Disclaimer: I don't make any money from this and I don't own them – but, oh, the fun they'd have if I did.

A/N: It appears I have stumbled into a new fandom. Again. Oh well. Since Philinda seems to have taken over the fangirl side of my brain (and a little of the moderately sane side as well), I figured I'd give writing for them a go.

This is literally just a short drabble of the immediate aftermath of Bahrain. I may continue it, I may not. We'll see.

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

The hotel room they now found themselves in was a testament to how stunned everyone had been by the events of that afternoon. Not even the higher brass could justify putting them on the first cargo plane back to the states after what had happened. Half of agent Hart's team was in the hospital, the other half still not quite with it after the effects of the inhuman girl's powers. And Melinda—

Phil paused in his thoughts to look over at her.

She'd always been small. Smaller than him, anyway. But now, as she sat upon the cheap hotel bed beside his, the only evidence of the day's events the bruises and cuts covering her face, she looked smaller than he'd ever seen her. There was none of the boldness, none of the confidence or strength that he'd always associated with Melinda May.

She was, for lack of a better word, broken.

Her phone vibrated on the bedside table, and once again, she made no move to answer it. He did not need to read the screen to know who it was. Andrew.

He would be worried sick. He'd managed to get a message out to him, to let him know everyone was safe and that they'd be back the following day. But he doubted that would do much to assuage the psychologist's fears. He knew it wouldn't help him at all if the roles were reversed.

The vibrating stopped, and still, she did not move.

"May," he spoke softly as he approached with the cup of tea he'd made her from the free tray that came with the room.

The only sign that she'd heard him was the blink of her eyes before she continued to stare at the quilt by her feet.

"Come on, May, you need to drink something, you need…"

Her eyes shifted, moving to his as he took a seat on the side of her bed, the cup still held in his hands.

"It will make you feel better, I…"

She turned away then, facing away from him and, her eyes squeezed shut as she fought back the tears that had only stopped a few scarce minutes ago, hung her head.

Her reflection in the hotel mirror broke his heart all over again.

He needed to help her, needed to bring back his May.

Placing the cup of coffee down beside her momentarily-silent phone, Phil turned toward her, his hand moving to her shoulder, drawing her to him once more. It had seemed to calm her out in the ambulance - the contact, the reassurance. He didn't know what good it would do now, but he needed to do something.

He wasn't surprised when she clung to him; she'd done it in the ambulance too. He wasn't surprised when her fists gripped his wrinkled-beyond-repair shirt, his tie long forgotten on his own bed. But he did not know how to react to her eyes on his face, so desperate, so lost, as if searching, needing—

What?

Neither of them could answer that. Neither knew how to make this better.

A child. A child had been killed.

She hadn't gone into specifics – their debrief would be tomorrow at the Triskelion, there was no need to make her relive any of it until then. But a child had been killed and however it had happened, it had broken her.

He looked down at her, green eyes fixing on red-rimmed brown, offering as much comfort and support as he could, his arms still around her shoulders, her hands still clutching his shirt.

Then she was kissing him, and he couldn't move.

He knew what this was. This was what specialists did. When the job became too much, when you just needed that human connection; just needed to feel something other than death. Just needed the release.

But he wasn't a specialist, and Melinda wasn't just— Melinda wasn't just anything.

"May," he whispered as he drew away, not even realizing until he moved his lips to speak how heavy they had become from their kiss. A kiss he hadn't even quite realized he'd been participating in.

"Please," she whimpered, her voice so lost, so broken, that it physically hurt as his chest contracted.

"It's ok," he whispered back, bringing her to his chest, her head resting over his heart.

"I need…" she cried into his shirt. "I just need to feel—"

But as she spoke, her phone vibrated next to the bed once more, and her hands released the fabric of his shirt, sobs racking through her as she gave in to the overwhelming emotions once more.

Reaching over her to quickly silence the buzzing phone, Phil closed his eyes and opened them to the ceiling. He needed to be strong. For her, for Andrew; for himself.

"You'll be alright," he whispered against her hair as he gently pressed his lips to the top of her head.

"I couldn't save her," she sobbed against him, her tears seeping through the thin material of his shirt. It had been the one coherent thing she'd been able to articulate. The one sentence she kept repeating.

The girl. She hadn't been able to save her.

"I know," he held her tighter, hoping it would somehow take away her pain, "but you have to let her go. You have to let the girl go, Melinda."

She could do nothing but continue to sob into his chest.

Eventually, he managed to manoeuvre them so that his back was to the headboard, and her head on his chest, and finally, he felt her relax, her body going slack as she drifted off to sleep.

Closing his eyes, Phil felt his own breathing even out, the sound of the buzzing phone on the bedside table beside them fading into silence as his eyes closed and he joined his partner in restless sleep.

Well that was angsty. I'd apologize but, well, it is post-Bahrain. I'd love to hear your thoughts!

CJS