transplant."

Fitz didn't know what to say.

"Bastard said it wasn't covered in my accidental death policy." Coulson barked a laugh which turned into body shaking tremors. "I was dead and they brought me back. I was dead for days... weeks... and they brought me back. I'm fucking Coulsenstein. "

He drank his eighth glass... eighth... how the hell could he be on his eight glass and still be talking? Coulson reached for the bottle; however Fitz removed it from his range.

"I want my bottle of Lethe back, please," Coulson slurred.

"Go to bed," Fitz said. Really, he had no idea on how to handle the current situation. Keeping his mouth shut and letting Coulson lead the conversation had led to this!

"I can't, because I will dream, Fitz. Of saws and blades, of goddamn blue and... the pain... I remember everything... about what they did to me. How I begged for dead and they wouldn't... wouldn't..."

Coulson is unraveling in front of him, and Fitz doesn't know how to handle it. However, more Scotch is not the answer.

"Let me help you to bed, Coulson," Fitz repeated. "Help you change for bed."

Yes. Coulson was physically and emotionally exhausted and sleep would help his problem. Yes, Fitz would help him to bed, which would be limited to propping Coulson in the left lateral recumbent position, after removing his tie and jacket.

"That an offer, Leo?" Phil asked. "I thought Ward was more your type."

Leo's face burned, as he had tried to keep his preferences personal. Simmons knew and that was it, but everything thought he and Simmons were together, so it was enough.

"He's not," Leo admitted.

"How about a really drunk old man?" Coulson asked plaintively. He looked so utterly despondent and lost that Fitz sighed. His first proposition in years, and Phil was absolutely stinking polluted. Plus straight to boot.

"Go to bed, Coulson."

"I'm bi," Coulson hopefully added as he staggered to his bed where he promptly collapsed. "I am."

"Come on," Fitz protested. "Bed."

"Stay with me? Won't do anything?"

Fitz bit his lip so he wouldn't laugh, but he couldn't help retorting, "Oi! You think I'll fall for that?"

However, a drunken Coulson had finally become one with his inner self, and was sleeping soundly, so Fitz sighed. He pulled the covers over the senior agent but he pulled off his shoes at least. It was looking to be a long night, as he'd be sleeping in a chair as he couldn't leave Coulson alone.

Not after Ossetia.

Not when Coulson was in the need of his own recovery mission.

"Good night, Phil. Tonight, let me watch over you."