In preparation for the Melinda episode...
The thought of her broken, battered, dying has him running through the doors as soon as they're open.
The whole area is a disaster, but he doesn't see her, and it's a small relief. Searching through the wreckage of bodies and blood, he manages to put himself a little at ease. He knows her. He knows Melinda. And nothing breaks her. It might leave her bruised, and hurting, wishing she'd taken a different job or that she'd fought harder, but it does not break her.
And that string of thought helps. He can feel his heart rate slow, the blood stops pounding so loudly against his eardrums. He can hear orders being issued, but ignores everything not prevalent to her.
Yes, she may be hurt, but she's not broken. She never is.
He slows his pace. Stops searching so frantically, and starts looking more thoroughly because this has been a cluster fuck from beginning to end, and he owes it to her to be more careful. She'd tried to protect these people after all, no matter what side they were on, and they deserve some sort of respect in their death.
He can't decide where the 0-8-4's destruction ends and hers begins. She is a force of nature, capable of tearing down mountains, draining oceans, doing whatever is necessary, and he finds a certain beauty in that. In the force she contains. Controls.
He stumbles entering the next room, and picks up the offending object that so willing interferes with his mission. It's just a shoe, but he knows it, spent hours staring at it, tripping over it, and he drops it. She's close, she has to be, and he doesn't need it.
His heart is back in his throat, and he can't hear past the rush of blood, but he spots her, and everything around him just stops.
There is no sound.
No movement.
He thinks he calls her name, but there is no response. And he's kneeling beside her before he knows he's taken a step.
She's huddled over something, but for the first time in his life he doesn't know what to do with his hands. He wants to touch her, make sure she's really there, that he hasn't started hallucinating in his ever growing exhaustion but doesn't know if he can.
Leaning in, he tries to find her face in a mess of knotted, matted hair, but still he keeps his hands to himself.
"Mel?"
He waits, and it feels like time had sped up. People are zigging around him, and a lifetime passes, but he hears it. Whispered, and horse, but he hears it.
"Phil?"
He knows what to do now. Her voice is lost, tainted with a darkness he can't associate with her, but he knows what to do, and it counts for something. Half scooping her up, he gets her upright. She's still clutching to, what he can see now is, a little girl, but from the twisted angle he knows what she knows.
There's such a feeling of joy in his chest though, despite the loss of life, because she's fine, and he's nearly sure his heart will stop because of it. She's alright, okay, but mostly she's still here, and they don't have to part ways yet.
Brushing the hair from her face, he meets her eyes, and his heart does stop. Not for the fight reasons, but he can't feel it anymore, and fear bubbles within him once again.
She's not there.
Her stare isn't supposed to be hollow, and blank, and, and, and…
She's full of warmth, and determination, and fire, and…
Those aren't her eyes.
Those aren't her eyes.
And he's stuck, not knowing what to do again, he just wants to get out of here, needs to. Wants to put this behind them, find a way back to normal.
He tries to unwrap her arms, to free the tiny body from her hold, but he can't. She refuses to budge an inch, and he doesn't want to hurt her.
"Mel, you've got to let her go."
She doesn't listen, and he can see her fingers tighten further around little arms.
She's fine, he remind himself. Traumatized, and hurt, but fine. Or, at least, she will be. She always it. They always are.
But there's something about this that sets him on edge, that knots his inside in a way they never have been before, and he wants to get out of here, but he won't leave without her. He can't.
He barks out, in a tone far harsher than he'd intends, "Let the girl go, Melinda."
And she does, just opens her arms and lets the tiny thing fall.
She doesn't feel like she's with him anymore, and the girl thuds against the floor a way only the dead can. Coulson cringes, his shoulders raising at the sound.
He reminds himself again. She's fine, she's fine, she's fine, she's fine… Because the more he says it, the truer it is.
"Can you walk?"
Those eyes stare at him, those eyes that aren't hers, and it's unnerving. Terrifying even, and he wants to look away, but doesn't.
She's fine.
He takes her non-answer as a strong indication of what it would be, and he scoops her up as gently as he can, his eyes closing as she whimpers into the crook of his neck.
Weaving them in and out of the commotion, he keeps her tight against him. Safe. Whole.
All the while repeating: she's fine, she's fine, she's fine…
She's not broken.