To die, to sleep,
To sleep, perchance to Dream; Aye, there's the rub,
For in that sleep of death, what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause.
-Hamlet, Act 3, Scene 1
Phil Coulson snapped out of sleep in a cold sweat. It took him a moment to remember where he was, for his eyes to adjust to the darkness in his cabin on the Bus.
A few fragments of dream drifted through his mind. It had been so beautiful, so relaxing. Why was his heart racing, his pulse pounding in his ears? Why was he drenched in sweat? The dream had been so calm, so peaceful; he hadn't been reliving those agonizing, eternal minutes bleeding to death on the deck of the Helicarrier.
Then he remembered.
It's a magical place.
He hadn't lied to the Asgardian. His death didn't haunt him. No, his death wasn't the problem. He had long since come to terms with what had happened on the Helicarrier. It was those words, that particular phrase - that was what haunted him, a relentless wolf howling at his heels at the most unexpected moments. And he didn't even understand why.
There was something about that phrase. He couldn't put his finger on it, like some teasing will o' the wisp dancing just out of reach.
He reviewed the contents of his dream; the beach in Tahiti, the beautiful woman massaging his back, assuring him that he had only fallen asleep for a little while. Something about feeling so relaxed, that Tahiti's too good to be true. Her laughing voice replying it's a magical place.
His heart threatened to burst out of his chest with its rapid-fire beat. Ruthlessly, he willed it to slow, taking deep, shuddering breaths to calm himself. There was nothing to be gained by panicking. He must think about this logically.
It wasn't the first time he'd caught himself saying that phrase. The last time had been with Agent Hand at The Hub. It was strange, like a reflex. Tahiti? Oh, it's a magical place.
It. Was. Wrong.
He placed a hand on his chest, running his fingers up and down the horrific scar that lay concealed beneath his sweat-soaked shirt, as if to reassure himself that it was there, that he was actually alive. He could feel the beat of his heart under his fingertips, now slower and more steady.
Every time he tried to remember what happened between dying on the Helicarrier and waking up months later, all he got was a big blank and a feeling of noli me tangere.
And then there was Tahiti (It's a magical- NO!); his time there seemed more like a dream every time he thought about it. Every day that passed made his time there less real. Like that physical therapist with the irrelevant command of English was a ghost, and his rehab was a figment of his imagination.
One part of him wanted to give in and accept May's reassurances that his death had changed him, as it would change anyone who went through a similar experience. But another part, the cold-blooded analyst part, insisted that there was something more going on. Some dark, horrible secret that was being kept from him.
He knew all about keeping secrets; he was, even now, keeping a terrible one from Skye about her mother. Was someone else holding onto some truth about what happened to him?
He wanted to know the truth.
He needed to know the truth, no matter what dreams may come.