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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"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.

She watches, trying to read the shifting current of his thoughts the same way she might if they were on Barsoom. She can sense his fascination with her, and his trepidation. She feels the same about him. He opts for a safe opening gambit, one that doesn't answer her question.

"The Director and I feel the same about many things, I know that much. He is largely why I am still here." She doesn't pull back as he fills the mugs with steaming hot water. "But Phil... He is a mystery to me, and I confess. I love a good mystery."

He picks up both mugs, offering one to her. Time to move over to the table, he thinks. Time, maybe, to let his hand linger a little touching hers as he passes the hot chocolate over.

Yeah, he's got it bad.

"I'm not that complicated," he says. "Might not be too interesting, once you get down to it." Little bit of a smile, holding her gaze - a real smile, weirdly, because he finds he's not actually that nervous for her to find out who he is; hell, that's the least complicated part of this whole complicated endeavor - then he pulls back and goes for the table, slides into a seat.

He hands her the mug, his fingers brushing hers, and she closes both hands around it. Him. His hand. Just for a moment, but it's more than enough to set her heart racing.

Where Dejah is from, very few people dare to touch her. Casual contact is not a thing that happens to the Jeddak of Helium. Her attendants help her in and out of her clothes, brush her hair, and bring her her meals. But they do not ever touch her. Her admiral and best friend sometimes places his right hand on her left shoulder, and that's as close as she gets to a hug. Well, except from her father, and that only happens on rare occasions.

His hand is not soft, but it is warm. For the second time that day, bare skin meets bare skin and she cannot help the goosebumps that flare up her arm. Maybe he doesn't see it. And then again, maybe the moon will float down and kiss her cheek before bedtime. She glances down to the mug, grinning as she follows him to the table, a flush of color across her cheeks.

"You are many things, Phil. Simple is not one of them." She settles across from him, and finally dares to lift her gaze. Her eyes are bright, despite the quiet, measured quality of her words. "As much as I am a woman of reason, of science and intellect, there are times when I must trust my instincts. I've found, if I follow where they lead me? Inevitably, good fortune awaits me at the end of the day."

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