Fandom: Marvel's Agents of SHIELD
Characters: Melinda May, Phil Coulson
Edited: As always, by my beloved buckaroobob , aka dr_whuh
Summary: What goes with a commandeered Kalashnikov? Probably not jardiniera.
Author's Notes: Written for juliet316 in the 2013 fandom_stocking fun. This is my first attempt at Agents of SHIELD. I love the relationship between Phil Coulson and Melinda May; they're intensely human, and intensely super-hero-bad-ass-cool at the same time, which almost begs for cracky dichotomous action. This probably takes place between "The Well" and "Repairs".
Disclaimer: No characters are mine. They are the sole properties of Marvel, the Whedons and their respective creators. I intend no copyright infringement and take no coin.
“So. Ward? Really?” Coulson whirled to his left and jammed his right palm into the jaw of the big man with the Kalashnikov. May kicked the rifle out of the guy’s hand while he was dropping.
“Is it your business? Here. Catch.” She grabbed the second man, and thrust him Coulson’s way to receive a head butt and a knee to the groin. He joined his buddy in sodden collapse.
“Of course it is — hold on, got a call.”
May spared a second while reloading to stare at him, surprised. “You’ve got bars out here?”
“Fitz jiggered my phone. Check the boulders up on the right. I think that’s—”
“On it.” She sprinted toward the cliff face, broken field running that kept her out of the sniper’s line of fire.
“Coulson.” He juggled the phone on his shoulder and the Kalashnikov he’d just retrieved. “What’s up? We’re kind of busy here.”
A strangled cry from behind the boulders meant May had introduced herself to the sniper. “OK, a little less busy. Yeah. It was the Bulgarian. He thought he’d go preemptive on us … no, no, it’s been handled, thanks. Look, why am I talking to you?” He spared a glance toward the base of the cliff. May was on her way back down. “Hold on—” He raised his voice. “Incapacitated or what?”
“What.” Her face was bland, her eyes hard.
Coulson winced, but only a little. If the sniper was the only casualty, they were still ahead of the game. “So again I ask,” he said, turning his attention back to the phone, “Why am I talking to— ah. Huh … I guess … pepperoni. No sausage … uh-huh … uh-huh … deep dish, extra cheese.”
“Hot peppers.” May was a little out of breath and she had someone else’s blood on her cheek.
Coulson nodded. “Did you hear that? Yeah. jardiniera if they don’t have proper hot peppers. Hold on again.”
He helped May tie up their unconscious attackers. Their boss might well kill them once he found they’d failed him, but neither he nor May were going to do that particular dirty work for the guy. “Yeah, sorry about that. Tying up loose ends. Make sure they bring a liter of RC … What? Oh. Give us —” He looked to May for an estimate.
“Ninety minutes. No, we’ll find a ride back to the airfield. Right. ‘Bye.”
May finished cleaning her gun, then took the corner of her rag that wasn’t oily to her cheek, ridding it of blood. “Was that Skye?”
“Didn’t you tell her we were on a job?”
May rolled her eyes, then relented. “Well, technically we weren’t expecting the Bulgarian to move so quickly. And no, I’m not going to tell you why.”
“ I just want to be sure—”
“He and I know what the deal is. We just take pressure off each other.” The way her gaze hooded suddenly, he knew she hadn’t meant to say that much. He raised his eyebrows, but shrugged reluctant acquiescence.
“Fine. Got it.”
For a split second, he thought she looked disappointed that he was taking it so calmly. But that wouldn’t be May.
She surprised him then. “Jardiniera is not an adequate substitute for hot peppers.”
“It is in Chicago.”
“I’m not from Chicago.”
He grinned. “Noted.”
They walked out of the ravine and headed for dinner.