Work Text:
Old situations… new complications…
“Nothing portentous or poliiiiite,” Phil Coulson hummed out of tune to the radio. “Tragedy tomorrow, comedy tonight... da-da da da, da-da da da…"
It was well past 9, and he was driving through a dark, desolate desert. Having turned on his car’s headlights several hours ago, he was only just able to see the highway in front of him as he traversed it — on a sudden unexpected road trip, that would take him from all the way from the coast of Los Angeles to the crash site situated in the heart of New Mexico. Having left this afternoon, he reckoned he was about halfway there: he had only been held up by several state border checks.
The only other sources of light he had seen along the way (since the sun had set) was the spotlights of the roadside sign showing how many more miles he had to go. And if he squinted, he could also make out the hints of the stars in the night sky — of course, shrouded in light pollution. Otherwise, he felt like he was in a void of space, without even a sense of what was up and what was down. How pertinent.
That being said — I do wonder how much more the stars have to show us. Coulson felt a mix of excitement and apprehension.
The possibilities tickled him more than his current reality, which just involved him doing little else but focusing on the road and listening to the radio… although to be fair, it was currently blasting Stephen Sondheim songs.
Not a bad choice if you knew the words to sing along. And he liked Sondheim.
His humming cut off as he checked his fuel gauge, and felt his face sour. It was getting low — not enough to make it, sadly. He would have to stop at a petrol station.
But which one… oh, neat. Roxxon is coming up. He spotted the small, white fluorescent lights of the labelled station on the side of the highway. A floating hub of respite, in a sea of black ink.
Coulson grunted, and started to slow the car while turning off the radio. That couldn’t be helped. He checked the rear-view mirror, but there was no traffic whatsoever to speak of. It was only just him coming in — next to the petrol meter.
The car quietly rolled to a stop, and Coulson killed the engine. He opened the tinted door, stepping out onto the cold tarmac. It was freezing here at this time of night, so he shivered and cursed a little as he stepped around and grabbed a fuel pump, stuck it in the gas tank, and pressed the bright yellow button. The indicator started filling up with the exact amount he would soon have to pay.
Coulson’s teeth chattered a little, as the wind swept past him. Okay. I'm just going to step inside and give them a hundred dollar bill. Maybe also get a snack or two while I'm at it.
DING DING. The entrance jingled as he opened it. This place was not closed, but clearly open and running — and he knew this as he had seen someone through the glass window at the cash register. A young black-haired woman in her 20s, wearing a tight-fitting flannel shirt. She acknowledged Coulson.
Looking around, he saw snacks lining two small aisles, and drinks in the back freezers. He just turned to her and mumbled, “I'm gonna get something, and then I'll pay.” He scratched his nose.
She smiled sweetly, and looked down at her nails.
Coulson squeezed into the left aisle, adjusting his tie. Let’s see here… he crouched down to see closer. His eyes were drawn to different packs of donuts — processed and packaged from Little Debbie. 75 cents each.
Ooh, these are cheap, he thought, pulling out the powdered and the chocolate options. Maybe I don’t need to give them that hundred — oh, never mind. His face drooped. I get to SAVE 75 cents. Fantastic.
He looked between them both, mind flipping between which was the better of the two options. Which one would give him the most energy to make the rest of the trip? Which one would send him spiraling into a sugar crash? Did it matter in the end?
DING DING.
He looked up in the corner, peering through one of those convex mirrors that were installed to show a wide overview of the store — useful for identifying potential thieves in action. It showed the front door, as two guys came in and up to the lady at the cash register. Coulson squinted, noticing they had something on them that he couldn’t see very well. His vision wasn’t that good, but if they were thieves, they probably would have the wherewithal to be a bit more subtle…
CLICK. "Hands up! Don’t move!” One of the guys ordered, holding it up. It was a rifle.
Oh shit. Never mind. Coulson slowly put both donuts into his suit, slowly straightening up.
Through the mirror, he saw the girl’s jaw drop open as the other guy held up a rifle too. He stammered as he spoke. “St-step away from the counter, or I'll blow your head off!”
She trembled, looking down. Her hands slid up into the air. Coulson clenched his teeth. Ooh, we can’t have that now. Can we?
“Who else is here?!” the first guy demanded. “Who owns that car outside?”
Coulson moved over to the other aisle, and turned to face him. He took a deep breath, remembering his training in situations like these... It had been a while since he had pulled himself into something like this; he usually was now behind the wheel, guiding Barton or some other SHIELD agent. But he had faced much more formidable foes than these people.
“I do.”
One of the guys swiveled around with his gun. He had a red jacket, a goatee and hints of sweat on his forehead. Coulson thought he looked a little like Tony Stark, pre-Afghanistan.
“But, er…" Coulson halted in his tracks. “It’s really more like a lease.”
The other guy, who coincidentally looked a little like a blurry snapshot of Bruce Banner — what, with the big nose and the careless under-shave — gestured his elbow at him, his gun still aimed at the lady. “Toss the keys over here. Come on.”
“Okay, okay!” Coulson said. He reached into his pocket and brought them out, and threw them. Unfortunately, he saw the other guy catch it with one hand, and stuff it into his jacket.
Okay, maybe more capable than I thought… Coulson contemplated his next option. Maybe I can do something to throw them off. Unnerve them. He started to rummage again in his coat.
“Empty the cash register,” the leader demanded of the poor girl. He hurriedly placed a black duffel bag on the table. “Put it all in here. And start filling it with cigarettes, too —"
“Excuse me?” Coulson held up his revolver by the butt-end. “I also have this gun. You'll probably be needing that.”
And now, this is the part where I find out whether they have the gall to shoot me or not.
The other guy’s face paled when he saw it. They both flipped their rifles at him with astonishing quickness. CLICK! Coulson took a step back, a little jarred — he was well in his 50s. His reflexes weren’t so quick anymore.
“PUT IT DOWN!” the leader yelled, his nerves threatening to bulge out of his skull. “DO IT NOW!”
“YEAH, RIGHT NOW!”
Oh, good. They have a conscience. Coulson visibly relaxed.
He held up a hand. “Okay, don’t want any trouble. I-it’s just that —"
“Toss the piece over here then!” The leader demanded.
“Yeah, that’s not a great idea,” Coulson winced. “I don’t wanna risk the gun accidentally going off.”
"… Oh, yeah.” The other guy, dumbfounded, nodded at his friend.
“Maybe I could slide it over?” Coulson suggested. He held it away from him. “Then you can grab it safely.”
The leader looked to the other guy, bewildered. Then he glared suspiciously at Coulson, his finger pressed on the trigger. Wondering whether to trust him or not. Part of Coulson wondered if he had played his hand too early… but on the other hand, it was also increasing the pressure for them on getting this done.
They were already committed. It was too late to back out now.
“Yes…" the leader hissed. “Slide it over to my feet. Don’t try anything funny — you shoot, we start shooting too.”
“Of course,” Coulson reassured, eyes widening. “Maybe I should just unload the bullets from it, then?”
“No!” the leader growled. “DO WHAT I SAY —"
“Okay,” Coulson said slowly. “I'm just gonna move over to this aisle.” He pointed at it with his other hand.
He sidestepped to the left. The leader followed his steps, the rifle still trained on him.
Good, good. Now… I wait for the right moment.
“Okay,” he looked down the aisle at the leader, facing him. “I'm about bend down and slide this to you… the barrel will be facing me. Is that okay?”
The leader silently nodded, sweating.
Coulson crouched down, placing the gun on the floor. With a hand, he slid it across — and it scraped along the concrete floor.
The leader bent downward to get it. And Coulson’s eyes gleamed.
This is my chance.
He looked at the objects in the aisle next to him… and he settled on a sufficient distraction. A medium sized bag of all purpose flour. It looked light enough to throw. Good enough to blind someone.
He grabbed it. WHOOP. Launching himself up, turning to face the other guy — he threw the flour directly at his face.
It was a straight shot — and he was too slow to miss it. POOF. It knocked the side of his face, releasing a cloud of white powdery grain that ended up all over his clothes and his skin. He was covered in all the stuff, and the gun dropped from his hands as his arms instinctively reached towards his face.
Coulson raced towards the leader at once, still picking up the gun. No hesitation. The leader scrambled up, lifting his rifle to fire — and he could already see it locked and loaded, but —
Coulson lifted a feet off a shelf, teetering it as he rose high over the leader. He heard a BANG as the rifle went off — but he was well above it. His shin was aimed downward at the leader’s knee.
WHAP. He bent the guy’s knee inward, causing him to lose his balance. As Coulson landed nimbly on the ground, he could see the point of impact where the bullet had struck the ground. But his eyes turned to the nearest threat towards him, still dusted in flour and reeling — the henchman. The other guy.
He swooped down and snatched the rifle out of his hands, pulling him forward in the process. Twisting it around in his arms, he struck the blunt end over his head, knocking him down. BAM.
Then — with the leader, clawing up — Coulson struck at his arms, making him lose his own grip on the rifle. It clattered out of his hands to the floor.
He stared up at Coulson, completely shellshocked.
“I hope it was worth it,” Coulson muttered disapprovingly.
WHAP. The leader crumpled to the ground, struck unconscious by blunt trauma.
Coulson unloaded the bullets from the rifle, and threw it down to the ground. He did the same with the other — and then, grabbed his own revolver and put it back in his coat. Situation sorted.
He looked around. Both men were on the ground, one of them coated in flour. There was a giant bullet hole where the rifle had made its impact, and a wobbling shelf on the brink of falling in the left aisle — but overall, he felt that it went as well as it possibly could have gone. He had handled it the best he could.
He turned to the counter. The cash register lady was gaping at him, her hands still raised. He just shrugged and went up to her.
“Sorry for the mess,” he panted. It had been a while since he had been active. He was still catching his breath.
The lady didn’t move or say anything.
Right.
Coulson rummaged in his coat again, and took a deep breath as he brought out both packs of donuts. He placed them on the counter, along with the hundred dollar bill.
“Um… I couldn’t decide,” he said. He cheekily grinned.
The lady looked down at the bill, baffled.
“Keep the change,” Coulson added. “That should be enough to cover these, the petrol, the damages to the place. I think that’s about everything.”
He was about to move away — but the lady piped up, lowering her hands. “Wait! What should I tell the police?”
"Hm?”
“I-If you are not a policeman…" the lady trailed off. Her voice was quiet, as if she was unsure.
“Tell them I'm not,” Coulson answered, with a hint of caution. “I'm more associated with military. And I normally don’t actively choose to get involved, but I just happened to be here at the right time.”
The lady gulped. “I guess I got lucky.”
“Yeah…" Honestly, I wish we could see these things coming more often so we can prevent them. I did hear Fury had some ideas on how to proceed with that, but… right now, he’s prioritizing the initiative first.
“Look, er — you have a pen and a post-it?” Coulson grabbed the marker she gave him, and wrote down a phone number. “Tell them to call me tomorrow afternoon, when I'm less busy. I probably won’t be able to take their call before then.”
“Um, okay. Anything else?”
“I'll just say…" Coulson hesitated. “The training tapes from back when I was actually in the CIA really paid off.” His smile returned.
DING DING.
Coulson returned out into the cold, and inspected his car. Thankfully the would-be thieves hadn’t dented it or damaged the paintwork. It appeared relatively untouched.
He checked the meter, and when it started clicking — he pulled the gas pump out of the car. He hopped back inside and switched on the engine, and the dashboard lit up before him. The radio turned on automatically, now playing a lesser known Sondheim song he didn’t recognize.
He sat in the driver’s seat, thinking. That had really just happened — and almost as if I went into survival mode, I managed to knock out the both of them.
Huh.
I guess this is something like what Clint must have felt like when he was in Budapest, he reckoned, tapping his fingers on the wheel. Except I wasn’t actively killing people for a living.
Everything seems somehow so normal and so bizarre at the same time — I am part of a government organization that is currently looking into some of the craziest things imaginable, all to support Fury’s plan of bringing together a team of superheroes. A Russian ex-assassin. A mutating green monster. A… a 70-year old American super-soldier, possibly somehow currently trapped in the ice of the Arctic.
And… he leaned back, vividly remembering the image of the satellite he had received when his team had discovered it earlier this month… a giant, engraved stone hammer — emitting cosmological radiation dating back to the Big Bang.
If possible, if it somehow can be believed… he shook his head. A god. An alien. A — he had to stop himself from dissociating. He shook his head. Never mind. I'll find out when I get there.
In comparison, a burglary in a gas station in the middle of nowhere sounds like nothing. To any normal person, a traumatic event. To me — a farce, really.
But… Coulson straightened up, and started to navigate his way out of the station. This is what we now do. We have to think bigger — we have to solve problems as they come, stop potential threats as they appear. After being in this line of exposure, after having seen what the universe has to offer…
We always need to be ready for what comes next. Whether it is big, or small… or unfathomably preposterous.
And also — I need sustenance, he realized, his stomach rumbling. He pulled out the chocolate donuts and ripped them open, taking one and biting straight into it.
“Oh,” he moaned, feeling fireworks go off in his mouth. “These are so good. I'm going to savor these.”
He turned the radio up, and then the car heater. Soon, he was speeding down the motorway into the night, following the signs that would take him to New Mexico. To the next problem, this new situation they had to wrestle with.
But only time would tell whether it was for good or for bad.