Hi! I'm starting a new story in addition to my other one, North Star (go check it out!) The title of this fic does, in fact, come from Hamilton, if you were wondering :)
This story is completely AU, and a plethora of AoS characters will make an appearance throughout. I know a lot of people write Philindaisy adoption stories (there are some incredible ones out there!), but I wanted to put my own spin on it. I have a vague idea of where I want this story to go, but if there's anything you want to see happen, leave a review and let me know! I've been mulling this idea over in my head for a while now, and I finally found the motivation to actually write it!
Without further ado, here's And That Would Be Enough:
Their wedding had been quiet, but the funeral had been quieter.
Phillip Coulson thought of both of those days often, probably more than he should. He remembered signing the marriage papers together, holding her hand under the table as they stared googly-eyed at each other, still so young and in love. He remembered standing across from her on their wedding day - June 23rd, 1999 - as she said, "I do". He remembered holding her close that night, watching her sleep so peacefully, a small smile tugging at her mouth. He remembered only two years later when Mack drove him to the cemetery. He remembered the empty hugs and sympathetic looks from his friends and co-workers. He remembered watching them lower her body into the ground, feeling as if he was being buried right along with her, as he stared blankly at the headstone: Rosalind Edyth Price-Coulson (October 19, 1971-August 24, 2003).
Now, it had been 6 years. 6 years since she'd been killed in the line of fire. 6 years of being a widowed man. 6 years alone in his little cabin. He'd quit his job at the police station; there were too many memories there. He'd stopped talking to his friends, and they'd given up on trying to reach out. Rosalind, the most beautiful, compassionate, and amazing woman in the world, was gone, and the universe hadn't even stopped to mourn her. The day after her death, the sun rose and set, Coulson's flowers bloomed, and the birds sang sweetly in the trees. Everything kept going. The world kept going. But Coulson just couldn't. He couldn't live the same life he had before. So, he withdrew. He sold their gorgeous Victorian house right downtown with four bedrooms, one that they had already begun painting and fixing up for when they started trying. He bought a rundown, dusty, grimy cabin 13 miles outside of town. Coulson stopped working, stopped talking, stopped traveling, stopped feeling.
Coulson poked the iron rod into his sad excuse for a fire. Outside, the stars were dancing in the black velvet of the sky, moonlight filtering through the dingy curtains and spilling onto the floor. The biting November winds snuck through the cracks in the cabin walls, and Coulson wrapped his jacket tighter around himself. 6 years ago, he would have immediately called his old co-worker and friend, Mack, to come and fix the walls, but Coulson hadn't spoken to him in years.
He stood up and trudged over to the kitchen, shuffling through the dusty cabinets and drawers as he looked for his caulk gun to temporary patch up the walls. He quickly realized that he'd used up the tube of caulk, which meant that he'd have to drive into town tomorrow. Mike, the owner of Peterson's Grocery and Hardware, was a nice enough guy, but Coulson was somewhat of the local "crazy man", and he knew the rumors about him were growing more and more preposterous as time passed. Shield, New Hampshire was a small, quiet, cheesy-Hallmark-movie kind of town, and everyone knew everyone's business. However, few things occurred in Shield that were truly newsworthy, which meant that even after 6 damn years, Rosalind Price-Coulson's accidental death and Phil Coulson's immediate withdrawal was still hot gossip.
Sitting on the ratty, torn couch, Coulson immediately sunk down as the broken springs collapsed beneath him. He sighed and flopped onto his back, resting his head on a small throw pillow. Coulson was too tired to walk to his bedroom, so he decided his old sofa would be a good enough place to sleep. He stared up at the ceiling as the dim firelight painted the room, gently closing his eyes as he drifted into a restless sleep.
Coulson's eyes fluttered open as the gray dawn peeped in through the windows. He groaned, his body stiff from the uncomfortable couch. The pitter-patter of rain drummed against the tin roof of the cabin, and Coulson sighed with relief. If it was raining, he couldn't drive into town. He'd have to delay that errand for another day. Coulson sat up and rubbed the nape of his neck. Who was he kidding? That was a bullshit excuse. He made his way over to the coffee pot and filled it with water, his movements robotic. Raindrops ran down the windowpane as the older man gazed wistfully out the window. Outside the window was Coulson's small garden, overflowing with vegetables and herbs. While he saved some of the harvest for himself, the majority of the produce was bought by Peterson's Grocery and Hardware. The small profit he made from Mike (plus the money left to him in Rosalind's will) allowed Coulson to live comfortably, though he deposited most of it in the bank where it remained untouched. God, his life was just Little House on the damn Prairie, growing his own vegetables outside of his cabin and going into town to sell them.
He poured the coffee into his trusty old Captain America mug and drank it slowly. He winced at the bitter taste but took another sip anyway. In his younger days, he'd load his coffee with cream and sugar. Rosalind, who strictly drank black coffee only, gave him such a hard time about it, calling it a "coffee milkshake". He'd retort back and call her an old man for drinking it "the bitter and nasty way". Phil couldn't explain it, but drinking black coffee somehow made her feel more alive. It was so utterly ridiculous, but Phil couldn't stop himself from doing everything in his power to make her feel more alive in his life.
It took four tries for the old grey Honda to finally start. Coulson breathed a sigh of relief as he pulled onto the dirt road. The only mechanic in town was Mack, and Coulson wasn't sure he could face him. Their friendship hadn't exactly ended on a good note. In fact, he was sure the man hated him.
If there was one good thing about going into town, it was the view along the way: sapphire-blue skies, flowing green fields, white-tipped mountains looming in the distance.
After about twenty minutes, the road widened into Main Street. The shops that lined the street all bore large 'open' signs as people strolled down the sidewalks, going about their day. Rosalind had known the name of every person in town, and she always stopped to ask how they were doing. Coulson shook his head as if to clear his mind of those memories.
Eventually, he pulled into a parking spot in front of Peterson's Grocer and Hardware and dragged himself out of the car. The bell above the door cheerily announced his presence as Coulson entered the store. Mike Peterson, a tall man with several burns on his arm from his days as a welder, stepped out from behind the counter to greet him.
"Mr. Coulson! How can I help you?"
The older man shifted uncomfortably and looked absently around the large room. God, there were so many memories of Rosalind everywhere he went. "I need a tube of caulk."
"Well, that's easy - it's on aisle 3."
Phil thanked him, his eyes never quite meeting Mike's, and made his way down the aisle. He bit down hard on his lower lip, grabbed the tube of caulk, and beelined for the register. Wordlessly, Mike scanned the item and took the cash Coulson handed him. "Have a nice day," he tried, but Coulson was already out the door.
The rain halted for a few hours, giving Coulson an opportunity to work in the garden a bit and make himself some lunch. By the time he was finished, the temperature was dropping rapidly, and the man set to work on patching the holes in the wall with meager caulk. It would do very little, and he knew that, but it was quick and easy. Coulson stepped back to examine his work, his hand massaging his jaw. His finger brushed over the thick stubble on his jawline - god, how long had it been since he'd shaved? He went to the bathroom and nearly jumped back at the man staring back at him in the mirror. He looked so…gray. His face seemed so drained of color and life. Coulson's hands flew up to his ashen face, gingerly touching it as if it was foreign to him. What had he become? He reached for his shaving cream, but his trembling hand knocked the bottle to the ground instead. It landed with a loud clunk and rolled around noisily on the tile. Coulson merely stared at it, his shoulders beginning to shake. He couldn't cry. Not anymore. It was as if he'd permanently drained his body of tears. His shoulders would quake, his face would crumple, and he would sob softly. But a tear never fell.
Somehow, Coulson dragged himself to bed that night, and by some miracle, he was able to fall asleep. Outside, the rain hurled against the cabin, as if trying to knock the flimsy structure over. The oak tree outside Coulson's bedroom knocked angrily against the window, and he sat up with a start. He glanced at the clock on his bedside table: 1:38 am. The tree continued its banging, and Coulson sighed. He remained sitting up for a bit, listening to the rhythmic knock. Knock, knock, knock. Knock, knock, knock. With a start, Coulson realized the knocking wasn't the tree. Someone was at his door.
Hope you enjoyed! I know this was a bit of a rocky start (both for Coulson and this fic, lol), but things will start to pick up after this and we'll see a more in-character Coulson. The Season 3 storyline where Coulson goes on a hunt for revenge after Rosalind's murder really showed a different, darker side of Coulson that I wanted to explore a bit in this chapter. Of course, much like in the show, he won't be like this forever.
The updates for this story will be quite sporadic, but I'll try to post chapters as fast as I can. Let me know what you think!