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The surveillance video ends with the teleporter taking Skye and disappearing.
“I lost her,” Phil says.
“So,” Hunter starts. “What do we do now?”
“I need to talk to Simmons,” Phil replies, brushing past Hunter to start putting the vidcall through. “I’m going to scramble the signal. If you could look behind the computer, make sure all the wires are hooked up correctly--”
“This isn’t the first time I’ve scrambled a call,” Hunter tells him, as he goes around the other side of the monitor.
The vidcall goes through, and Bobbi appears.
Before she can speak, Phil cuts her off with a, “Dr. Weaver. I wasn’t expecting to see you.” Bobbi raises an eyebrow, but says nothing. “Despite our current differences, I was hoping you would let me speak to Dr. Simmons.” To Hunter, he says, “I need you to go outside, and make sure that the cables are all still attached.”
“Why’s that?”
“I need you to make sure that they haven’t added any tap on the wires.”
“Do you think they would know that we were here?”
“I’d rather make sure that’s not even an option to consider.”
“Roger that,” he says, and heads out of the cabin.
The door shuts, and there’s a beat of silence.
“Hello, Bobbi,” Phil says, finally.
She gives him a sad smile. “Hi, Coulson.” She glances from side to side. “You want me to go get you Simmons, or do you want to talk to me?”
“I was wondering if I should ask the same thing,” Phil says, lightly. He can’t quite keep his voice light as he asks, “Why’d you do it, Bobbi?”
“Because I don’t think you’re cut out to be Director.”
Phil does his best not to react.
But he gives something away, because Bobbi’s face crumples. “I’m sorry, Coulson. When Director Gonzales asked me to evaluate you, I wanted to approve you, I really did. You’re a good agent, you’ve always been a good agent. But you’re not a good Director, you’re not what we need.”
It’s a thought that had made it difficult sleeping some nights. His chest is tight as he asks, “Why’s that?”
“You keep too many secrets.”
Phil nods. “You’re right. The head of an intelligence agency keeping secrets, what was I thinking?”
“But from ourselves? Clint told me about the Tesseract technology being used for weapons, the rift that caused in the Avengers. And you can’t tell me that you don’t think HYDRA would have been found out sooner if there was less internal subterfuge. Fury was a good director, but he’s gone, and maybe it’s time time some of his flawed protocols went with him. It’s time to do better. We need to be transparent, we need to be honest, and you can’t do that.”
“Yes I can.”
“No. You can’t be honest. Not even to Hunter.”
“That’s because I didn’t want him to start going off on you about how you betrayed--”
She shakes her head. “You couldn’t try telling him that you needed to speak with me?”
“You’re hardly one to talk about keeping secrets from him.”
“I kept professional secrets out of our personal life,” Bobbi says, with the first note of tension in her voice. She sighs, long and hard. “Look, this is going to be the last time we speak in a while, I would really rather talk about something cheerier.”
Phil tries not to laugh. “Such as?”
“Good news?” Bobbi tries.
“Do you have any?”
“Gonzales is trying to woo May.”
He tries not to think of her loyalty to Fury over her loyalty to him. “That’s not exactly good news.”
“When you come back, there’s going to be a tribunal. And when that happens, we thought it would be a good idea to have someone on the Board to defend you. But right now, I’m just wondering what would happen if you just slipped off the map.”
Phil sits up straighter. “Should I consider that as a threat?”
She stares at the screen for a long moment, expression hard, and then sad, before she shakes her head. “More of a suggestion. It’s been a difficult two years for us all, but you’ve had to shoulder the brunt of it. You can’t tell me you’re not tired.”
You can’t be honest. He doesn’t reply.
“If I were in your shoes, I would take the time to stand back, figure some things out. Take some time off. You’ve lost SHIELD, and you’re not going to get it back. Skye’s in hiding, we don’t know where she is. And honestly, until I can talk some sense into Gonzales, I’m okay with that. But May’s going to join. Fitz and Simmons, too. And rumor is that Hill is going to come on board. It’s the same SHIELD, or will be, once we mend. Just better run.”
“Better directed,” Phil corrects.
“You’re a good agent, Coulson. You’ll be welcome back. May will fight for that, and so I will I. Just… let things settle a bit first.”
They stare at each other for a long minute.
There’s nothing left to say, so Phil just says, “Goodbye,” and he closes the chat screen.
“Able to get through to Simmons?” Hunter asks. Judging by his tone, he doesn’t buy it.
Phil hadn't even heard him come in. “No,” he says, softly. He lets out a long sigh.
“You alright there?”
“I need a drink.”
.
Hunter always carries two shot glasses and a bottle of whiskey with him, and Phil wonders if he should stop at one drink. He needs a clear head.
For what, though? SHIELD and Skye lost in one day. It’s a heavy defeat, made worse by how Phil doesn’t know how to proceed.
Halfway into their arguing, Hunter suggests they head down to Mexico.
There are really no good options to proceed.
What’s one more?
And what’s one more drink?
Another drink in after that, the hilarity of the similarity of Bobbi’s and Hunter’s advice hits him. He can’t tell Hunter what’s so funny, and Hunter tries to coax it out of him with another drink.
They drink and drink and drink some more, until Hunter is out of whiskey.
Fortunately, Phil took a full inventory of the cabin when he was preparing it for Skye, and knows where Fury hides his booze stash.
Also, pretzels.
Hunter’s method of coping with everything is to trash talk Bobbi and Mack, some of it founded (being chained to a bathroom sink), some of it unfounded (Bobbi being a demon escaped from hell). Phil does his best to redirect if there’s a possibility, but he lets the other man vent.
The whiskey reacts well with Hunter’s ire, and Phil starts to vent a little, too.
Because he’s been doing his best to clean everything up, go after HYDRA, deal with Ward, Skye’s new powers, all while dealing with questioning his own sanity and the grief of losing so many fellow agents; and despite a few nights full of doubts, he thought he was going a good job.
But it wasn’t good enough.
And it burns.
So he chases it with the burn of whiskey.
“Mexico,” Hunter repeats.
Phil sighs, and pours another shot.
Their conversation meanders. Phil ends up lying on the couch, Hunter sprawled on the chair.
“Tu sabes…” Phil starts. The wooden ceiling spins gently. He doesn’t remember the last time he had a vacation. His last vacation was not a vacation. He might be okay with a real vacation. “Yo hablo espanol.”
Hunter looks over at him. “Yo tambiėn.”
Phil closes his eyes. He’s had far too much to drink, and he’s not in his twenties, he can’t drink like this anymore. But at the same time, “Yo necesito más whisky.”
Hunter gives him a wide smile, and repeats, “Yo también.”
.
There’s a burst of sound, like the hum of static.
It draws Phil out of a dead sleep.
Opening his eyes, he sees ripples of electricity in the air, blue waves flowing up from the ground, and a familiar figure standing in the middle of it.
Phil blinks a few times. Not how he was expecting to be woken up, however early he’s been woken up. He passed out on the couch, and presumably Hunter went to take the bed. Hunter was nice enough to drape a blanket over Phil though, which he appreciates.
Phil blinks a few times, then refocuses on the issue at hand.
The teleporter doesn’t have eyes, but Phil gets the feelings the guy is probably staring at him.
“Hello,” Phil greets.
The guy smiles. “Skye said you would be unflappable.”
Skye probably didn’t tell him he would be hungover. Or at least, Phil hopes not. He pushes himself up to sitting, ignoring the pounding of his head, how the room spins. He’s gone through worse for less important matters. “How is she?”
“Scared,” he replies.
“But?” Phil prompts. His chest is tight as he continues, “Please tell me there’s a but to that statement.” She has to be alright, after everything that’s gone on and gone wrong, Skye has to be alright.
“But she’s among others like her. We’ll keep her safe.”
Phil lets out a long sigh, and sags back against the couch. It’s what Phil has always wanted for her. They’ll keep her safe, like he was unable to do.
The door opens, and there’s the creak of footsteps on the wood floor.
Their guest frowns.
“Gun down, Hunter,” Phil says.
“How the hell did he get in here?” Hunter asks.
Phil turns to look at him, make sure that he’s holstering his gun. “I’m not entirely certain,” he tells him. And then he turns back to their guest. “In fact, I’m not entirely certain who he is.”
“My name’s Gordon,” he says.
“It’s nice to meet you, Gordon,” Phil replies. “I’m Phil Coulson. This is Hunter.”
“What are you doing?” Hunter hisses.
“I’m being polite.”
Gordon huffs a laugh. “And Skye told me to expect that as well.”
“Listen, how do we know we can trust him? Didn’t you say he took Raina and Skye’s crazy father?”
“I did, because he did.”
“So how do we know he’s probably not dangerous?”
“Because he has a skillset that could make it rather easy to kill us, and we’re not dead.”
“Skye may be.”
“Why would he take her, then kill her?”
“I dunno, maybe he abducted her so her crazy father could kill her?”
“Her father was winning, during our last confrontation. If Gordon took him away, that means he’s not on Cal’s side.”
“You’ve thought this through,” Gordon remarks, dryly.
“I care about Skye,” Phil says.
“Then you’ll let her stay with us.”
“That should be her decision to make.”
“It was. She called me.”
“How? I didn’t see her pull out her mobile on the surveillance tape.”
“But we saw her go with Gordon.”
“Oh. So… what now?” Hunter asks, looking between Phil and Gordon. “You’re just here for a social visit?”
“A reassurance.”
“So how do we know Skye actually went with you, and you’re not really lying to us?”
Gordon looks at Phil. “She told me to ask you, ‘What are we?’”
Phil’s heart thuds painfully in his chest. “We’re a team,” he murmurs in reply.
He’s lost Skye, and he’s lost SHIELD. He has kept a flame, even through his conversation with Bobbi, even with his own doubts, he thought he could save them.
Drunk, hungover, he realizes that he can’t.
For the cascade of grief, sharp and bitter, there’s a part of him that feels freed. It’s small, and does nothing against the crushing sense of his failure.
“So... what now?” Hunter repeats.
“If SHIELD came after Skye while she was here, they’ll probably come for you too. Want a life anywhere?”
“You’re offering us a ride?” Hunter asks. “Even though I assumed the worst of you up until the last minute?”
“Skye asked me to help you out, if I could,” Gordon says.
Hunter looks to Phil.
“Any chance you could take us to Mexico?”
.
Gordon warns them that first trips can be disorienting, and that it would be best to close their eyes.
For a moment, Phil stands, gets his bearings. He hears the sound of water lapping at sand, feels the heat of the sun against his face. Sweat is already starting to prickle at his collar, but there’s a cool breeze coming off the ocean. He opens his eyes to pale yellow sand and pale blue sky. “Where are we?” Phil asks.
“Petatlan,” Gordon replies from behind them. “I hear it’s beautiful.”
Phil huffs a laugh. “It is. Thank you.”
A quiet hum, and Gordon’s gone.
“Geography of the southern hemisphere has never been my strong suit. Where exactly is Petatlan?” Hunter asks.
“About twenty miles south of Zihuatanejo,” Phil says. “On the coast of the Pacific.”
It’s gorgeous. Magical, almost, he thinks wryly to himself.
Hunter hums. “It is nice.”
“You know what the Mexicans say about the Pacific? They say it has no memory. A warm place with no memory.”
“Thanks for that, Andy.”
Phil looks over at Hunter.
“What?” Hunter asks, voice going defensive. “It’s a classic.”
Phil smiles.
.
There are no hotels to be bought, no boats to be repaired. Phil may be a little more disappointed at that than he should be.
Instead, they rent a bungalow on the shore that’s a two minute walk to the waves. One bedroom, one bathroom, a living room half-furnished with a sofa and armchair, with wide and open windows that bring in the salt of the ocean and the warmth of the sun.
Five minutes up the beach, there’s a streetside market. They get looks – they’re obviously not locals, and they’re early for tourist season. Also, Coulson is still wearing his dress shirt and slacks, rumpled from sleeping in them overnight. His to-go bag didn’t include a change of clothing, but he can buy new clothes later.
For now, there are restaurants and bars, and Hunter drags him to a chaise in the sand, then tells him to wait while he goes to order drinks.
Don’t be afraid to remove yourself from the situation, Fury once told him. Or to find a second in command who will make you remove yourself, he had amended.
Phil always figured that May would be his second; to be fair, she was the one that shoved a briefcase full of resources at him and told him to flee.
But it’s Hunter who’s making his way back over to Phil.
“If you like pina coladas,” Hunter half-sings, a drink in each hand.
Phil laughs.
“And gettin’ caught in the rain.” Hunter hands him a cool glass, topped with a cheery paper umbrella.
“I’m not really into yoga,” Phil says.
“Then you’ve got half a brain,” Hunter tells him, before flopping down into the chair next to Phil. He raises his own glass. “Cheers, mate.”
.
A week passes.
Phil buys khakis and plaid button-up shirts, and buys food and a newspaper each morning. However, Hunter’s face had lit up when he’d seen the amount of money in the briefcase, and starts pulling Phil out for happy hour at the local restaurants. Hunter’s grasp of Spanish isn’t great, but he muddles through.
Phil tries to enjoy himself, the way Hunter obviously is. The fish is fresh and delicious, the drinks are cool and refreshing. He should be enjoying himself, and he genuinely wants to.
It lasts a week.
They’re on their way home from the restaurant. A filling dinner, far too many drinks, and far too high a bill for Phil.
“You’re not really good at this carefree vacation thing, are you?” Hunter asks, as they stagger into the living room.
Phil flops down onto the couch. “My last vacation I had was just a bunch of memory implants,” he laments. “And now I’ve lost SHIELD, lost Skye, and am stuck here in Mexico.”
Hunter’s eyes narrow. “You had your chance to try to take it all back but you came out here to escape. Wallow in your self-pity all you want, but you made your choice. And I made mine, and I didn’t come out here to mope.”
.
Hunter’s gone the next morning, a note scribbled and stuck to the fridge with the one magnet in the house.
“I’ve caught wind of a job,” he says, when he returns after lunch. He moves through to the bedroom and starts packing his bags.
“Oh,” Phil says.
Hunter slings his duffel bag over his shoulder, and looks at Phil for the first time since last night. “Are you going to be alright out here on your own?”
You can’t be honest.
Now would be a good time to prove her wrong.
He can’t.
He gives Hunter a bland smile. “I’ll be fine.”
He makes dinner for himself, and stores the second helping for tomorrow.
.
He gets a postcard the next day, delivered to the local post office.
A black-capped chickadee, though the postmark is from Iowa City. There is no return address.
It’s the first three bars of the cello part from Che soave zeffiretto.
Audrey had the score, and played it for him once, back when he had the time to stay with her after her rehearsal. Three bars of frantic eighth notes, followed by two bars of rest.
There had been a part of Phil – a large part of Phil – that hoped that Fury’s message would be something proactive. A pep talk. Get your ass back in there.
This isn’t that.
This is about being free.
.
Vacation, Phil thinks. He can do this.
He heads up to the streetside market. On his first trip, he buys a beat up old TV, a beat up old VHS player, and beat up old recordings of telenovelas. He’s horribly overcharged for them, but he doesn’t mind. On his second trip, he buys as much liquor as he can carry.
Hunter didn’t say when he’d be back, and Phil doesn’t count the time. He sleeps whenever he wants, buys food whenever he wakes up, cooks whenever he’s hungry, and spends the rest of his time drinking and watching the telenovelas.
It’s nice.
Hunter returns. He tosses over a wad of cash, which bounces off Phil’s collarbone. Hunter frowns. “I was expecting you to catch that,” he says. “You alright?”
“‘m fine,” Phil tells him. He hasn’t had much occasion to talk, and he’s surprised at how little his voice is slurred. He pushes himself to his feet. “‘m great, actually. How was the job?”
“Fine. Brought in money. Didn’t get shot.” Hunter steps further into the living room, and looks around at the bottles littered about. Phil had forgotten to ask about recycling when they rented the bungalow. “Have you been drinking?”
“Yes.”
“How much have you been drinking?”
“Enough to be honest.” Phil pulls him in for a kiss. It lasts three heartbeats, and then Phil pulls back.
Hunter blinks. “You taste like peaches.”
“Schnapps.”
“Straight?”
“Sometimes. Not always.”
Hunter huffs a laugh. “Funny the way those things work,” he says, as he makes his way towards the kitchen. He grabs a glass, and makes his way back to Phil, and plucks the peach schnapps from the table, and fills up a few fingers. “Like how you become straight when you have a wife.” He picks up a bottle of cranberry juice, and pours a splash into the glass. “Me and Iz used to complain about it.” He takes a long drink. “Course, Iz’s complaint went the other way.”
“Did it,” Phil murmurs in reply.
Hunter takes another long drink, and then he wraps his free hand around Phil’s neck. The kiss is just a gentle press at first, for a long moment, until he licks into Phil’s mouth.
Phil sways on his feet; both from the alcohol in his system, and the realization of how long it’s been since he’s had something like this. He grabs Hunter’s shoulders to keep steady, and opens his mouth to the kiss.
Hunter is the first to pull away, though he only does so to set his drink down.
The next time Hunter pulls away, it’s to pull Phil back to the bedroom.
.
And then they go back to the same routine.
Only instead of getting to know you chats, they spend the time it takes for dinner to cook making out.
Or, the time it takes the bell peppers to saute with Hunter sitting on the counter and looking to expand their sex life. “Sex on the beach, don’t tell me you’re not a little bit interested.”
“I think I’ve already had most of the peach schnapps.”
Hunter rolls his eyes. “You know what I mean.”
“I’m not sure I’m adventurous enough to add sand into the mix.”
“So long as you’re on a large enough towel, it doesn’t go towards any of the sensitive bits. C’mon, we came out here to escape, might as well make the most of it. We should do it out in the dunes, at midnight.”
“I don’t really want to stay up that late.”
“My god, how old are you?”
“About twenty years older than you.” Phil pauses stirring, looks over at Hunter. “Does that make me a cradle robber?”
“Nah, I’m pretty sure that only applies if the age difference is greater than the age of the younger participant.”
“That’s reassuring,” Phil says. He steps back to check on the chicken, baking in the stove.
“Why? I’m only twenty. I lied on my SHIELD file so I could have a fake ID for drinking.”
Phil snorts. “Good to know, Hunter.”
“We’ve shagged, mate, I think you can call me Lance at this point.”
“Right. Lance.” A beat, and then he adds, “And you can call me Phil. Unless you want to keep calling me mate.”
“What’s wrong with mate? It’s a good blanket term for…”
“For…?” Phil prompts.
Lance gestures between them. “For whatever this is.”
Not that Phil hasn’t been enjoying the casual touches and kisses and sex, but he has been wondering this for the past few days. “What is this, Lance?”
“I don’t really examine relationships. As soon as you label it, something changes, and things become completely different.”
“Is fun a label?”
“No,” Lance says, sliding down from the counter, and make his way to stand behind Phil. His arms slide around his hips. “That’s a description. And if that’s the best description you can come up with, then I need to step up my game.”
“Oh?” Phil asks. He inhales sharply as Lance’s lips trail up his neck. “You know, if you keep this up, I’m going to burn dinner.” Lance’s hands go to Phil’s belt buckle. “Burning dinner isn’t going to be very fun.”
“Fun’s not the word I’m looking for, Phil.”
Phil bites back a moan.
Dinner burns.
.
The next day, Lance finally notices the postcard. “How the hell did he know?”
“I don’t know. I thought I was ready for the role, but in a lot of ways, I wasn’t ready to be the director.”
Lance pats him on the shoulder. “You did your best, Phil.”
“It wasn’t enough.”
“Then let it be someone else’s problem.”
For now, Phil’s problem is that the stove doesn’t have a self-cleaning feature.
And for now, he’s okay with that.
.
There’s a knock on the doorframe of the open door.
It’s May.
Thankfully, Phil and Lance had both showered in the past twelve hours.
(Sadly, they had also discovered that shower sex in the small shower is more comedic than sexy.)
“Coulson,” she greets. “Hunter.”
“Agent May,” Lance says, pausing the telenovela he was rewatching.
“May,” Phil says, smiling. “I should offer you a refreshment. Do you like pina coladas?”
“And getting caught in the rain?”
“Yoga and tai chi aren’t really the same thing. And you’ve certainly got half a brain.”
“Do you like making love at midnight? Because Phil doesn’t. He’s too old for that, apparently.”
Melinda raises an eyebrow. “How long have you been drunk?”
“What day is it?” Phil asks.
“I don’t want to know,” Lance says. “I don’t care.”
“It’s Thursday.”
“Which Thursday?” Phil asks.
“I don’t want to know,” Lance repeats.
“Then why don’t you head up to get some fresh mangoes from Lupita? And whatever you want for dinner.”
“Is May staying for dinner?” Lance asks. To her, he says, “Phil’s a great cook.”
“No, thanks. I need to be heading back in, soon.”
Lance slips out of the door.
Silence stretches out for a minute.
May is staring at him, and won’t be the first to talk, so Phil says, “I have spent the past few weeks watching telenovelas, drinking, and having sex with Hunter.”
She huffs a laugh. “I noticed.”
After a long minute, he adds, “It’s been nice.”
“I’m glad.”
Phil gets up, then makes his way to the kitchen. He pours two glasses of water, throwing a sprig of mint into his and a slice of lemon into hers, then gestures her towards the chair. “What’s the update?”
May stares at him for a long minute. “You seem happy.”
“If I don’t think about it too hard, yes. But,” he says, as she frowns, “I want to know.”
“It’s not a worse change than HYDRA, despite what I originally thought. I am on the Board.” May looks around, casually, carefully. “I saw Skye briefly. She’s safe. She’s happy. She’s in control of her powers. She’s staying away until I can change Gonzales’ mind.”
“Bobbi should be helping out with that.”
“She is. You could help out, too. Whatever’s happened, you do have Gonzales’ respect, and Weaver’s too. And you know Fitz and Simmons would be glad to see you back. I would too.”
“I never meant to stay out here,” Phil says.
“I’m surprised you stayed as long as you did,” May admits.
There’s a long silence, and Phil sighs. “It’s been… really nice.”
“I’m glad,” she repeats. “You deserved it.”
“Lance won’t want to leave.”
“I’m guessing he’ll find a reason to want to return to SHIELD.”
Phil smiles at her. Before he can say anything, though, Lance is making his way back into the house. “That was quick,” he says.
“Lupita isn’t nearly as chatty when you’re not there. And I’m hungry.”
“I’ll let you get to dinner, then,” May replies.
“I’ll see you Monday morning,” Phil promises her.
She nods at each of them, before disappearing out the door.
Once she’s gone, Lance sighs. “We’re going back?”
“Not yet.”
Lance sighs again. “You know, I’m still angry with Bob. And Mack. And everyone with new SHIELD. But if you’re going back…”
“Not yet,” Phil repeats.
.
The night passes quietly.
While Lance washes the dishes from dinner – and the saute pan that has been soaking for days – Phil raids the linen closet. Once Lance is throwing the rubber gloves back into the sink, Phil asks, “Do you think this is a large enough towel?”
Lance turns around, startled. The corners of his mouth twitch, before his expression smooths into a mask of contemplation. “If we squeeze together close enough, we may be able to fit.”
Phil smiles. “That’s the plan.”
Lance considers him. “By any chance, are you into champagne?”
His smile widens. “I’ve got a bottle chilling in the fridge already. C’mon.”
A few minutes later, they’re making their way down the beach.
“You realize that I’m going to have that bloody song stuck in my head now, right?”
Phil lays out the towel. “I will do my very best to distract you, then.”
And he does.