Hey

‘Hey’

It would probably go down in history as one of life’s great unsolved mysteries; how had he managed to secure this woman’s friendship for so many years, to spite not ONCE having the faintest idea what to say to her. Not when it mattered, at least. Not in times like this.

Phil found himself with an unfortunate amount of time to ponder this as May laid silently across from him; the steady beeping of one of the many machines crowding her bedside was his only reassurance that she was at least alive.

Melinda had always been a woman of relatively few words, and exasperatingly even fewer when emotions were running high and Phil found himself, in stark contrast, wading headlong into the familiar clutches of verbal diarrhoea. Fortunately, they had long since fallen into a routine, which had managed to preserve both their sanities during the times they needed it most. Until now, it seemed.

His own body ached from the days exertions, the temporary anaesthetic of adrenaline that had fuelled him in his determination to get to May was fading fast now that she was safely before him. Still cautious not to crowd her, Phil let himself sink tiredly into the hard plastic chair in the corner of the med bay.

If he didn’t know better (know her better), he might have been able to convince himself that she was asleep. But the med bay was annoyingly loud, and quiet, in all the wrong ways. And she was facing the wall, away from the door, her injured knee keeping her from her preferred side – the only side – he had ever seen her sleep on. Phil felt the tension building agonisingly under his skin as the silence stretched between them. Common sense told him it wouldn’t be right to touch her just now, maybe not for a while.

Now that he wasn’t chasing her, the days events began chasing themselves through his mind. He could only keep them at bay for so long.

All she had to do was say ‘Hey’.

Just say it back. And give him the unspoken permission they had long ago agreed upon to fill the echoing silence between them – with anything that wasn’t the only thing on both their minds. Or tell him to leave – she had done before and knew she always held the option to do so again (although she rarely did). She would just say ‘Hey’ or she would tell him to leave but they had long since surpassed the days where she would say nothing. (And he couldn’t go back there, not when it was the same knee that was broken, not when he was moments too late again, not now that he knew how perfectly she fit in his arms)

His clenched fists only aided the blood pounding in his ears – the dam was breaking and Phil Coulson was not a good enough man to summit what would come tearing through it. He had made the decision to come to this room. To sit by HER bedside. Not that he had a choice really – not that anyone on his team would DARE let him near Andrew Gardner’s cell right now – or ever, realistically.

Lash.

Daisy would naively insist on making the distinction. It was Lash that had taken her – that had nearly torn her apart. She didn’t understand, wasn’t able to acknowledge that it was the man she had worked with, it was Andrew that had lured her to their old home, that knew which knee was weak – that COUNTED on the fact she wouldn’t hurt him.

The splintering of the plastic in his bionic grip drew him back into the room. And his gaze flickered hopefully to Melinda’s still form, her still silent form. He found himself leaning into the fire in his veins to escape the painful twisting in his chest. Because this was easier, wasn’t it? To be enraged. At least with Andrew, with Lash, he would have somewhere to put his hands. To meet him with the same brutality he had met his helpless ex-wife with – even though there were things he could never match –

Shame punctured the blissful bubble of anger he had been inflating around himself. Because beneath his rage, as he fought the images of Lash tearing the clothes from her delicate skin, there was a flicker of jealousy; of possessiveness.  Because there was apparently enough space for his own selfishly wounded pride to rear its head as his gut twisted at the thought of Andrew laying his hands on Melinda – but no – he mentally kicked himself, tearing his mind away from the last dangerous spiral he was saving himself from. He didn’t know what had happened in that room (only that her clothes were torn and her thighs were bloodied and Jemma couldn’t look at him, wouldn’t hand over her medical report and that now Melinda was silent….) He tried desperately to calm himself, to remember the gentle eyed smile of the Melinda he had woken up to in his bed this morning –

His thoughts drove him from his chair and his emotions steered him treacherously down the hall, towards the holding cells.

It was not for Melinda now to soothe him with old traditions and unspoken agreements – whether it be Andrew or Lash – whoever he encountered inside that cell was going to answer for what had happened in that room.

Melinda desperately grasped at the call button attached to her bed, broken digits a dull and forgotten ache as she prayed silently that Jemma might somehow outpace Phil and preserve what little dignity she had left