Authors' Notes - We own nothing. If we did, the actual show would be better. Please note that this fic contains massive spoilers for season 3, so if you haven't seen it yet then back away slowly. On the other hand, if you have witnessed the atrocity that was the season 3 mid-series finale then come on in, pull up a chair, and read our thinly veiled rant about the victim-blaming, steaming, hypocritical pile of doo-doo that is currently AOS. In case you missed it, we are ANGRY.
On a brighter note, Chag Sameach to all our fellow Jewish readers. Alternatively, Merry Christmas, if that's the way you're inclined. If that one isn't right either then please insert your own festive/ non-festive/ Star Trek themed/ polite greeting here, and have a good one.
Finally, none of our fics have been abandoned. We wouldn't do that. All fics in all fandoms will eventually be finished but our real lives are kind of crazy right now. One of us has two jobs and is in medical school, and the other has four young children, a part time job, and a youth group to run. Repeat, please be patient with us, we have NOT abandoned you.
Now on to the Coulson bashing...
A Chrismukkah Carol
Part I
The menorah had been in his family for four generations. For an inanimate object, it had seen a lot; the laughter and mirth of small children caught up in the festivities of the season, the quiet sadness and resilient defiance of families practicing their faith whilst living in hiding, and finally the depths of a battered, leather suitcase as it had crossed the Atlantic Ocean, hidden among hastily packed clothing, and yet never truly far from its owner's mind.
It was both small and modest, made of solid brass with an ornate star of David etched just below the central candle holder. As a child, Philip Coulson had watched in awe and wonder as his mother had recited the blessings and then lit each candle with her long, slender fingers. He recalled home-made doughnuts, a grudgingly worn yarmulke that had made the crown of his head itch terribly, and the sense of unwavering hope that had seemed to hang in the air for eight days and nights. His childhood memories were indeed fond ones, and so the chanukiah had been the one item he had insisted on claiming from his mother's belongings when she had passed away all those many years ago. He was ashamed to admit that he had forgotten the blessings - that they were lost to the darkest recesses of his mind - and that his Hebrew was now more than just a little rusty after decades of having turned his back on his heritage.
Now, as he moved to light the shamash candle with a match, Philip Coulson's hand trembled. Frowning, he steadied his own wrist with his replacement robotic hand; less than twenty four hours before, its predecessor had crushed the life from Grant Ward's body.
He steeled himself against the niggling guilt that pricked at what remained of his conscience - avoiding these feelings was perhaps made even easier by the distinct absence of empathy from his heart, now almost as cold and mechanical as his hand. Ward had deserved to die. Yet he had helped to save Fitz from certain death. He was a monster. Yet he was only what Garrett and his parents had made him. He was a sociopath. But he was a frightened and abused child, starved of any kind of love or understanding for all of his years on Earth.
Coulson refused to think about these things now; they could be filed away, neatly categorised and catalogued in a drawer in his mind until such a day as it no longer mattered. Right now, if he considered what he had done, remorse would perhaps be all consuming, and Phil Coulson liked nothing more than to feel righteous.
He turned as he sensed a presence in the doorway of his office, and he smiled as his eyes fell upon Skye - he would never get used to calling her Daisy - lingering uncertainly in the hallway. Arms drawn tight around her body, her face was pale and ashen, and when she eventually spoke she pointedly ignored Coulson's gaze.
It wasn't too difficult to tell that she had been crying and though he desperately wanted to tell her that his actions had been for the greater good, and that her tears were wasted on Grant Ward, the fury etched deep within her features kept him from doing so.
"I'm going to take a few days..." she said quietly, "I need to figure some things out."
Coulson winced then turned to intercept her gaze - something she seemed unwilling to allow.
"Okay," he began dubiously, "should I be concerned about this?"
"I don't know. Should you?" she shot back, shaking her head as a sad smile appeared all too briefly upon her lips. Blinking repeatedly, Skye hugged her arms tighter around herself and nodded towards the menorah. "It's beautiful."
Coulson nodded, staring wistfully at the flames as they danced.
"It belonged to my mother, Vivian. The festival of light... meant to commemorate the miracle of the oil in the first temple, and the Maccabees' victory over the Greeks... I don't usually bother, but..." he paused to allow himself a brief smile, "I just felt like I wanted to this year."
"You asking her for forgiveness?" Skye demanded, cocking her head, "you know, you might want to start a little closer to home. Fitz? Me?"
Coulson remained silent and closed lipped, his eyes wandering back to the flames as the brightly coloured candles began to drip wax onto his desk top.
"Tomorrow is the eighth night," he commented, as though that should mean something to Skye, who only continued to stare at a specific spot on the carpet. Turning back to his youngest agent, Coulson forced a smile that his brain told him almost immediately would not be well received. As predicted, Skye scowled back at him but Coulson elected not to be deterred. He moved forward, hand outstretched as though he planned to wrap an arm around Skye's shoulder.
"What do you say I cook? Tomorrow, a big dinner for the whole team," Coulson offered, his excitement growing at the prospect. It had been a while since he had last cooked, perhaps even back on the Bus, and the idea of gathering his big, old, dusty recipe books around himself and cooking up a storm seemed oddly appealing in the wake of such a battle.
"I can do the works. Latkes, brisket, challah bread..." he rattled off, eyes alive with excitement. He lowered his voice to an almost conspirital whisper as he added, temptingly, "Soufganiyot with chocolate dipping sauce. I know you've never had those! Come on, what do you say?"
Skye felt her mouth grow dry and a wave of nausea rose up from her stomach at such speed that she visibly paled as she shook her head.
"Not really feeling like celebrating right now. I think I'll pass."
Coulson sighed heavily, reaching out despite the fact Skye froze at the threat of his touch. His words were meant to be comforting, yet there was an air of accusation and irritation that made Skye withdraw from range.
"I didn't know you still had feelings for him."
"Yeah. Apparently so," she replied, consenting to level a truly accusatory and damning look at the S.H.I.E.L.D. director. "I have to get out of here. I'll be gone until Tuesday. Don't... don't come looking for me."
Coulson frowned worriedly, concerned he was about to lose one of his most trusted and gifted agents. "But you'll be back... right?"
Skye ignored him, turning on her heel and striding toward the door. Coulson's commanding tone stopped her in her tracks, although more out of irritation than adherence to his perceived authority.
"Agent Skye?" he barked, instantly regretting the gruff tone of voice as she wheeled around to face him.
"Don't call me that. My name's Daisy. Daisy... and... I need to figure out exactly who it is I'm working for, because who you've become... that's not the guy I met, the guy I looked up to. This.." she gestured towards him with one hand, her lip curled upward in disgust, "I don't know who you are but I know that I don't like you. I don't respect you, and I sure as Hell don't want to be like you. You said Ward was a monster? Look in the mirror, sir."
Turning on her heel, Skye left little opportunity for a rebuttal before disappearing through the doorway and, as her boots pounded against the tiles of the hall outside, Coulson was left alone once more with only his thoughts for company. Sinking down into the chair at his desk, he released a long, slow sigh as he peered at the flickering candles.
Slamming his fist down on the desk, he exhaled forcefully and extinguished them all.
x-x-x
He woke abruptly to the sound of his custom Captain America radio alarm clock blaring from its position on his desk. With a groan, Coulson raised his head from where it had been propped on his arms, his neck twisted at an odd angle that was certain to leave a lingering soreness for the rest of the day.
Rubbing a hand over his bleary eyes, Coulson squinted at the illuminated numbers on the LED screen of his clock, frowning as he realised that it was almost midnight and yet not one of his team members had thought to disturb him and hasten him to bed.
"Guess I deserve it," Coulson muttered under his breath, shivering at the sudden chill that had descended over the office. He wondered if the boiler was on the fritz again or if on her way off base Skye had simply hacked the heating controls to his office in vengeance; whichever explanation it was, Coulson's breath formed an immediate white cloud as it was expelled from his lips, and underneath the sleeves of his grey jumper goosebumps stood prominent on his flesh. Reaching out with his robotic hand, he gently hit the snooze button on the clock, silencing the recording of Steve Rogers' voice that called repeatedly and somewhat obnoxiously for the Avengers to assemble. The clock had been a gag gift from Skye, back from the Bus days, that Coulson had mocked at the time and yet quickly come to treasure. When Skye had first walked into his new office at the Playground and spotted it sitting pride of place on his desk, she had said nothing but the widest smile had formed upon her lips.
"Yeah, boss. You messed up good."
The voice came from the darkest corner of the room and, for just a moment, Coulson's heart stilled in his chest at the familiarity of the warm, velvet tones. The hairs on the nape of his neck were suddenly erect and a shudder that had nothing to do with the icy temperatures wracked his entire body. He was still asleep, still lost in a dream brought on by his misplaced guilt over the events of the past day; that was the only possible explanation.
His eyes scanned the room for some tall, looming figure and yet none appeared before him. Coulson leaned back in his seat in immediate relief, feeling at once irritated and foolish at his reaction to what was most likely accountable to the lingering vestiges of sleep clinging to his mind.
There was a low, long whistle, and then, "You really fucked it up this time, huh?"
Turning abruptly in his seat, Coulson let out a startled gasp as the warm, dark eyes of Antoine Triplett regarded him with something that almost resembled pity.
"Trip?" Coulson managed as he blinked repeatedly, trying to dispel the spirit and wake himself from what was clearly a guilt induced nightmare.
Trip laughed softly, gesturing to himself as he shrugged and made no attempt to explain his appearance. "In the flesh... in a manner of speaking."
"But you're..." Coulson shook his head, wondering why on Earth he was now engaged in conversation with an apparition who was clearly nothing more than the child of his abandoned conscience.
"Corporeally challenged? Yeah. Don't use the 'd' word. Us spirit folks don't like it when you use the 'd' word."
"Folks? There's more of you?" Coulson glanced discretely around the room to be on the safe side, although he saw no other sign of further unearthly visitors.
"Oh, we're everywhere. Watching, waiting, looking over the people we loved and who loved us. We saw what went down today, boss," Trip leaned forward in his seat, as if choosing his words carefully. "That was some messed up shit, dude. I don't have to tell you that you made the wrong choice back there 'cos I know you already realised that."
Coulson bristled, "I did what needed to be done. Sometimes the right choice is... is difficult."
Trip shook his head, waving his hand dismissively as he replied, "You know what's even harder? The wrong choice. And right now, you can't begin to understand how that decision is gonna come back to bite you in the ass."
"Daisy and Fitz will get over it, they're agents, they..."
Trip sat back and regarded his former employer in silence. Finally consenting to nod his head in agreement, Tripp continued on.
"Yeah, they will. But there will be consequences, Coulson. Consequences you can't even imagine right now. That's why I'm here."
Coulson shook his head and laughed bitterly, "To show me the error of my ways, you mean? Like a Victorian spectre? You bringing the Muppets along too?"
Trip threw back his head, letting out a loud and familiar guffaw of laughter that brought a pang of grief to Coulson's heart. He had genuinely liked and admired the young Specialist, and Triplett's loss was one still felt acutely by the whole team, himself included.
"I used to love that movie," he stated, whispering as though he were imparting a great confidence to his former boss, "damn near wore out the VHS back in the day. My Mom was so sick of it that she made me go to my grandma's every time I wanted to watch it in the end."
Coulson smiled faintly, "You're not real. I know you're not real. This is a dream..."
"A reflection of your guilt, boss man?" Trip inquired, grin crooked and tone teasing. Coulson only shrugged, though his sour expression more than betrayed his reluctance to admit to even the slightest sliver of remorse when it came to Grant Ward's death.
"If you like," he shot back, propping his feet up on his desk and crossing his legs at the ankles. He folded both hands on his stomach and regarded Trip levelly. The man seemed as real and solid as the chair he was seated in, the only visible sign of his passing being the faintest blue tinge that seemed to cling to his lips.
" 'There is more of gravy than of grave about you'," Trip teased, white teeth flashing in the darkness as he grinned. "I forget if that's in the book or not. Be cool if I had like this chorus of singing mice and chickens and shit but... it's just me, man."
Coulson smiled faintly, "And I suppose you're here to tell me to expect the first ghost when the Captain America clock strikes one?"
Trip stood up and jammed his hands in his pockets, "Pssht. Dude we got more work to do than that tonight. There's no pansy ass 'on the hour, every hour' routine for you. No, you can expect your first... educator... let's not use the nasty 'g' word, we're gonna call them 'educators'... in about 10... 20 minutes tops."
The jovial, almost jokey tone of voice disappeared as he stared directly into Coulson's eyes, practically imploring him to heed his words, "This is real important stuff, sir. Don't let us all down."
"Sure," Coulson replied, gazing at Trip, his smile indicating that he assumed he was doing nothing more than placating the figure of a particularly cruel dream.
"I mean it, Coulson," Trip insisted, all traces of humour and mirth vanishing as he took a step towards the other man, his already towering frame seeming to somehow grow by several imposing inches as he peered at the S.H.I.E.L.D. director.
Coulson only swallowed hard, something about the dream suddenly beginning to unnerve him, although he couldn't quite put his bionic finger on exactly what.
"Just listen to what my guys have to say," Trip implored, his voice softening as he added, "stop focusing on the bigger picture 'cos, man, that's when you overlook every single brush stroke in between. Take just one of those away and that picture don't look the same any more. Maybe it's messed up, maybe it's more beautiful, maybe it's just... changed. But you ain't gonna know until you really look."
After a pause, Coulson consented to a small smile as he inquired, "When did you become so poetically cryptic, Agent Triplet?"
Trip scoffed, eyes twinkling as he declared, "You kidding? I got poetry coming out the wazoo."
The two men chuckled and, for just the briefest of moments, a companionable silence descended in which they regarded each other on equal footing; old friends and colleagues, all their darkest secrets laid bare.
"You're not a bad man, Coulson. But you're making some seriously whacked out decisions and pretty soon? What's left of your conscience, of all that good we saw in you, that's all gonna be gone. Don't be that guy. Listen to what they have to say, really listen. And then think about that one decision you made that changed it all."
Coulson raised an eyebrow, "I don't suppose you're going to tell me what decision you think that was?"
Trip cocked his head and smiled, absently pushing his fist into his open palm before he stepped back towards the shadows and clicked his fingers to command Coulson's attention.
"Nah. But you'll know. Honestly? You probably know already. Everyone deserves a second chance, right?"
Coulson swallowed hard at hearing his own words relayed back to him but as he lifted his gaze to Trip's face, the man was gone.
"I'm asleep. I've got to be asleep, this is a dream," Coulson muttered, his heart rate quickening as he found himself nervously scanning the room for further signs of movement. He half expected the alarm clock to blare back into life again and he lost more than a minute or two simply staring at it, willing it to prove his expectations right. When nothing happened, he was slightly disappointed.
Until a throaty chuckle broke through the perfect silence.
"Whatever gets you through the night, Phil."
There was no mistaking that voice and as Coulson dragged his unwilling gaze across his desk, the torso of a man all clad in black alerted him to his new visitor's identity.
"How ya been, buddy?" John Garret smiled a brilliant smile as he perched on the edge of the S.H.I.E.L.D. director's desk, waiting patiently for Coulson to find his voice. "What's the matter? Cat got your tongue?"
