"What the fuck?"
Those are my first words for Coulson. Not exactly classy, but much needed.
He and Hill are quiet, unsure how to explain.
"You were dead. I was at your funeral. I was at your wake. You were dead!"
"I was." Coulson nods. "For forty seconds."
"Eight." Maria interjects. "It gets longer every time you tell it."
"Forty. I was used as a team builder for the Avengers."
"Death of a common ally." I nod, my eyes staring at a transfixed spot on the wall. It's… a lot to take in.
"Exactly. Fury figured if they thought I was dead, they'd gather up their forces, work together to stop the Chitauri. And it worked."
"How did you survive?"
"Good surgeons. Lots of rest. Fury didn't let them give up."
"Huh," is all I can muster.
"The mobile team." Maria says, bringing the conversation back to her. "He requested you join."
I stare at Coulson. A ghost. A smiling ghost, but a ghost nonetheless.
"Who's on the team? What would we be taking?"
"The BUS." Coulson answers. I nod.
"The other agents?"
"I've already recruited three others. Two from sci tech and another operations agent. He's a specialist."
"And me."
"Well, I'm hoping. It'd be like old times."
I think for a moment, hopeful. "Field work?"
"Yes. You'll be in the field with the other operative, Agent Ward. Fitz-Simmons aren't cleared for combat."
"We're going to need a pilot."
"Already covered."
"… Alright." I arise from the chair and stand in front of Coulson, hands clasped tightly behind my back. "Reporting for duty, agent Coulson."
"Good. I was really hoping you would." He hands me a thick file full of papers, presumably things I'll need to sign and a manual of the BUS. "Pack your things. We lift off at 0500 tomorrow."
"Yes, sir." I leave the office—file in hand—and head back to my crummy little office space, finishing my shift.
The next morning is odd. I tend to live light, so it's easy to pack my essentials. What's odd is saying goodbye to my dad, Steve.
We live in the same apartment and spend—at most—an hour together each day. We tend to have wildly different shifts and dad does more field work. One of the perks of being a seasoned SHIELD agent. Most months he'll be away, working a case, and I won't hear from him until he's back. We never text, barely call. It's not like we can talk about work like normal people. Most days are confidential.
Dad and I've never minded the, "weird," living arrangements. Most people want their own apartment, away from their parents. But I don't care. I hardly see him anyway—and if I do, I'm happy. I love my father.
The next morning at 4, my bag is packed and I greet him in the kitchen. His back rests against the counter as he sips from a mug, a dirty teabag left in the sink. He's already in a suit, his salt-and-pepper hair brushed back and blue eyes twinkling. He always cleans up nice.
"Where are you going?" Dad asks, an eyebrow raised.
"I have a new assignment. A mobile command unit."
I grab my own mug from the cabinet and pour the hot water from a kettle left on the stove.
"Sounds like you're gonna be busy." He sets his mug on the counter and adds, "Do you know when you'll be back?"
I shake my head and dip a tea bag lazily into the mug. "I don't think it's going to be anytime soon. That means you get the joy of doing the dishes." I sip contently from the mug, the warmth filling my insides and waking me up.
"I already packed the essentials, before you ask. I, uh, should probably get going. Our plane sets off at 5."
"Oh, wait!" My dad says giddily, and ran to his bedroom at the end of the hall.
When he returns, he proudly holds a CAPTAIN AMERICA trading card in hand. It's withered by the corners and the colors aren't too bright, but otherwise in perfect condition. "Take this with you. Maybe you'll remember to call me, then."
I take the card from his hand and examine the picture. It's of Steve Rogers; he holds his shield proudly in one hand, and the other salutes back at me. The star-spangled warrior stares straight ahead, unsmiling. He's determined, cautious; everything I'm told a soldier needs to be.
"Thank you, dad." I smile at the card. It's obviously something he cherishes greatly; knowing he would give it up so I'd have something to remind me of home—of him—makes my heart warm and fuzzy.
I cautiously set the card into a small opening of my duffel, making sure it won't bend. My mug is quickly finished off and placed into the sink.
"Anytime, pumpkin." My dad says. I turn to him and give him a hug.
"I have to go." I grab my bag and give him a kiss on the cheek. "I love you."
"I love you too." He responds, and the door to the apartment closes.
It's a phrase we always say to each other. I could be going for a jog around the block and make sure to say it before leaving. We're agents; we know every time we see each other could be the last. For all I know, it is the last time I'd see him. With that constant fear in our minds, we always make sure that love is the strongest emotion we feel when we say goodbye. We always succeed.