Greetings, readers, and thank you for your interest in my humble story! Fair warning: this is my first attempt at a multi-chapter fic, but I do have an ending in mind, and I'm fairly well into the middle, so eventually the beginning should meet up with the end. I welcome constructive comments. Thank you for reading! :-)
"Jemma says you speak French?" Agent Triplett asked once Sharon was settled into the passenger seat of the nondescript black car he had driven from the Playground.
"I studied it in school, but I might be a little rusty," Sharon admitted. The agent nodded and reached into the glove box, withdrawing a pair of sunglasses, a scarf, a gold ring, and a passport marked République Française.
"All right. Put on these glasses and tie the scarf like a lady who doesn't want her hair to get messed up in the wind. This is a wedding ring. Here's your passport. Your name is Julie Zuber. I work for a company that your very rich husband invests in, and you're completely bored with California so I'm taking you for a tour of Tijuana. The customs officials speak Spanish and English, but you don't, so I'll translate for you, and you'll answer in broken English with a thick accent if you don't know the French. Do you understand?"
Sharon nodded and answered, "Oui, je comprends." Triplett had to hand it to this lady: she sure was a trouper. The collapse of everything her son worked for, a terrifying phone call, frantic rescheduling, 10 hours in an airplane, and she didn't even blink when she was handed her second cover story of the week. Must be where Fitz gets his ability to solve problems on the fly, he reflected as he started the car and drove towards the airport exit.
"My name is Antoine Triplett, by the way."
That elicited a smile. "Pleasure to meet you. My name is Julie Zuber, but when I'm at home I'm Sharon Fitz. I take it you work for S.H.I.E.L.D.?"
"I do, whatever that means these days. Also, can we switch to French? It will help us sell our story," he said.
Sharon continued, "D'où êtes-vous?"
The pair continued to make small talk in French while they drove to the border crossing. Thankfully the line wasn't too long. The border guard only asked a few questions—name, place of birth, purpose of visit. Once they crossed, Trip sought out back roads, some hardly more than tracks, the kinds of paths that lacked traffic and, more importantly, police. The route they took was circuitous, but Trip had done it a few times for supply runs and to bring S.H.I.E.L.D. loyalists to the base, so he knew it well.
"You can sleep a bit if you want, Mrs. Fitz," he offered, "It's a few hours to the base."
"First of all, it's Sharon. Mrs. Fitz is my mother," she corrected, "and I'm not sure I'd be able to sleep. I got some rest on the plane, but between the jetlag and fretting about Leo, I'm not sure I quite know what to do." The huge yawn she let out soon after betrayed that sentiment. "Have you seen my son? How is he?"
Trip debated how to answer. "I'm not a doctor, Sharon. And there's no denying that he's in a coma. But Jemma tells me there's several reasons to be hopeful. She'll be able to explain it all better than I can."
What does that mean? Sharon wondered. I should do some research, read the science on comas. Maybe Triplett has a smartphone. I'll just shut my eyes a moment and then find out…
When Trip snuck a glance at her after 20 minutes of silence, she was sound asleep. He smiled to himself and kept driving.