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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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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.

"It's going well, all things told." She sighs a little, but her smile doesn't falter. He'll notice she keeps one hand on a chair or the table as she passes, but she stands tall, chin up, her blue eyes radiant. "What about you? I'm so glad you're back."

"Success." Limited success, but, then, wasn't that always the way?

He smiles, a little. "I have something to show you." She looks exhausted. And he wonders suddenly if there are worries about things like blood pressure, like the bends, like altitude sickness. They should have a pressurized oxygen chamber ready in case.

"Up for a short walk?"

She holds her breath for a moment, and then nods, her brow furrowing.

"Certainly. I might need to take your arm, if you don't mind? I'm better in the mornings, and every day, it gets a little easier." Or it would do, if she didn't insist on working so many hours. Simmons has told her that she needs rest if her body is to recuperate from the strain of increased gravity.

She smirked, giving him a sidelong glance. "What are you plotting, hmm? It's not another artifact, is it?"

"Nope." He doesn't mind taking part of her weight. She seems heavier than he would have thought - but, then, there's no reason decreased gravity would do anything to the density of a person. "You're going to take a couple hours off." He is not going to work potentially their best ally to exhaustion.

He might work himself to exhaustion, though.

"We should have done this earlier," he tells her, apologetically. They traverse the hallways, past the cafeteria and the adjoining rooms, through a set of double doors. Then he holds a final door open for her, and there's the pool. Not exactly Olympic length, but enough to swim laps.

"There are some clothes, suitable for swimming," he says. "Bathing suits like women on Earth wear, or options with more coverage if you would rather."

Mars is dry, isn't it? Has she ever seen a pool before?

The moment they open the door, she can smell the moisture in the air. Her free hand comes up and her fingertips rub together, feeling it in the air. Her mouth falls open in a soft exhalation of wonder. He's saying something about clothes, but she's too stunned to really hear him.

On her world, such a thing would be a gross extravagance, a blatant and needless display of wealth. But she's not on Barsoom, she has to remind herself. People bathe here, as in they soak their bodies in litres of water. They use hot tubs. There are streams and ponds and lakes and oceans of the stuff. A private bathing pool like this is probably not uncommon. She'd just never dreamed of such a thing.

She looks from him to the pool, back to him. "You did this -- for me?"

Edited 2014-09-04 02:24 (UTC)

The look on her face is magical. There's just no other word for it. Gives him the same kind of soft breathlessness that Thor's hammer did, or Stark's suit, or the perfect fit between Clint and Natasha.

"Yeah," he says. "Remember? We talked about it." Physical therapy, and how it uses pools. "Thought it might be nice to take a break from gravity."

He's having a hard time looking away from her.

She turns to him as he speaks, still holding onto his arm, but with her gaze focused on his chest. Her free hand smoothes down his tie and finally, she looks him in the face.

"That sounds wonderful, and you must believe me when I say I am eternally grateful. But I -- I'm afraid -- I do not know how to swim." She sounds both touched at the gift, and embarrassed at her own lack of experience.

"That's what the shallow end is for."

He looks a little embarrassed, then.

"If you'd rather a better swim instructor, I bet one of the agents is lifeguard certified. But, if you want, I can - show you."

Dejah's eyes went wide, and there was the briefest flicker of a smile. "Yes. Yes, I would like that. I mean, if that's acceptable. I would prefer to -- limit my humiliation to present company."

Her grin emerged despite her best efforts to have some kind of composed demeanor. "You make it dangerously easy to trust you, Phil Coulson." There was an alien lilt to the way she spoke his name, but it sounded guileless.

Edited 2014-09-11 13:57 (UTC)

A little smile. Because, dangerously easy to trust was basically his job description for a long time. He worked with the most suspicious and paranoid people in the world. Someone has to work with them.

And then there's Dejah - who's warm, and who he wants to trust. It takes it all a step further.

"There are changing rooms over there," he tells her. "You've got a few options."

She glanced where he indicated, brow furrowed for a moment. Changing rooms. Oh yes, right. Human modesty issues. She did not understand them, but she was a guest and would not embarrass her host.

"Are we..." She glanced around the corners of the room, up high. "...under surveillance here, as well?"

She imagines they are, but in such a moment of vulnerability, she would prefer her privacy.

"Recorded, not monitored," he says. If there's something that goes wrong in the base, they need records of it. He doesn't get the luxury of privacy anymore, not outside areas too sensitive for any monitoring at all.

He gives her a smile, and slips into the changing rooms himself. Pair of unexceptional black trunks and a white t-shirt. The scar tissue. He doesn't like thinking about it, much less displaying it, and he's afraid he wouldn't be able to think about anything else.

He steps up to the side and dives in, a shallow dive, angled away from the wall. He swims to the shallower end, closer to her changing room.

Dejah emerges from the changing room in just a few minutes, wearing a sheer robe that only descends to mid-thigh. The tattoos on her face are echoed in similar markings down her shoulders, back, and arms, across her chest, down her hips and both thighs. She looks a bit trepidatious, but not shy. Simply unsure of the situation, not herself.

"You look like you've done this before." She makes her way to the stairs and takes her first steps down into the water, her eyes wide and her hands outstretched to the plane of the water, even though she knows it is not a solid surface.

"Sweet Issus, this is astounding." She descends cautiously until the water is at her waist. Her gaze moves to him, and she smiles, like a kid on Christmas morning. "It feels so strange!"

To be honest, he has a hard time concentrating on the water, at first. It's her, and then it's her radiant expression of delight. It reminds him of something he hasn't felt in a long time. It puts him at ease in the way a spymaster shouldn't be.

"Once or twice. Now, since you're less dense than humans from Earth, you'll probably float easier - remember the buoyancy." Put it in scientific terms, since that's what she knows the best.

He shifts up and moves next to her. "The first thing a lot of people learn is how to float," he says. "Try lying on your back, on the surface of the water."

He comes within reach and she takes his hand, holds on tight. She's desperately unsure of herself in this new medium, but she's clearly enjoying it.

"Just -- lie back?" She didn't know how to do that. "There's nothing to lie back on!"

Scientific terms are all well and good for understanding things, but experiencing them is an entirely different matter.

He touches the small of her back. A little daring, but - it's swim instruction. "Here," he says. "I won't let you go under."

It's only a little bit of trust, in the scheme of things. She can stand up and get out of this water. She's not in any real danger.

She turns, orients herself to him, still glancing over her shoulder. Her blue eyes met his and she gave an incredulous little grin. This was not at all where she expected to be when she woke up this morning, but she was never one to turn down an adventure.

She gathered her hair with her free hand, pulling it over her shoulder, and then -- with a few hesitations and her heart hammering in her chest -- she leaned back, trusting him to catch her.

The water surrounded her, and she let go a soft exhalation of breath, an expression of pleasure so pure, it was almost sensual.

He barely does. Just the brush of his hand on her back, a contact that rushes a tingle through him. Every touch feels more underwater, he thinks. There's an intimacy to it.

This is the first time it occurs to him that this might be getting too close.

"See?" But he's smiling, and this is the best he's felt in weeks. He feels lighter, both inside himself and outside with the buoyancy of the water.

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CAN'T WAIT TO WATCH THE DAMN PREMIERE

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