It was a very quiet day in the office. The silence was almost unbearable for most agents. For Melinda May, however, it was peaceful. She didn't hear one complaint that day as she shuffled through paperwork, which was a miracle all on its own. In fact, it was a very lovely day, and the peacefulness just made it better.
The only thing that ruined the peace was the bad feeling.
May wasn't sure why she was feeling that way, and it was bothering her. She woke up that morning with her stomach in knots, and it only seemed to grow worse throughout the day. She managed to hide the fact she was feeling off from everyone at work, but she couldn't hide it from herself, no matter how hard she tried.
By now it had gotten worse, and May was feeling sick. However, she knew she was perfectly healthy, and continued to work on the paperwork. There was no way she was going to leave early and make tomorrow a hell.
Since she worked on making the red tape, she never expects any visitors. She only expects people to come in, pick something up or drop something off, but never to have someone come in to tell her something. So, when senior agent Felix Blake walked into the office and over to her cubicle, May was surprised, though she didn't show it. "What do you want?" She asked, now feeling nauseous from the gut feeling. He hesitated before leaning down and whispering his reply in her ear.
May swallowed and gave a curt nod. Blake straightened and walked away quickly, leaving her alone as she stared blankly at the wall, her mind struggling to grasp what he'd just said. Shortly after, it settled in and she leaned back in her chair, her breath catching in her throat. The bad feeling she had earlier was now gone, but in its place was the feeling of despair.
Phillip Coulson was dead.
Taking a deep breath and biting the inside of her cheek, May struggled to focus back on her work, determined not to cry. It was hard, but she knew she would be able to do it. She's managed to keep herself together before; she'll be able to do it again. Though, it would be harder without someone to lean on. Maria Hill was too busy dealing with the Avengers and Natasha Romanoff was working with them, so neither of them would be around for a while. She didn't really get along with anyone else, and she didn't trust anyone else as much as she did with Hill and Romanoff.
With Coulson.
Shaking her head, May focused back on the task at hand, determined to stay strong. She had a feeling the others would be talking behind her back like always; whispering about how the "ice queen" didn't even crack with Coulson dead. That the "frozen hearted" agent never batted an eye at the news. She was quite aware about what they said about her, but she knew better than to give them a reaction. If she reacted, they would continue to push that button. She'd seen too many good agents get fed up and lash out at them and get in trouble for their actions. Just because she didn't show her emotions didn't mean she wasn't human. She's human, just like everyone else.
Maybe, she thought bitterly, it would be better not to feel.
If she didn't feel, she wouldn't have broken as deeply as she did after Bahrain.
May wouldn't have fallen in love with Coulson.
If she never fell in love, the grief wouldn't be as unbearable as it was now.
May knew if she didn't feel, she would be miserable. There were good things that came with emotions, just like there were bad things.
All she needed to do was get through the day at work and then get home. Then she would be able to let her walls fall down.
Melinda May hates writing letters.
She could never find the words to say, and she knew the mailing system wasn't always reliable.
Yet, here she was, writing a letter with the TV on but muted. A beer was perched nearby on a coaster. She craved something stronger, but she wanted a clear mind while writing, even though she knew he would never read it. She wrote about her day, how everyone was took his death, but she found it hard to write down what she felt about the whole situation.
Maybe a stronger drink was needed.
Just like she predicted, some other agents were talking about how she barely reacted to Coulson's death. However, it was harder for May to keep her composure. Like always, she found the strength to do just that and ignored them as she continued working. There was really nothing else she could do. Coulson would want her to be strong, even if it was hard.
Forging through the day, May was relieved to be home. Pouring herself a glass of vodka, she headed into her living room, a pen and notepad sitting on the coffee table. Like the night before, she began to write another letter to him. She walked about the day, what others were saying, how others were coping, but she never touched on what was running through her mind. She never mentioned how she felt that day, or at that moment. She soon ended the letter and tore the paper off of the pad, carrying the letter and the glass to her room. There, she placed the letter in the drawer with the other one before shutting it quickly.
On the third night, May wrote another letter, but once more avoided the topic of her emotions. However, after she put it with the other two, she still had a heavy heart. Getting out of bed, she pulled the letters out and headed to the kitchen. Pulling a lighter out of a drawer, she studied it for a moment before heading outside.
Raising the letters into the air, May lit the lighter and carefully guided the small flame to the bottom corner of the papers, turning it off as the flame lapped at the letters. She held them, watching the flames before dropping the letters down to the cement. She continued to watch as they slowly burned. As the paper curled and crackled softly, she felt the weight on her heart lift.
Burning the letters allowed her to feel free.
On the sixth night, May finally opened up in the letters and wrote about what she felt. By doing so, she noticed her heart felt even lighter. However, it still felt weighed down. Ignoring it, she continued to write. Her letters to him grew longer with each passing night, and she continued to burn each one after she wrote it. It was her own therapy to help her cope with Coulson's death, since Hill and Romanoff had disappeared after the battle of New York.
That night, however, May felt more sullen than she had before as she watched the letter burn up. Once it had all turned to ashes, she stood there for a moment before falling to her knees, body trembling. Soft sobs racked her body as she buried her face in her hands, unable to stop crying. All the grief she had bottled up inside was now coming out.
May just wished it didn't hurt so much.