to the edge of all the light you have (1/1)
Title: to the edge of all the light you have (1/1)
Author: hope_tang
Rating: PG-13
Spoiler Warning: Marvel's Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (pre-premiere promos and articles)
Beta: I'd be lost without bluewillowtree.
Disclaimer: Other than being a fan, I have nothing to do with Marvel or Disney or ABC.
Author's Notes: This was written before the series premiere on Tuesday, September 24th. Any mistakes you find are the result of my own interpretations of bluewillowtree's wonderful comments.
*
There was a cellist.
Melinda May grew up in the Pacific Northwest, oldest daughter and second of four children to a doctor and a professor with ordinary lives and of no particular name. As with any daughter of “a certain standing” within their insular immigrant community, she was expected to be a quiet, educated, well-spoken young woman who respected her elders, upheld the family honor, and walked the fine line between beauty and vanity.
To be fair, Melinda wasn’t a complete disaster as a daughter or sister. She did well in school, had her close (if small) circle of friends, treated her siblings decently, and never got into trouble with the law. She was just, perhaps, a little more American than her parents had anticipated their children would be. She was never categorically rebellious, but nor did she ever strictly follow the rules.
*
Ballet was meant to teach her grace and poise.
With two elementary-aged children in the house and two more on the way, it was also meant to run off childhood’s natural energy and make the youngest member of the family more biddable to her parents’ wishes.
Then it was intended to teach her grace, poise, and discipline.
Unfortunately for the budding drama queen in Melinda’s ballet group, Melinda didn’t have a follower personality type, didn’t appreciate being pushed around, and didn’t stand on the sidelines when other people were being pushed around.
Her father sighed in despair at his daughter’s black eye.
Her mother wordlessly signed up both son and daughter for lessons at the local dojo.
*
There was never any question that she would play the piano. She could beg off a lesson, skip practice, fake a recital or two, but there was no way that Melinda would not learn to play the piano. A young lady was, by definition, a pianist, and her mother would rather have died of shame than let it be known that her daughter was not a young lady.
The weekly piano lessons began when Melinda’s brother was six and she was four. It might have been too much to ask of a six and a four-year-old to sit still and pay attention through an hour-long music lesson. Still, their mother was nothing but determined that all of her children were to be musical and accomplished. If she could stare down grumpy patients, raise four children, and keep a tidy house, then surely, insisting that said children learn to play piano was perfectly reasonable.
Their mother was also a practical woman who learned from experience; she decided to let her younger children start their piano lessons when they were eight.
None of them were child prodigies.
When it came time to choose their own instruments, each sibling went their own way at the tender age of twelve. Her brother played the trumpet and, to their parents’ dismay and pride, joined the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers after college. Her sisters were a flutist and a violinist who became, respectively, a corporate lawyer and an accountant. They settled down into careers and families, with the white picket fence and the student loans and the noisy neighbors next door. They were the normal ones, the children their parents could boast about to family friends, acquaintances and enemies.
Melinda was a cellist in an orchestra of violins. Her parents did their best not to be disappointed that her promised medical career turned into a USAID paper-pusher desk job in Washington D.C.. On one hand, she was a respectable government official in the tradition of the intellectual public servant. On the other hand: politics; where had they gone so wrong in raising their daughter that she wanted to deal with politics on a daily basis?
*
Throughout her childhood and most of her adolescence, Melinda’s parents, teachers, and role models told her: Ladies do not pick fights.
“Ladies,” remarked former SSR agent Margaret Carter wryly to the small, invite-only gathering of promising young women before her, “finish them.”
As she sipped at her Earl Gray tea, the college sophomore observed the confident poise of her guest lecturer. Ms. Carter was a World War II veteran who had not only seen, but also led combat on the front lines. She was a woman who knew what she spoke of - and what she was asking of each and every one of them. She had the pretty face and the tragic story of being Captain America’s sweetheart, but she had made the world sit up and pay attention to her sharp mind and the unerring aim of a woman who was meant for more than a dismissive line in the history books. Now, she was asking them to do the same: to remind the world that there was more than one way to be a woman, and a lady at that.
Opportunities were slowly opening up before these students, but there were no easy paths laid out at their feet. No matter what they chose to do, they would be the trailblazers of their generation, the ones who shook the foundations and shattered the glass ceiling, the women who would be placed on the pedestal for future generations of girls to look to for inspiration and motivation. The future would not be easy for any of them, but wasn’t it worth it?
As the teacups were put away and the empty platters taken back to the dormitory kitchens, Melinda fiddled with her necklace. She considered that maybe it was time to sign up for that Swahili class her linguistics roommate had been ecstatic about for the past three weeks.
“Ms. May, if I may have a word?”
“Certainly, Ms. Carter.”
*
Upon graduation, S.H.I.E.L.D. recruited her swiftly for an intelligence analyst position. The work would be interesting, they promised her; the work would be honorable. She accepted, because they had convinced her that her heritage wouldn’t garner her sidelong looks and whispers behind her back at the agency. Her childhood had never taught her to be self-conscious because of her ethnicity, but college in the Cold War era taught her that some people questioned her loyalties because of the way she looked, not the way she acted. Her S.H.I.E.L.D. orientation agent told Melinda that her knowledge of pre-med biology, chemistry, and a dash of physics before she’d switched to her linguistics studies made her a perfect fit for the tricky, non-English, wire-tap transcripts that their Intelligence and Analysis units handled on a daily basis. They promised her that she would be assigned to the duties that best fit her personality.
It was somewhere in the middle of her fourth hands-on surveillance operation when Melinda realized that Director Carter (retired) had recruited her for fieldwork. It was not, as her senior supervisor had insisted, a mere coincidence that she’d been the only field-rated analyst on a particular mission four times in the past six months. Once was an exception; twice a coincidence; thrice a pattern, and just how oblivious did her employers think she was? Most of her analyst colleagues either never left the offices or were tucked away safely in command and control. They were not handed clothing appropriate for an undergrad sorority sister, an oblivious foreign tourist, an overworked waitress, or a wealthy, naïve heiress, and told to go eavesdrop on dangerous criminals.
“This is not what I signed up for,” said Melinda mildly, dodging Assailant #5’s graceless rugby tackle and grabbing his elbow as he rushed past her. Sure, she was in high heels and an evening gown, but applied physics worked in the same way, no matter how she was dressed. A brutal yank, pivot and throw later, the man went sailing into the chest of Assailant #3.
“It’s never what we signed up for,” replied her field partner, Phillip Coulson, with infuriating sarcasm as he dispatched Assailants #2 and 4 with precise, if dirty, strikes to their most vulnerable points.
“You were an Army Ranger.” Assailant #1’s arm broke with a clean snap before she dislocated his shoulder and slammed his head into the brick wall. Melinda was fairly confident her mother had never intended her childhood karate lessons to be put to this particular use. The henchman slumped against the dumpster. “I am -”
“- an expert in martial arts who enjoys dismantling electronics as much as she does sentence diagramming?” Assailants #3 and 5 went down with unhappy gurgles, respectively clutching their throat and groin in pain.
“You requested me on this assignment, didn’t you?” Melinda glared at him, ignoring the whimpering or unconscious men around them in the alleyway. There was no way that her temporary partner on this mission could have known all that about her, not unless he’d read her personnel file in advance.
Coulson shrugged and pulled a few zip ties out of his pocket. Like a gentleman, he offered the makeshift restraints to her.
“To be fair,” he said calmly, appearing unfazed when she pulled out her own cable ties, and wisely not asking or observing where on her person they came from, “this was supposed to be just surveillance.”
They started restraining their prisoners for transport.
“When are any of our missions “just” anything?” she asked wryly.
He gave her a small smile. “Exactly.”
*
For perfectionists, the danger (and the fear) is this: The higher you go, the harder you fall.
Compared to their peers, S.H.I.E.L.D. was the blindfolded, dancing high-wire act of the international law enforcement and espionage agencies. They came in when no one else knew how to handle the situation. They kept the dirty secrets in the dark, disposing of trouble and nightmares before the horrors could sear themselves into the history books. In the shadowy underbelly of society, S.H.I.E.L.D. was known for their recruitment of quiet, competent, and (scarily) professional ninjas.
Melinda climbed the ranks quickly from junior agent to team lead, fitting into a small, tight circle of colleagues (friends) on similar meteoric trajectories. There were good missions, successful missions, bad missions, and missions where they could only hope they did more good than harm. She learned that experience meant seniority, and seniority meant more lives placed in her hands. The quiet bookworm with a martial arts background went from taking orders to giving them.
*
In the aftermath of Budapest, she kept Phil company as they waited for word in Medical. He broke his exhausted silence five hours into their vigil. If she didn’t know his stubbornness as well as she did, Melinda would have expected him to have drifted off into drugged slumber hours ago.
“Do you think we’re ready for this?”
‘This’ meant the day that S.H.I.E.L.D. stepped out from the shadows into public scrutiny, their entire mandate turned on its head. ‘This’ meant the day that the ordinary civilian on the street realized how many monsters lurked in the dark, just beyond the realm of comprehension. ‘This’ meant the day that Budapest would look like a walk in the park, just a little training exercise gone wrong that left six agents dead and twenty more barely clinging to life. All the senior agents knew it was coming; the comfort of ignorance did not last long in this profession.
“I don’t think we have a choice,” she replied, resting her hand on his. No, we’re not, and I don’t know how we will be. Phil was prone to be maudlin and contemplative on the good drugs; it wasn’t a healthy thing for a mind like his. He wrapped his fingers around hers in a gentle grip. “Get some rest, Phil. I’ll wake you.”
“Shouldn’t you be resting yourself?”
“I’m sitting,” she answered. “That counts. Plus, paperwork.”
“Don’t remind me,” he huffed out in amusement as he closed his eyes. “Goddamn red tape.” That goddamn red tape had nearly gotten more of them killed. “One day…”
“One day, when you’re not drugged to the gills,” she chided, letting her fondness seep into her words, “and can actually enjoy a beer, then we’ll talk.”
“I’m not proposing marriage, Agent May.”
She laughed. “No, Agent Coulson, just insanity.”
“Hey,” he said, opening his eyes and meeting hers. “You did good today.”
“So did you,” she replied. “Now, sleep before I go find Dr. Garcia.”
*
Melinda saved lives, protected lives, and sometimes, lost agents under her command. She ran both surveillance operations and combat missions, easing green agents into the rigors of a S.H.I.E.L.D. career and sending out experienced agents to do what they did best: slay the world’s monsters.
Still, in the back of her mind, she wondered (worried) about the day when she would burn out from the stress of keeping so much of her life secret, when she wouldn’t be good enough to keep her people alive, to accomplish the objective. She was afraid of the day when she fell off the high-wire - the cost and the mess she would leave behind her - and discovered that there was no safety net for her. There wouldn’t be, not when she was the safety net for others.
*
She fell in a little town in the middle of nowhere on a mission redacted. She fell in a major metropolis known around the world on an errand classified.
Where - Why - How - When - Did any of it truly matter when the end result was this? She fell.
What killed in the field was overconfidence. Arrogance had no place either (which was why most days, she vowed to avoid Tony Stark like the plague), but overconfidence was more devious and thus, the more dangerous of the two traits.
Until she could figure out what the hell was going on in her head (until she could trust herself again), she was a liability.
When the sun rose over the Manhattan skyline, Melinda filed the transfer request to Human Resources.
*
“I am not going back in the field.”
“I just need you to drive the bus.”
From the moment that Assistant Director Hill - not Maria, her drinking buddy, co-conspirator in The Shower Curtain Incident, and former protégé - briefed her about her newest assignment, Melinda saw Phil’s devious fingerprints all over it. That was the kind of man he was: all sweet, innocent, and harmless-looking before he stood, unflappable, in the aftermath of a takedown as if butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. He was the type of man she could (and had, that one Christmas when everything went sideways in Seattle and her little sister the lawyer nearly saw something that would have been impossible to explain away) take home and introduce to her parents as a harmless, boring bean-counter like herself. He was the type of man who figured out people’s weak points, made them trust him not to use said weaknesses against them, and then pushed those buttons exactly when they need to be pushed. It made him a great agent, a good mentor, and not as nice a man as he seemed.
Right now, Melinda really wanted to throw something at him.
“You look like you could use a drink,” said Hill, no, said Maria abruptly, pulling open one of her desk drawers.
Melinda shook her head. “I’m fine-”
The younger woman leveled a deeply unimpressed look in Melinda’s direction as she poured single-malt Scotch into two tumblers. “You haven’t been fine for a long time.”
“I left the field for a reason.”
“I know,” said Maria with a sigh, pushing one of the tumblers across the desk. She tucked the bottle back into its hiding place. “I was there, remember?”
“Yeah.”
Neither woman touched the Scotch.
“I’m alive,” said Maria softly, “so are you, and so is Phil. We’re still here.”
“I don’t know if I can do this anymore.”
“I’ve seen the security tapes,” was the wry response. “If there’s anyone out of shape, it’s not you. Also, don’t pretend that you and Romanoff don’t spar when she gets bored.”
“You know it’s more than that.”
Maria agreed easily, “I do, and I’m not saying it’s been easy for any of us, especially you.”
“But you need me out there,” finished Melinda flatly, knowing that the other woman was being far more considerate than she needed to be. S.H.I.E.L.D. was shorthanded in the aftermath of the Battle of New York, and they desperately needed every experienced and capable agent they could muster out in the field. Assistant Director Hill could order her back into the field without any considerations. Maria was asking her to go back and face everything she wanted to put behind her.
“I need you out there to watch his back,” corrected Maria, straddling her line between professional and personal. “You know Phil, better than I do. He’ll listen to you.”
Melinda picked up her glass, cradling it in her hand. “You don’t trust Ward?”
“You graded his combat evaluation with me. I’m not worried about whether or not Ward can take down a target at 500 yards or in hand-to-hand; I know he can. I’m worried that Phil is going to push himself further than he should at this stage in his recovery, and no one’s going to have the spine to stand up to him about it. Plus,” Maria winced, “people skills.”
“I’m not exactly a charmer myself, or talkative.”
“Have you seen his proposed team roster?”
“Ward, Fitz, Simmons…me,” Melinda trailed off as the realization dawned on her. “What the hell is he thinking?”
“Exactly,” said Maria before she slammed back her Scotch. “No offense, Melinda, but this team line-up almost makes the Avengers look socially well-adjusted. Don’t ever tell Stark I said that.”
“None taken, and do you think I’d want to make Stark more insufferable than he already is?” replied the older woman, feeling a headache building at her temples. Jesus Christ, if Ward’s people skills, or lack thereof, were making Maria Hill of all people wince, they were in trouble. Everyone knew that Agents Fitz and Simmons were a powerhouse pair in the labs, but neither one of them had anything beyond basic field experience and they spoke Science to a level that, rumor had it, even their peers had difficulty understanding. Melinda knew that S.H.I.E.L.D. had been forced into taking greater risks than ever in the aftermath of New York, but this combination of skillsets and expertise - and the gaping holes they didn’t cover - in their personnel seemed to be inviting disaster with wide open arms.
Melinda threw back her own shot and sighed as she set the glass on Maria’s cluttered desk. “I need to think about this.”
“Final briefing’s tomorrow at 1300. Don’t think too long.”
*
“Is that who I think it is?”
“She’s just the pilot.”
“…Melinda May is just the pilot?”
Eyes hidden away behind aviator sunglasses, Melinda allowed herself an eye roll at Ward’s incredulous question. Phil was going to have way too much fun breaking the younger agent into S.H.I.E.L.D.’s high standards of nonchalant, professional sarcasm. She kept her fingers steady on the throttle as she taxied them out of the hanger and onto the runway. There was no point in dwelling on the awe and skepticism buried in the young agent’s words. He’d learn soon enough that she was just as human as the rest of them, just as flawed, just as fallible. It had been a long time since she’d been the legendary agent who pulled off the impossible missions.
Phil had promised her that Ward - God, had they ever been that young and awkward? - would be their heavy-lifter in combat. They would be prepared for the worst, but they were not a strike team and would not become one. They would be out on their own, with minimal backup, but they’d taken worse risks with less. All Melinda had to do was fly the bus and babysit the ducklings (because all of them, Ward included, reminded her of fledgling baby birds) as his unofficial second-in-command. All of those, she knew, were conditional promises that would be broken as soon as circumstances demanded it, and she was the one who would decide to break them.
If the ability to know people better than they possibly know themselves was a superpower, then Phil Coulson had it. The older man was not the type to beg, and he was not the kind of man who gave commands when he could just as easily ask his agents for their trust. Loyalty for loyalty was the game he played, and it rewarded him with the ability to ask his subordinates and peers for the impossible.
It had been six years. Melinda still struggled with the memories that woke her up in a cold sweat; the nausea that struck when she smelled a particular mix of sandalwood, chemicals, and blood; and the panic that hit when she noticed the particular tilt of someone’s head as they walked past her on the street. She never wanted to take combat missions again, not when she was as much a risk to her team as she was to their adversaries. If it was anyone other than Phil asking her to go against her better instincts, Melinda would have told them quite explicitly where they could throw themselves off a flying Helicarrier.
The main reason Melinda hadn’t gone and handed in her resignation over this posting was that she knew Phil would respect her final decision, that if she had chosen to walk away from S.H.I.E.L.D. after what had happened, he wouldn’t have pushed. He has always seen her, not as a woman, nor as an agent, but as a person with her own strengths and frailties. Phil trusted her abilities, judgment and moral compass to make the right calls in the field. It was why the Director had assigned him to Natalia Romanova when she first joined S.H.I.E.L.D.; God knew that the newly defected Black Widow had required a handler as capable of being harmless, warm and caring as he was dangerous, ruthless, and demanding.
Melinda knew that she wasn’t ready for this, not really, not after so long, but she also knew that he would challenge her when she least expected it, but never further than she could go. Maybe it was time to, as her case psychologist had put it bluntly, “Stop punishing yourself for fuck-ups out of your control. We’re S.H.I.E.L.D.. Shit happens.”
She could trust Phil - to take insane risks, to be dangerously creative, to bring his team home against all odds.
Melinda could live with that.
*
When you walk to the edge of all the light you have
and take that first step into the darkness of the unknown,
you must believe that one of two things will happen:
There will be something solid for you to stand upon,
or, you will be taught how to fly.
- Patrick Overton
Author: hope_tang
Rating: PG-13
Spoiler Warning: Marvel's Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (pre-premiere promos and articles)
Beta: I'd be lost without bluewillowtree.
Disclaimer: Other than being a fan, I have nothing to do with Marvel or Disney or ABC.
Author's Notes: This was written before the series premiere on Tuesday, September 24th. Any mistakes you find are the result of my own interpretations of bluewillowtree's wonderful comments.
*
There was a cellist.
Melinda May grew up in the Pacific Northwest, oldest daughter and second of four children to a doctor and a professor with ordinary lives and of no particular name. As with any daughter of “a certain standing” within their insular immigrant community, she was expected to be a quiet, educated, well-spoken young woman who respected her elders, upheld the family honor, and walked the fine line between beauty and vanity.
To be fair, Melinda wasn’t a complete disaster as a daughter or sister. She did well in school, had her close (if small) circle of friends, treated her siblings decently, and never got into trouble with the law. She was just, perhaps, a little more American than her parents had anticipated their children would be. She was never categorically rebellious, but nor did she ever strictly follow the rules.
*
Ballet was meant to teach her grace and poise.
With two elementary-aged children in the house and two more on the way, it was also meant to run off childhood’s natural energy and make the youngest member of the family more biddable to her parents’ wishes.
Then it was intended to teach her grace, poise, and discipline.
Unfortunately for the budding drama queen in Melinda’s ballet group, Melinda didn’t have a follower personality type, didn’t appreciate being pushed around, and didn’t stand on the sidelines when other people were being pushed around.
Her father sighed in despair at his daughter’s black eye.
Her mother wordlessly signed up both son and daughter for lessons at the local dojo.
*
There was never any question that she would play the piano. She could beg off a lesson, skip practice, fake a recital or two, but there was no way that Melinda would not learn to play the piano. A young lady was, by definition, a pianist, and her mother would rather have died of shame than let it be known that her daughter was not a young lady.
The weekly piano lessons began when Melinda’s brother was six and she was four. It might have been too much to ask of a six and a four-year-old to sit still and pay attention through an hour-long music lesson. Still, their mother was nothing but determined that all of her children were to be musical and accomplished. If she could stare down grumpy patients, raise four children, and keep a tidy house, then surely, insisting that said children learn to play piano was perfectly reasonable.
Their mother was also a practical woman who learned from experience; she decided to let her younger children start their piano lessons when they were eight.
None of them were child prodigies.
When it came time to choose their own instruments, each sibling went their own way at the tender age of twelve. Her brother played the trumpet and, to their parents’ dismay and pride, joined the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers after college. Her sisters were a flutist and a violinist who became, respectively, a corporate lawyer and an accountant. They settled down into careers and families, with the white picket fence and the student loans and the noisy neighbors next door. They were the normal ones, the children their parents could boast about to family friends, acquaintances and enemies.
Melinda was a cellist in an orchestra of violins. Her parents did their best not to be disappointed that her promised medical career turned into a USAID paper-pusher desk job in Washington D.C.. On one hand, she was a respectable government official in the tradition of the intellectual public servant. On the other hand: politics; where had they gone so wrong in raising their daughter that she wanted to deal with politics on a daily basis?
*
Throughout her childhood and most of her adolescence, Melinda’s parents, teachers, and role models told her: Ladies do not pick fights.
“Ladies,” remarked former SSR agent Margaret Carter wryly to the small, invite-only gathering of promising young women before her, “finish them.”
As she sipped at her Earl Gray tea, the college sophomore observed the confident poise of her guest lecturer. Ms. Carter was a World War II veteran who had not only seen, but also led combat on the front lines. She was a woman who knew what she spoke of - and what she was asking of each and every one of them. She had the pretty face and the tragic story of being Captain America’s sweetheart, but she had made the world sit up and pay attention to her sharp mind and the unerring aim of a woman who was meant for more than a dismissive line in the history books. Now, she was asking them to do the same: to remind the world that there was more than one way to be a woman, and a lady at that.
Opportunities were slowly opening up before these students, but there were no easy paths laid out at their feet. No matter what they chose to do, they would be the trailblazers of their generation, the ones who shook the foundations and shattered the glass ceiling, the women who would be placed on the pedestal for future generations of girls to look to for inspiration and motivation. The future would not be easy for any of them, but wasn’t it worth it?
As the teacups were put away and the empty platters taken back to the dormitory kitchens, Melinda fiddled with her necklace. She considered that maybe it was time to sign up for that Swahili class her linguistics roommate had been ecstatic about for the past three weeks.
“Ms. May, if I may have a word?”
“Certainly, Ms. Carter.”
*
Upon graduation, S.H.I.E.L.D. recruited her swiftly for an intelligence analyst position. The work would be interesting, they promised her; the work would be honorable. She accepted, because they had convinced her that her heritage wouldn’t garner her sidelong looks and whispers behind her back at the agency. Her childhood had never taught her to be self-conscious because of her ethnicity, but college in the Cold War era taught her that some people questioned her loyalties because of the way she looked, not the way she acted. Her S.H.I.E.L.D. orientation agent told Melinda that her knowledge of pre-med biology, chemistry, and a dash of physics before she’d switched to her linguistics studies made her a perfect fit for the tricky, non-English, wire-tap transcripts that their Intelligence and Analysis units handled on a daily basis. They promised her that she would be assigned to the duties that best fit her personality.
It was somewhere in the middle of her fourth hands-on surveillance operation when Melinda realized that Director Carter (retired) had recruited her for fieldwork. It was not, as her senior supervisor had insisted, a mere coincidence that she’d been the only field-rated analyst on a particular mission four times in the past six months. Once was an exception; twice a coincidence; thrice a pattern, and just how oblivious did her employers think she was? Most of her analyst colleagues either never left the offices or were tucked away safely in command and control. They were not handed clothing appropriate for an undergrad sorority sister, an oblivious foreign tourist, an overworked waitress, or a wealthy, naïve heiress, and told to go eavesdrop on dangerous criminals.
“This is not what I signed up for,” said Melinda mildly, dodging Assailant #5’s graceless rugby tackle and grabbing his elbow as he rushed past her. Sure, she was in high heels and an evening gown, but applied physics worked in the same way, no matter how she was dressed. A brutal yank, pivot and throw later, the man went sailing into the chest of Assailant #3.
“It’s never what we signed up for,” replied her field partner, Phillip Coulson, with infuriating sarcasm as he dispatched Assailants #2 and 4 with precise, if dirty, strikes to their most vulnerable points.
“You were an Army Ranger.” Assailant #1’s arm broke with a clean snap before she dislocated his shoulder and slammed his head into the brick wall. Melinda was fairly confident her mother had never intended her childhood karate lessons to be put to this particular use. The henchman slumped against the dumpster. “I am -”
“- an expert in martial arts who enjoys dismantling electronics as much as she does sentence diagramming?” Assailants #3 and 5 went down with unhappy gurgles, respectively clutching their throat and groin in pain.
“You requested me on this assignment, didn’t you?” Melinda glared at him, ignoring the whimpering or unconscious men around them in the alleyway. There was no way that her temporary partner on this mission could have known all that about her, not unless he’d read her personnel file in advance.
Coulson shrugged and pulled a few zip ties out of his pocket. Like a gentleman, he offered the makeshift restraints to her.
“To be fair,” he said calmly, appearing unfazed when she pulled out her own cable ties, and wisely not asking or observing where on her person they came from, “this was supposed to be just surveillance.”
They started restraining their prisoners for transport.
“When are any of our missions “just” anything?” she asked wryly.
He gave her a small smile. “Exactly.”
*
For perfectionists, the danger (and the fear) is this: The higher you go, the harder you fall.
Compared to their peers, S.H.I.E.L.D. was the blindfolded, dancing high-wire act of the international law enforcement and espionage agencies. They came in when no one else knew how to handle the situation. They kept the dirty secrets in the dark, disposing of trouble and nightmares before the horrors could sear themselves into the history books. In the shadowy underbelly of society, S.H.I.E.L.D. was known for their recruitment of quiet, competent, and (scarily) professional ninjas.
Melinda climbed the ranks quickly from junior agent to team lead, fitting into a small, tight circle of colleagues (friends) on similar meteoric trajectories. There were good missions, successful missions, bad missions, and missions where they could only hope they did more good than harm. She learned that experience meant seniority, and seniority meant more lives placed in her hands. The quiet bookworm with a martial arts background went from taking orders to giving them.
*
In the aftermath of Budapest, she kept Phil company as they waited for word in Medical. He broke his exhausted silence five hours into their vigil. If she didn’t know his stubbornness as well as she did, Melinda would have expected him to have drifted off into drugged slumber hours ago.
“Do you think we’re ready for this?”
‘This’ meant the day that S.H.I.E.L.D. stepped out from the shadows into public scrutiny, their entire mandate turned on its head. ‘This’ meant the day that the ordinary civilian on the street realized how many monsters lurked in the dark, just beyond the realm of comprehension. ‘This’ meant the day that Budapest would look like a walk in the park, just a little training exercise gone wrong that left six agents dead and twenty more barely clinging to life. All the senior agents knew it was coming; the comfort of ignorance did not last long in this profession.
“I don’t think we have a choice,” she replied, resting her hand on his. No, we’re not, and I don’t know how we will be. Phil was prone to be maudlin and contemplative on the good drugs; it wasn’t a healthy thing for a mind like his. He wrapped his fingers around hers in a gentle grip. “Get some rest, Phil. I’ll wake you.”
“Shouldn’t you be resting yourself?”
“I’m sitting,” she answered. “That counts. Plus, paperwork.”
“Don’t remind me,” he huffed out in amusement as he closed his eyes. “Goddamn red tape.” That goddamn red tape had nearly gotten more of them killed. “One day…”
“One day, when you’re not drugged to the gills,” she chided, letting her fondness seep into her words, “and can actually enjoy a beer, then we’ll talk.”
“I’m not proposing marriage, Agent May.”
She laughed. “No, Agent Coulson, just insanity.”
“Hey,” he said, opening his eyes and meeting hers. “You did good today.”
“So did you,” she replied. “Now, sleep before I go find Dr. Garcia.”
*
Melinda saved lives, protected lives, and sometimes, lost agents under her command. She ran both surveillance operations and combat missions, easing green agents into the rigors of a S.H.I.E.L.D. career and sending out experienced agents to do what they did best: slay the world’s monsters.
Still, in the back of her mind, she wondered (worried) about the day when she would burn out from the stress of keeping so much of her life secret, when she wouldn’t be good enough to keep her people alive, to accomplish the objective. She was afraid of the day when she fell off the high-wire - the cost and the mess she would leave behind her - and discovered that there was no safety net for her. There wouldn’t be, not when she was the safety net for others.
*
She fell in a little town in the middle of nowhere on a mission redacted. She fell in a major metropolis known around the world on an errand classified.
Where - Why - How - When - Did any of it truly matter when the end result was this? She fell.
What killed in the field was overconfidence. Arrogance had no place either (which was why most days, she vowed to avoid Tony Stark like the plague), but overconfidence was more devious and thus, the more dangerous of the two traits.
Until she could figure out what the hell was going on in her head (until she could trust herself again), she was a liability.
When the sun rose over the Manhattan skyline, Melinda filed the transfer request to Human Resources.
*
“I am not going back in the field.”
“I just need you to drive the bus.”
From the moment that Assistant Director Hill - not Maria, her drinking buddy, co-conspirator in The Shower Curtain Incident, and former protégé - briefed her about her newest assignment, Melinda saw Phil’s devious fingerprints all over it. That was the kind of man he was: all sweet, innocent, and harmless-looking before he stood, unflappable, in the aftermath of a takedown as if butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. He was the type of man she could (and had, that one Christmas when everything went sideways in Seattle and her little sister the lawyer nearly saw something that would have been impossible to explain away) take home and introduce to her parents as a harmless, boring bean-counter like herself. He was the type of man who figured out people’s weak points, made them trust him not to use said weaknesses against them, and then pushed those buttons exactly when they need to be pushed. It made him a great agent, a good mentor, and not as nice a man as he seemed.
Right now, Melinda really wanted to throw something at him.
“You look like you could use a drink,” said Hill, no, said Maria abruptly, pulling open one of her desk drawers.
Melinda shook her head. “I’m fine-”
The younger woman leveled a deeply unimpressed look in Melinda’s direction as she poured single-malt Scotch into two tumblers. “You haven’t been fine for a long time.”
“I left the field for a reason.”
“I know,” said Maria with a sigh, pushing one of the tumblers across the desk. She tucked the bottle back into its hiding place. “I was there, remember?”
“Yeah.”
Neither woman touched the Scotch.
“I’m alive,” said Maria softly, “so are you, and so is Phil. We’re still here.”
“I don’t know if I can do this anymore.”
“I’ve seen the security tapes,” was the wry response. “If there’s anyone out of shape, it’s not you. Also, don’t pretend that you and Romanoff don’t spar when she gets bored.”
“You know it’s more than that.”
Maria agreed easily, “I do, and I’m not saying it’s been easy for any of us, especially you.”
“But you need me out there,” finished Melinda flatly, knowing that the other woman was being far more considerate than she needed to be. S.H.I.E.L.D. was shorthanded in the aftermath of the Battle of New York, and they desperately needed every experienced and capable agent they could muster out in the field. Assistant Director Hill could order her back into the field without any considerations. Maria was asking her to go back and face everything she wanted to put behind her.
“I need you out there to watch his back,” corrected Maria, straddling her line between professional and personal. “You know Phil, better than I do. He’ll listen to you.”
Melinda picked up her glass, cradling it in her hand. “You don’t trust Ward?”
“You graded his combat evaluation with me. I’m not worried about whether or not Ward can take down a target at 500 yards or in hand-to-hand; I know he can. I’m worried that Phil is going to push himself further than he should at this stage in his recovery, and no one’s going to have the spine to stand up to him about it. Plus,” Maria winced, “people skills.”
“I’m not exactly a charmer myself, or talkative.”
“Have you seen his proposed team roster?”
“Ward, Fitz, Simmons…me,” Melinda trailed off as the realization dawned on her. “What the hell is he thinking?”
“Exactly,” said Maria before she slammed back her Scotch. “No offense, Melinda, but this team line-up almost makes the Avengers look socially well-adjusted. Don’t ever tell Stark I said that.”
“None taken, and do you think I’d want to make Stark more insufferable than he already is?” replied the older woman, feeling a headache building at her temples. Jesus Christ, if Ward’s people skills, or lack thereof, were making Maria Hill of all people wince, they were in trouble. Everyone knew that Agents Fitz and Simmons were a powerhouse pair in the labs, but neither one of them had anything beyond basic field experience and they spoke Science to a level that, rumor had it, even their peers had difficulty understanding. Melinda knew that S.H.I.E.L.D. had been forced into taking greater risks than ever in the aftermath of New York, but this combination of skillsets and expertise - and the gaping holes they didn’t cover - in their personnel seemed to be inviting disaster with wide open arms.
Melinda threw back her own shot and sighed as she set the glass on Maria’s cluttered desk. “I need to think about this.”
“Final briefing’s tomorrow at 1300. Don’t think too long.”
*
“Is that who I think it is?”
“She’s just the pilot.”
“…Melinda May is just the pilot?”
Eyes hidden away behind aviator sunglasses, Melinda allowed herself an eye roll at Ward’s incredulous question. Phil was going to have way too much fun breaking the younger agent into S.H.I.E.L.D.’s high standards of nonchalant, professional sarcasm. She kept her fingers steady on the throttle as she taxied them out of the hanger and onto the runway. There was no point in dwelling on the awe and skepticism buried in the young agent’s words. He’d learn soon enough that she was just as human as the rest of them, just as flawed, just as fallible. It had been a long time since she’d been the legendary agent who pulled off the impossible missions.
Phil had promised her that Ward - God, had they ever been that young and awkward? - would be their heavy-lifter in combat. They would be prepared for the worst, but they were not a strike team and would not become one. They would be out on their own, with minimal backup, but they’d taken worse risks with less. All Melinda had to do was fly the bus and babysit the ducklings (because all of them, Ward included, reminded her of fledgling baby birds) as his unofficial second-in-command. All of those, she knew, were conditional promises that would be broken as soon as circumstances demanded it, and she was the one who would decide to break them.
If the ability to know people better than they possibly know themselves was a superpower, then Phil Coulson had it. The older man was not the type to beg, and he was not the kind of man who gave commands when he could just as easily ask his agents for their trust. Loyalty for loyalty was the game he played, and it rewarded him with the ability to ask his subordinates and peers for the impossible.
It had been six years. Melinda still struggled with the memories that woke her up in a cold sweat; the nausea that struck when she smelled a particular mix of sandalwood, chemicals, and blood; and the panic that hit when she noticed the particular tilt of someone’s head as they walked past her on the street. She never wanted to take combat missions again, not when she was as much a risk to her team as she was to their adversaries. If it was anyone other than Phil asking her to go against her better instincts, Melinda would have told them quite explicitly where they could throw themselves off a flying Helicarrier.
The main reason Melinda hadn’t gone and handed in her resignation over this posting was that she knew Phil would respect her final decision, that if she had chosen to walk away from S.H.I.E.L.D. after what had happened, he wouldn’t have pushed. He has always seen her, not as a woman, nor as an agent, but as a person with her own strengths and frailties. Phil trusted her abilities, judgment and moral compass to make the right calls in the field. It was why the Director had assigned him to Natalia Romanova when she first joined S.H.I.E.L.D.; God knew that the newly defected Black Widow had required a handler as capable of being harmless, warm and caring as he was dangerous, ruthless, and demanding.
Melinda knew that she wasn’t ready for this, not really, not after so long, but she also knew that he would challenge her when she least expected it, but never further than she could go. Maybe it was time to, as her case psychologist had put it bluntly, “Stop punishing yourself for fuck-ups out of your control. We’re S.H.I.E.L.D.. Shit happens.”
She could trust Phil - to take insane risks, to be dangerously creative, to bring his team home against all odds.
Melinda could live with that.
*
When you walk to the edge of all the light you have
and take that first step into the darkness of the unknown,
you must believe that one of two things will happen:
There will be something solid for you to stand upon,
or, you will be taught how to fly.
- Patrick Overton