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It’s early in the morning at the Playground. The halls are dark and quiet. The lab is empty. The lounge is littered with scraps, X-box discarded, a few empty beer bottles waiting until dawn to be cleared away after a late-night competition or three. Most mornings, the Playground this empty would be quiet. And it is, except for the huffs of exertion, and the jangling chain, from the gym.
Melinda May scowls at the punching bag as it swings back towards her. She sends it flying away again, with even more force, so that it bounces on its chain. It lunges back at her and she meets it with an offsetting punch, and a roundhouse kick from the other direction. Its fixtures groan in protest and she stalks away, letting it settle a little before returning to methodical combination drills.
“Bad night?”
Bobbi Morse strolls into the gym, beer in hand. May eyes it.
“Why. You?”
Bobbi shrugs. “Got some demons against me sleeping. Tonight I’m not arguing.”
May refocuses on the punching bag. One two three. One two. One. One two three.
Bobbi perches on the bench nearby, shuffling aside May’s water bottle and towel so she can sit on the table surface. She takes a sip of her beer and watches quietly as May’s fists connect with the bag’s surface with dull thuds.
One two three. One two. One. One two three four five.
And May settles back like a tiger, waiting a few seconds before stepping in again.
“Coulson said you do tai chi.”
“Most days.”
“So bad night, then.” Bobbi takes another sip. The punching bag crunches against May’s fist as she misjudges the angle, and she tackles it back in revenge with her other fist and a vicious kick. It bounces on its fixtures. May settles back, and Bobbi waits in silence as the bag quiets down again, but this time, after a few seconds thought, May straightens from her braced position and retreats to her water bottle.
“A lot on my mind,” she confesses.
“Anything you wanna get off your mind?” Bobbi raises an eyebrow. May looks her up and down. She’s heard a lot, mostly from Hunter, mostly bad – which means he liked her. Coulson clearly trusts her, which couldn’t be said of many people these days. And she is still waiting, watching May patiently, without twitching under the scrutiny. Her eyes are free of judgement, free of idolization, free of desperation. Just waiting.
May opens her mouth.
Then she closes it again and drops her eyes. Remembering why she is standing there instead of circling the mat for another half hour, she unscrews the cap of her water bottle, and downs half of it.
“Okay, that’s fine.” Bobbi shrugs. “Go a few rounds instead?”
“Thank you.”
She says the words over an open water bottle. She’s not sure why they came out. She didn’t ask them to. But she didn’t exactly ask them not to.
Feeling suddenly exposed, May is grateful that Bobbi processes her outburst slowly. Her body doesn’t tense up, as the kids’ are want to do these days. Her eyes don’t snap to May, analysing the precious split-second reaction they know will give the truth away. Bobbi just slowly, amiably, lets her eyes settle back on May’s, and she smiles.
“It’s nothing. An honour, really. The kid’s good. Could process adrenaline better but for a squint she knows how to play her cards.”
“Mm.” May’s eyes wander the floor. She takes another sip of water.
“Seriously,” Bobbi insists. “Be proud, Melinda. You’ve raised a prize agent. SHIELD’s lucky to have her.”
“I know.”
May looks up, and this time Bobbi is startled, just a little, by the tears in her eyes.
“I am proud. But I’m scared for her.”
Her hand shakes. Abort, abort. She clenches her fingers around the water bottle. Bobbi’s eyes are more analytical now, but she is deliberately keeping a cool, calm, gentle demeanour. May puts the water bottle down, and she knows Bobbi doesn’t buy it, but the pretence is more for her own sake. She returns to the mat, and runs through the same drill.
One two three. One two. One. One two three.
One two three. One two. One. One two three.
Her lungs ease up again, and her throat clears, and with the easy, rhythmic pattern of the punching bag setting her heart steady, she confesses:
“She was never supposed to be in the field, let alone on undercover ops. I should have picked a scientist with more experience. Or at least one who passed their combat training.”
She scowls straight ahead. One two three. One two. One. One two three. Sweat is starting to drip down her forehead. It’s satisfying. She feels the rock of her body, the contact of her fists with the bag.
“She should never have been at risk of torture.”
One two three. One two.
“She should never have watched her friends get shot.”
One. One two three.
“She should never have had to pull Fitz out of the ocean.”
One two three.
“Those kids-“ one two “- should be.” One. “In a lab.” One. “Winning prizes.” One. “Saving the world. Making money. I don’t care. Not here. They don’t deserve this.”
The bag fights her fists back now, and she deals out single shots, punctuating her words, until she realises that she’s letting her heart beat rise again. She drops back, and watches the bag settle, but her heart does not slow in time with it.
She tries to fall back on her meditation rituals, but her mind refuses to clear. She sees Phil, scratching symbols, muttering to himself. She sees Fitz, his hands shaking, his brow furrowed. She sees Skye, mimicking her own expressions with complete sincerity and seriousness. She sees Jemma Simmons, smiling whenever someone looks at her, mourning whenever she thinks they’ve looked away.
“If you hadn’t pulled them out of the Academy, they’d be Hydra, or dead.” Bobbi appears at the edge of May’s vision, now solemn-faced. “The universe can screw us over, that’s for sure. And we do a fairly good job of messing up our own damn selves. But don’t you doubt for one second those kids deserve you.”
May locks eyes with her, but still her expression is unreadable.
Then there is movement in the hall. Bobbi takes a breath, breaking their eye contact, and May feels the balance of the room realign.
“Tea, right?”