reasonability | (no subject)

(no subject)

Why is it always the Southwest? Is there something about Arizona and New Mexico that just attracts the bizarre? If it's not the Southwest, it's New York, and if it's not New York, it's not in America. Ridiculous.

Coulson makes a note to set someone on studying that, if they ever have time.

The three black SUVs turn off the road where the desert stretches flat. They're getting closer to the coordinates given to them by the Martian (Martian) scientist. And that's the reason Coulson won't complain too hard about the location: having the coordinates, knowing where the alien is going to appear, is a lot better than the alternative.

Reinforced tires bounce over scrub, swerving to avoid the worst of the cacti. The heat is blasting, though it's not even into the worst of summer. Heat shimmers along the road they've left. The air conditioning is on full blast.

May starts braking the car. She insisted on being the one to drive Coulson, and he didn't fight that hard. The other two, he sees, swerve out to either direction and stop, pointed inward to, theoretically, the coordinate point.

"It's about twenty meters ahead," she tells Coulson, glancing back. He sees it; scramble up the slope, and there's the entrance to a box canyon. Presumably the cave is further back.

Coulson nods. "Time?"

"Half an hour."

There's not really any traffic along the long, empty highway out here, but Coulson didn't want to take any chances.

He pulls himself out of the seat.

The heat hits him like a sledgehammer, but he doesn't flinch. Doesn't even take off the suit jacket. He takes a drink of water, and then leaves the SUV, May and a handful of others nearby. He didn't take most of his team this time. He's got to spread out his most precious resources.

A short, winding walk leads them in to where he can see the cave. He holds up a hand, stopping the operatives there. A couple of them scatter to cover, nearby. May moves a little ahead of him. He lets her; he's come to the point in his life where his life is more important than the lives of those around him. Which, honestly, is a situation he kind of loathes.

He checks his watch again.

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"There are rifles in the car," he says, blithely. "And I think there might be a handcuff or two among us."

Every one of the agents has a pair of handcuffs. He doesn't accept incompetence, not after one operation he went on as a young agent when everyone assumed that someone else would bring the handcuffs.

The point he's making is that they're willing to trust. They're not stupid.

"The third SUV is ours." One of the agents opens a door for her, and helps her in; he pulls away from her and goes around to the other side.

"How was the journey?"

She could respect his expression of good faith, and still appreciate not being held at gun point or shackled like a captive of war. She settles into the seat with a heavy sigh, and waits until he joins her.

"Brief," she answered, the corner of her mouth lifting. "The journey itself only takes a moment. I am experiencing some difficulty with the almost double gravity, but it is not insurmountable. I had anticipated as much, and have take chemical supplements to assist with the transition."

She takes the sunglasses off and folds them carefully, keeping them in her lap. Idly, she fiddles with the hinges, studying them.

Cheap pieces of crap, really. Phil once spent a lot of money on sunglasses that fit perfectly. And then he realized that he broke them way too often for it to actually be worth it. Who's gonna carry around a hard protective glasses case on an op?

He settles into his seat, studying her. Taking a moment to observe.

"When training astronauts for zero gravity, they use swimming pools," he thinks, aloud. "Rehabilitation, too. How long are you planning to stay?" A part of him strains forward at this question, hoping for a lengthy answer.

She blinks, studying him just as intently. It takes her a moment to parse his sentence. Astronauts. Zero gravity. Those who travel in high orbit of their planet. She'd heard of them before, while listening to their radio transmissions. But what that might have to do with rehabilitation, she doesn't know.

And then he's asking her how long she intends to stay. "As long as I'm needed, Director. Is that an invitation to try your --swimming pools? I'm intrigued by the thought, but I have never learned how to swim."

"It's an invitation to experiment," he clarifies. "We can find something that works for you." Even if Stark has to build her an external skeleton while her muscles acclimate.

It isn't long before they make it to the plane, sitting on a landing strip remote in the desert. He offers a hand to her as he steps out.

"This is the Bus," he tells her. "Our transport back to base. You can meet the team inside." A slight pause, and he glances back, with a hint of a smile. "I think you'll like them."

He leads her in, immediately shows her where she can go to rest (one of the small cubicles - there isn't much room for anything else on the Bus). He introduces her to Skye, Fitz and Simmons, May and Triplett. He's interested in watching her, and how she interacts with them. There's a lot revealed in moments of meeting.

She takes his arm, discretely letting him support her until she can find a place to lean. She refuses to sit while she meets his team, proud and gracious in the same breath. She has a gentle smile for all of them, and she even suffers Simmons the opportunity to look closer at her eyes, promising that she will give her a private briefing on her physiology, later.

She dips her chin to all of them, a gesture of respect, which explains why she clasps a hand over her chest and bows to Agent May. A warrior's honor, especially obvious when she clasps the woman's wrist instead of her hand in greeting. May's response is as refined as any diplomats, but Coulson can see her grace Dr. Thoris with a rare smile.

That done, she seems to gravitate back to him, having granted him her trust, first and foremost. "I think I'll have that lemonade, now." She met his gaze, and there was something that let him know, she'd like to sit and rest please.

Not a problem. The team scatters at a glance from him, and he lets her have a seat by the bar.

"Strawberry or plain?" he asks, with a quirked eyebrow. They have a variety of mixers there.

He's thinking about her. When he's not looking at her, he's still seeing her. It's strange, like something about her made an impression in him. May, he thinks. May is the route to having her respect the people here, at least initially. A woman warrior.

Isn't she supposed to be a scientist?

She blinks at the question, perplexed. "The simple one," she says, "if you please. I will try the variation on a theme next."

She's settled back into the cushions, her back straight, her chin lifted. "Your team. They're very," she hesitates, tilting her head at him, "young."

"Growing," is what he says. They're all people who needed a chance, who could stretch and learn. People who changed their roles, didn't just become their roles. The fact that the team is always shifting and always learning is an advantage.

He hands her the glass, and sits down across from her. The plane is in the air, by now.

"You're not what I was expecting," he admits.

Her eyes went wide as they accelerated and left the ground, her jaw clenching for a moment against the increased gravitational pull. She sighed as it eased up. The glass never faltered in her hand. A moment later, she continued the conversation as if the interruption had never occurred.

"Really? Might I inquire what you were expecting?"

"Honestly? I don't know."

But more of a scientist, probably.

"I find it interesting that cultures beyond our levels of technology have an elegance we associate with the past," he says. "There are... themes. Trappings. Colors. Images that we associate with the future, and with aliens. And none of them are right."

Her brow knit, and she blinked at him.

"Technologically advanced, perhaps, compared to Earth's current level of scientific understanding. But our civilisation has existed for ten thousand years. And if my past experiences with Earthmen is any indication, we are, in our own way, far more primitive than you. If anything, you are the future."

She sips the lemonade and hums in quiet delight. She looks back up at him, smiling broadly. "I must confess, you're not what I expected either."

He shrugs, conceding her point without abandoning his. There's something different to every culture; it's got to be a fallacy to say that development in culture and technology must happen in certain ways, on certain timelines. There is infinite variety in the universe.

Or there had better be.

"What did you expect?" he returns, gently and curiously,

She dips her chin, her lips thinning into an amused smirk.

"I think I expected you to, what is the phrase? 'Roll heavy?' I expected a much more -- militant response. I can't tell you how pleased I am to be wrong."

The fact was, Phil had gambled. Maybe depended too heavily on the isolation of the desert, in case anything went wrong. He could've had a missile strike there in four minutes.

"I'm not a big fan of blunt force," he says. "The more you use it, the less you try to think of other options."

Her eyebrows rose.

"I like the way you think, Director Coulson. I had hoped our previous communications had set the tone for our first meeting. I'm here to help your people, as much as I can. And when I am convinced you are who you say you are, I have another matter I would like to discuss with you."

His eyebrows go up.

"Excuse me?" he asks. "Who I say I am?" As in, director of SHIELD, or, as in, Phil Coulson?

"Yes. A man, a warrior who can be trusted in times of grave danger. A man who understands the value of working towards peace. An ally, if you will."

She speaks very plainly, but it's clear, this is something she cares very deeply about.

Ah. That makes more sense.

He nods, leans back. "Have to warn you," he says, "I don't have the time to jump through hoops or pass tests right now. I'll be focused on what SHIELD is doing." He doesn't mean to warn her off, or establish who's boss, or something equally childish. He means to tell her his responsibilities come before anything.

"I understand, and I would like you to know, I am not one to play such needless games. But there is a matter of grave importance and I can only discuss it with you once I am certain we can trust one another."

Her smile softens and she leans forward, her hands clasped in her lap. "That only comes with time, I fear. We must come to know one another."

It's a little frustrating not to know more now, but he can play his cards slowly.

"We'd like you to get to work right away," he says, turning to business again. "We've got several sources of energy that have been stolen from one of our facilities, in the recent upheaval. You can help with that?"

She quirked an eyebrow, her head tilting ever so slightly. Like a falcon fixing on a field mouse in the middle of a meadow, she expressed her interest with a very keen look.

"Yes, I believe so. I would need time in your laboratory, and one of your field units that you're currently using to detect said energy fields. Am I to be quartered here on your ship?"

"No." He smiles, a hint. "We've got a better place."

And, in fact, several hours later, they land at the base. It's not exactly impressive; the hangar is a good size, but this isn't any enduring work of design or architecture. It does, however, have resources, and that's the strongest point in its favor.

He ensures that she has a good tour of the functionality, that she's teamed up with scientists, and then - well, then it's off to the races. There are at least sixteen red-flagged incidents around the world that someone has to follow up on, and Coulson's the only one available.

So the next time he's there, it's a few days later. The order he's given to re-fill the pool in the mostly-defunct gymnasium portion of the base has been obeyed, and the chemical balance is cleared for swimming. He arrives back at the base in the evening, one night, and, since he's gotten plenty of rest on the plane, decides to stop by her laboratory, which she should've been able to customize as she wanted. There are a couple scientists around to assist and make sure they know what she's doing - usually Jemma or Skye or Fitz, but not if they're out on a mission. There are cameras, too, just like there are in every part of the base. But only one per room, and not really any other overt surveillance.

He knocks on the glass of the door, and lets himself in.

"One moment, please."

Her entire area has been reconfigured to something not unlike Mr. Stark's research laboratory, right down to the stacks of equipment resting on unfolded plans that mimicked the ones on the hanging touchscreens. He would instantly recognize the maps of North America, with minimized windows containing the other continents, including Antarctica, each a spider web of bright blue lines and several of his recent incidents marked with red diamonds.

Her hair was piled on top of her head, most of it anyway, speared through with a pencil. She wore khakis over knee high boots, and a button up blouse with the sleeves rolled up. Even sitting down, she looked exhausted. Worn thin, but with a fierce determination he'd no doubt recognize, either from the rest of his team or his own mirror.

It took her a moment to pull her focus away from the current tracking algorithm, and when she saw who had joined her, her face lit up. She stood to greet him. "Director Coulson. What a lovely surprise."

The weirdest part about all of this is that - well, he missed her.

This isn't some lovesick teenage thing. He is genuinely and truly curious about her, and his instincts say move forward, and hell, he has to trust those. There's nothing else he can trust. But even a brief acquaintance has emblazoned her on his mind, like a shooting star leaving a streak across the sky.

- Stupid poetic imagery. Okay, maybe there's a little lovesick teenager in there after all. She is stunning, as well as obviously brilliant, and alien, and fascinating.

So he actually forgets what he's going to say, briefly, when she looks at him. That's embarrassing.

"How's it going?" He leaves 'it' ambiguous; the adjustment, the tracking, either one.