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 gives a little shake of his head. This is a diplomatic trap he's not going to fall into. Not that he knows, or even believes, that she's trying to manipulate him. She doesn't seem like the type. Just going on instinct.

"You're a respected ally," he says. "Not a resource."

He's not going to tell her not to say director, though. Anything closer can wait until they're friends. If they become friends.

No, he thinks, looking at her. He has feeling about this one. When they become friends.

He starts to guide her out of the canyon, the agents falling in in front of and behind them. He introduces them, briefly. "Sorry there couldn't be more of a welcoming committee. We're spread a little thin."

She has a gracious smile and nod of her head for all of them, and a deeper bow of respect for Agent May. A woman warrior seems to go a long way towards assuaging her trepidation.

"As you will," she says to him. These are people she can trust. And he is first and foremost among them. "I am given to understand you've seen some difficulty in the past few months. I am most grateful you chose to receive me in person. I take it we shouldn't linger?"

"Well," he say, "we can hang around," it's not dangerous at the moment, "but it's hot outside, and there's ice-cold lemonade on the Bus."

He glances to her. "A drink," he says. "It's a drink."

Again, he sees that little light of recognition in her eyes. "Lemonade, yes. Sweet and slightly sour. Made from the little yellow fruits that have a thick rind, and that come in sections, yes?"

He'd guess that she was reading up on Earth, or just watching TV, if not for the way she recalls things. Like she's parsing it as she speaks. There's a tilt of his head, and he wonders, he thinks about it. Doesn't quite add up.

He'll ask about it later.

"This way," he says, and he offers her an arm to help her on the short hike down.

She accepts his arm readily, and he can see her eyes smiling behind his shades. She tries not to lean too heavily on him, and it never occurs to her that he'd barely be able to tell, she's so light.

She does seem to be focusing a bit on breathing evenly. "I thank you for meeting me in person, Director. I was honestly terrified I would be met with rifles and manacles. An understandable precaution, given your recent troubles, but -- not optimal from my point of view, you understand."

"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.