Hey again!

So honestly, I don't even really know what happened in this chapter :P It gets kind of dark...? Sort of...? I feel like I'm portraying Phil as being so weak and helpless, which was not my original intention and not the way I see him at all. Like I said, I'm not even sure where this came from ;) Anyways, enjoy!

You're not alone; stop holding on….

It wasn't everyday that Phil Coulson's desk was empty of unfinished paperwork, that he wasn't being called into action, or that he couldn't argue with himself that he had somewhere else better to be than locking himself into the shooting range and practicing until he thought his arm might drop. It wasn't often that such a high-ranking agent got time to over-think their every action from the past month, unless they did so in the dead of night, like so many of them did.

But S.H.I.E.L.D. executives had decided that Coulson's team had needed a break, so here they were, enjoying an incognito trip to Spain. Well, some of them were enjoying it, anyways. Others didn't quite see the empty down-time as any form of vacation.

With every second that they weren't fighting came a harsh reminder that Melinda May, the Cavalry, was still uncleared for combat, still healing from her nearly fatal wound that by all accounts should have been Phil's. Theoretically, he could have been anywhere; Jemma and Fitz had taken the opportunity to act like normal people for once, checking out the various shops that lined the streets and attempting to make some friends (despite their nonexistent knowledge of the language); Skye was surely multi-tasking, most likely trying to sample the native cuisine and hack into someone's Netflix account at the same time; Ward had locked himself into his bunk with a stack of books, but Phil wasn't too concerned. He'd never really been a social kind of guy, and Coulson was willing to bet he had plenty of bad memories from every corner of the earth.

He hadn't seen May all day either, and he was fairly certain it was for the same reasons. After all, it hadn't been far from here that they'd had to deal with the Asgardian staff, which had been his fault too. Not directly, of course, but in all the subtle ways. Everything was his fault, from a certain point of view.

He reloaded his gun and shot into the targets again, each one landing a bit shy of the bullseye mark.

A familiar voice sounded behind him, and he flinched. "You're not performing at your best." So that's where May was.

He didn't turn, didn't acknowledge her, couldn't let her know how much he was falling apart. "I'm aware." Acutely aware, in fact. With each missed shot, each centimeter off, he was reminded again and again that it wasn't only his emotions that were caving in. That there was something wrong, despite everything. Despite the fact that everything was right, everything was normal.

"If you've been compromised, I need to know." Huh. Subtle of her, but clever. S.H.I.E.L.D. talk for, If there's something wrong, I'm here to help. If only Phil could actually convince himself that anyone could fix this. Maybe there had been a point - long ago - when all hope hadn't quite been lost. Perhaps despite the most talented doctors operating on him, despite the futuristic techniques that had been used, they'd forgotten to rescue a part of him when they revived his physical form. Maybe it was when Fury had been stupid enough to give him his own strike team. Whenever that moment had been, when things had gone from bad to worse, he didn't think things were salvageable anymore.

Click. Aim. Shoot. "I'm fine," he lied. Half-lied. Admitted. He wasn't sure anymore. He wasn't sure of anything anymore. He missed again, cursing his failure under his breath. He was better than this. He knew he was. He had to be.

Even without facing her, Phil could see the scoff on May's lips. "You're not."

I'm not. The words assaulted his emotional control, pushing the limits of his metaphorical boundaries. Just when he'd gotten the indifferent disguise under his belt, too. Talk about bad timing. But still, what could he say? He couldn't deny it, couldn't affirm it. He couldn't face her, but he couldn't walk away. He couldn't talk; couldn't not. Frozen. Indecisive. Stupid. Words whirled through his mind, so fast he couldn't tell anymore whether they were his own or not. Failure. Emotional. Weak. The gun clattered to the ground, and he didn't flinch. What makes you think you can do this? What makes you think you deserve her love? What makes you think you're worthy of being a father? What makes you think you're good enough?

Then his world, frozen in a reddish, blackish haze of angry tears and inner battles, tilted, and his thoughts spiraled to the ground in the same way he did. He was aware, but he wasn't; feeling the cold tile underneath him, yet his head swooping as if he was falling, infinitely, on repeat. You know you aren't good enough. You know you aren't strong enough. You know you aren't qualified enough. You know you don't care enough. His breaths were gasps; his heartbeat pounded in his chest, his scar and his mind throbbing in unison. Do you deserve to be here, Coulson? You were dead, and they brought you back. Prove that they were right. Prove that you were worth it. Prove that you're not the nothing you are. Prove it, Coulson.

"Coulson."

Show them, Coulson.

"Phil."

Be stronger, Coulson.

"Phil!"

Be better, Coulson.

"Philip!"

Someone shook him, and his demons receded for the moment, lurking back in the shadows. "May," he whispered. "What...what happened." He didn't think he could muster the strength to add a questioning tone to the word. He tried, shakily, to sit up. And realized almost as fast as he fell back that it wouldn't be happening anytime soon. Not now, anyways, while he was still catching his breath; gasping, trembling, screaming, crying. For all he knew, dying.

"You tell me, Philip." If he didn't know better, he would've have sworn May was angry. Except that he did know better - and the glare, the growl, the lack of eye contact - she wasn't mad. She was scared. For him. And it only made him feel all the more guiltier.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry." A broken toy, on repeat. Unnecessary. Useless. Trash. "May," he whispered again, this time his tone hovering dangerously close to a whimper. "May. I - I'm not okay." Tears fell, and he couldn't find the strength to wipe them away. A choked breath interrupted him, as he swallowed the sobs that threatened to escape. "I'm v-very not okay."

In a version of Melinda May that Phil had never met before, a mergence of each relationship he had with her, fused into a one, she lifted him slightly and cradled him on her lap. "I know, Phil. I know."

He cried, violently, childishly, brokenly, while May held him and soothed him in both English and Mandarin. With both soft platitudes and honest reassurances. As both a mother and a wife. A friend, and a partner. Time passed both in slow motion and rapid speed, neither of them sure how long it had been when May suggested that they get up before Skye, Jemma and Fitz got back. He wasn't quite healed enough yet to smile, but he'd liked the phrasing she'd used. Our kids, had a nice ring to it, he decided, about the same moment he decided he would attempt standing up.

"What'll you tell them?" he rasped, his voice hoarse from the onslaught of tears. The demons in his mind were creeping back; slowly, but still there. What did you just do? She'll hate you now. She'll think you're weak. Pathetic.

Be quiet, Phil mentally snapped back.

"Can always say you weren't feeling great, went to bed early." She gave him a sidelong glance, taking in his appearance as he struggled to stand. "Not much of a lie, either, is it?" He didn't answer, but May wasn't wrong. His head pounded, protesting against his emotional outburst, his shoulders ached from when he'd fallen and residual nausea still lingered from his mental battle.

He finally got to his feet, shaking, still terrified, and he staggered under the weight of what May must see him as now. Baby, the voices didn't hesitate to provide. Childish. Worthless.

Please, he begged. He couldn't do this again, didn't have the energy - emotionally, mentally, physically - to fight this battle again. Not now, please don't do this now. Come back some other time.

Someone reached for his arm, grounding him, supporting him, and May's voice dragged him out from the maze in his own head. "Hey, hey, Phil. Stay with me here." He nodded, wondering whether he'd ever have the strength, or the courage, or the will to speak again. He stumbled, tripping over his own feet, his own tears. "Easy," May murmured, wrapping her arm around his shoulder and tugging him into a gentle embrace. "I got you, Phil, I got you. I promise, I've got you. You're gonna be okay."

She's lying, the voices hissed. She doesn't want to help you. She's just taking pity on you. So pathetic, for accepting her sympathy. So childish, for needing help. So needy, so clingy.

He pleaded for them to stop, but they refused, singing through the mantra that was all too familiar to him.

Nobody wants you here, Phil. Nobody needs you. You don't deserve any of them. You don't deserve this.

He leaned into Melinda's hug, revelled in the feeling of her arms encircling him, basked in the assurance of security and protection.

You aren't good enough. You aren't good enough. You aren't good enough.

Just for once, Phil Coulson let go, let his emotions flow, raw and unchecked, let Melinda May hold him up.

Nobody cares about you.

For the first time in his life, he didn't quite believe the voices.

Nobody loves you, Phil.

The demons in his heart rose up to strike again, and he stood with them, to face them.

You don't deserve to be here, they taunted.

He clung tighter to Melinda; he cried; he smiled.

Shut up, he snapped back, and felt them flee into the darkness.