I do not own Marvel's Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.
'S okay though. I don't own lotsa things.
The Wisdom of Phil Coulson's Meemaw
He stared in shock at the thing that had once been various personifications of Grant Ward.
That was now him again.
Now him and yet somehow not him at all.
And the thought announced itself quietly, calmly into his stunned brain.
My grandma was right.
Mercy is always the best path.
His grandmama had always been a smart woman, sincere and strong-hearted.
No director of a clandestine organization or world renown spy for her.
Just a woman. Just his Meemaw.
Barely topping five foot. Grey-haired and comfortably round.
She'd died of a massive stroke was he was ten.
A massive stroke. Nothing else would have slowed her down, stopped her from being the best at what she did.
The best Meemaw in the whole world.
He had been eight when he had first done it.
Made his first kill.
He had been playing on the edge of her little country property, his parents gone off on some grownup thing.
And he had seen it.
A big, fat toad warming itself in the sun, oblivious to all.
Pop-pop had just died. Gone to sleep and never woken up.
No more fishing trips, no more coins behind the ear, no more Sunday afternoon drives in the old Chevrolet Corvette.
And little Phillip Coulson was hurting, mad.
He hadn't asked to lose his Pop-pop. He had just been taken from him.
So when he saw the toad, so peaceful and content, he had hated it.
Picked up a rock from the driveway.
Thrown it.
And struck the toad right in the center of its back.
He'd always had good aim.
And the toad had bled, just a little. And hopped away, just a little bit.
So he had picked up and thrown another rock.
Over and over the cycle had repeated itself, the toad hopping away and little Phillip striking it with another rock.
Until the toad had hopped no more.
He had looked up from the bloody mess of the toad and seen her.
His Meemaw, standing the porch, watching him.
And his little heart had sunk.
He had been bad.
And now she knew.
And she wouldn't love him anymore.
He had burst into bitter, regretful tears as she had come off the porch toward him.
Stood next to him. Looked down at the toad for the longest of minutes.
And led him back into the little clapboard house.
Sat him down at the kitchen table.
And waited out his tears.
It had taken a while.
When he was done, she had poured him a glass of milk and set down a plate of chocolate chip cookies.
And listened to him talk.
Provided her own quiet, steady counsel at the end.
Hugged him.
And sent him out to clean up his mess.
He had, promising to himself he would act better.
And never disappoint his Meemaw again.
Many years had passed since that fateful day.
Many decisions, good and bad. Many kills. But faceless, dispassionate ones, like in battle.
None filled with hurt and rage and loss like the toad.
And now he had done it again.
Grant Ward.
On that distant planet, that dry, desolate world.
Grant Ward had been the toad.
Not exactly the same situation of course.
There had been extenuating circumstances.
But the outcome was the same.
He had not shown mercy.
And now he was going to pay for it.
Though he doubted May would feed him cookies when she found out.
Okay, that was the best winter finale EVER. In my humble opinion.
I'm sure you have your own. Care to tell me?
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