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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He's always busy.

"I might be able to make the time." It's joking, not playing cold or hard to get.

"I'd like that," she answered simply. She knows. Of course she knows. She has no illusions about who he is, or who she is, or how unlikely it is that anything would happen between them. Doesn't mean she won't ask. She'd be doing them both a disservice if she walked away from this because it was awkward or inconvenient. She's lived more than four Earth centuries, and she's fairly confident she can recognize when she's made a connection with someone.

She drifted, relaxing, enjoying his proximity and the warmth of the water. After a half hour of quiet conversation, she shifted and let her feet drift to the bottom. She drew her hand back only to push her hair back from her face and regard him with wide blue eyes.

"Let me get dried off and changed, and maybe we could?"

It does end up that he has to make the time. After he emerges and takes a shower, he's pulled into a crisis, a mission gone wrong on the other side of the world. Or, theoretically gone wrong. Cessation of communication doesn't necessarily mean anything in particular. But it usually means something bad.

It's too long before communications are resumed, and then the team asks for immediate extraction. Good, because that's just what Phil had been doing in the last hour of silence.

Mission failure. What a surprise.

So when he comes down to get her, it's late. Too late, and now maybe too risky, because of the failed mission, to go into town.

He explains this to her.

"I'm sorry."

She'd waited up for him, using the excuse to get more work done. He'd found her in her office, the only light the soft illumination of the view screens. He stands in her door and explains the situation, and she comes around her desk, her brow furrowed, her smile, soft.

"It's alright. Such is the nature of things," she says as she approaches him. He's drawn tight as a wire, she can tell, but still, she finds herself ridiculously glad he'd found these few minutes to come tell her. He could have called. He didn't. He came in person. That alone means so much to her.

"Can you stay?"

Edited 2015-01-24 07:33 (UTC)

"Yes."

And he'd like to stay. Tired as he is, there's something about this that he really looked forward to, and there's a part of him that's very, very glad that she waited.

"I think there's some hot chocolate mix in the break room," he suggests. Hint of a smile. "We can have that -" Date. Date was what he was going to say. He takes a breath - he just says it, recklessly. "Date."

He gives her just the barest hint of a smile and she lights up from within. Her face blossoms in a broad smile at his hesitation.

"Yes. Yes, all right. That sounds -- perfect."

Simmons had explained to her what a date was, when she'd overheard one of the techs talking about going on one. Such casual forays into intimacy did not exist in her world. Well, she supposed they might among the majority of the population, but not for the Jeddak of Helium. When she was seen in public the company of a male, all of Helium was thrown into a frenzy. Issus, when the Admiral was seen leaving her quarters in the late afternoon, there'd been a scandal. No, when the Jeddak entertained the notion of a relationship, she did so with a heavy weight of her position on her shoulders, with the shadow of a legend hanging over her head. Her late husband had been much beloved by her people. And in her experience, the only men willing to even try to walk that path did so out of a desire for status or power, not for her companionship. (And the Admiral was like a brother to her, even though he'd offered to take up the mantle just to give her some relief.)

But here, none of that mattered. Here, she could go swimming with him, and no one was the wiser. Here, she could share a late night conversation with him, and she was just a woman talking with a man. A woman spending time with someone she was attracted to, someone she respected and whose companionship she enjoyed. Here, she was allowed to be herself.

All of these thoughts swarmed in her head as she moved about the room, switching off monitors and securing work stations. When she was done, she returned to his side and gestured for him to lead the way. "I heard there was some excitement?"

It gives him a little thrill in the pit of his belly, like he's a teenager again. A date. She is simultaneously the worst person he could possibly date in the solar system, and maybe the best. He watches her go through and switch off monitors, work stations. Watches the way she moves. It seems more fluid, since the water, but that's ridiculous. One session can't help that much.

He takes a breath, at her question. "Let's talk about something else," he says. Not because it's top secret, not because he wants to conceal it, but because he needs - well, something like a breath of fresh air.

"All right." She slips her arm through his, the smile on her face not going anywhere any time soon. She's not at all put out by the request to change the subject; she probably understands more than most.

"Who is this -- Lola?" There's a playful lilt in her voice. "Everyone keeps warning me about Lola. Is she a paramour of yours?" She's not really concerned.

That's a good change of subject. It makes him smile.

"Really," he says. "What kind of warnings?" He wants to know, before he makes up something outrageous.

"Very serious ones. That you spend as much time with her as you can. That you're very protective of her. The implication was that it was serious, and if I knew what was best for me, I'd not stand between the two of you."

She's doing her best to keep a straight face, really.

"I can't dispute the accuracy," he says. "Maybe I'll take you to meet her sometime."

There's a little smile twitching the edge of his mouth. He looks a little more relaxed already.

"I've put a lot of time into her," he says. "Lot of love."

Dejah's brow furrowed ever so slightly and she tilted her head as if considering his words. "And you're willing to let me meet her?"

"Long as you're careful not to scratch the paint."

It took a moment. Dejah cut a glance at him, an edge of delight under her dry response.

"She's a machine."

He chuckles.

"She's a car," he says. "Antique. Beautiful."

"A vehicle? You named your vehicle after a woman?"

"Not after a woman. It's just her name."

"Oh, well then."

She gripped his arm a little tighter and leaned in to whisper, "I confess, I am curious to know more. I have a soft spot for mechanical things, especially those deemed archaic by some. There's an appeal to bringing something back from the scrap heap and restoring it to its former glory."

He looks to her, and he smiles, quietly, genuinely. She understands.

"Just because something's old doesn't mean it's done," he says. "Sometimes, a little archaic is just what the world needs."

Not that he dislikes things that are new. The world is built on innovation as well as history.

They arrive at the break room, and he - slightly reluctantly - pulls away long enough to find the hot chocolate mix and a couple of chipped mugs with the SHIELD logo. Plugs in the electric kettle for hot water, and he leans back against the counter, looking to her.

She watches him with bright eyes, watches the way his hands move, the line of tension in his shoulders. When he settles against the counter, she looks around a little awkwardly. There's one small table with a couple of chairs tucked beneath.

She chooses instead to come and stand beside him, leaning one hip against the cabinets. She gives him a languid blink, the ghost of a smile haunting the corner of her mouth.

"I confess, I'm curious who I'm speaking with now. Is the Director of S.H.I.E.L.D. making me hot chocolate? Or is that more something Phil would do?"

"The director of SHIELD drinks coffee," he tells her, "one cream, one sugar." There's no purpose to drinking hot chocolate, nothing to be accomplished. It's about having a nice drink. It's about companionship, and that's something that he unfortunately doesn't have much time for, these days.

"But I don't think I'd say the lines are clear."

He is not making coffee. He is making hot chocolate, for both of them. And as simple and utilitarian as break room hot chocolate is, to her, it smells divine. It's making her mouth water.

She looks down, grins, bites her lip. (It's not the chocolate. As much as she'd like to think that.)

"Well, it's important for me to know. With the Director, I would feel the need to maintain a certain decorum. But with Phil..." She gives a little half shrug, looks back at him. "The possibilities are endless."

He leans in. Confiding, his voice low: "You know, Phil does gossip. To the Director himself."

Such a busybody, that Phil.

"Really," she drawls, leaning in as well.

"And what would he have to say about me, I wonder?"

His eyes catch hers, and he draws in a breath. There's no safe way to answer that question, but he's about to speak, anyway, not at all sure what he's going to say. - She blurs the lines. What does Phil think of her, that the Director doesn't? She is foreign, important, fragile and strong both without being brittle; she is beautiful, she is insightful. She is all of those things.

He's an aging guy with not much hair and a face that disappears into a crowd. She's a princess.

The whistle of the kettle interrupts his almost-words. He exhales, and glances away, reaching to the hot water.

What he's thinking is too serious for good flirtation. He gropes for something a little lighter.

"Well, you know, the Director only wants one thing." He pours, carefully. "He wants Earth safe."

Nope, that wasn't lighter.