She stands, staring. Eyes fixed the doors of Fitzsimmons' lab, not yet ready to focus past her own reflection. She can't move past the similarities, everything so much like before. Him on one side of the door, her on the other, and neither of them breathing. But there was no one holding her back this time, no one keeping her from him.

Her hands shake, adrenaline still coursing through her.

A list had been running through the helicarrier, growing longer as it passed through each section of the ship. Some names she knows, some she doesn't, but she is no stranger to the loss of comrades in the field, and so she tries to ignore them for now. Knowing that dwelling on the names of the lost was of no help to anyone. Her main concern knows how to take care of himself, he's surrounded by Avengers. The chances of him ending up among the casualties were slim, and that thought puts her at ease a bit. But as pitying glances and hushed words begin trickling her way, her self-assurances no longer quell her worry. Anxiety chews at her insides demanding she find him.

Her stomach drops, twisting tighter in her rush to locate him, prove to herself he is fine. Rumor said, he'd last been seen near the Cage, and her heart clenches knowing Loki had been there. She's seen him marched through the halls. Blood drums through her veins as she runs, pushing past everyone in her way.

Outside the massive room, she stops, bile creeping up her throat as voices drift past the damaged door.

"… he married?"

"No. There was a… uh – cellist, I think."

"I'm sorry. He seemed…"

The voices drown in the incessant pounding in her ears. No, no, no, no… this wasn't happening, not now. They'd been through too much for it to end here, to end now.

She'd imploded after Bahrain, and in the aftermath he'd been pushed away from her, further than she could've imagined. He rose through the ranks as she locked herself behind walls of silence and ice. But she'd worked her way back. She wasn't the same, but she'd managed to find him again, and some part of herself.

This couldn't be right. Phil wouldn't have gone after a god by himself, he wasn't that reckless, that stupid. They can't be right, no – no, this had to be some ploy by Fury. A way to get his brooding bag of misfits to work together as a team.

Breathing in deep, she steadies herself, sure in the fact that Fury is dubious enough to attempt a plan so farfetched. And that's what she continues to tell herself as she heads for the bridge, more than ready to retrieve the real story.

Walking in, her commanding officers' backs are to her. Her heart rate picking up at the way the older man's shoulders are slummed, the way his head is tilted forward. Her feet feel stuck to the floor, everything in her sinking.

"They needed the push." A boom sounds, and she sees a streak of red and gold out of the corner of her eye, but can't muster her strength enough to pull her focus. "They found it. Get our communications back up, whatever you have to do. I want eyes on everything."

"Yes, sir."

She stands agonizing still as Hill turns to leave, solid, muscles taut, strained. And as the younger woman's face falls as it takes her in, she understands. Completely.

"Agent May…"

There's a roar, a deafening void she can't hear over, no air to take in or let out, and suddenly Fury on one side of her and Hill's on the other, and she's being led away.

A door shut, and she was standing, arms heavy at her sides, the silence ringing around her. Fury is somewhere, but her eyes are glued, bolted to the floor. He's talking, but she can barely hear him.

"Where is he?" She felt the words tumble from her lips, but they don't reach her ears.

"May –"

"Where. Is. He?" Her teeth are bared, and she feels trapped in the small room. Fury and Hill stand back from her, and she fleetingly wonders if she look like the cornered animal she feels like.

"Melinda, you don't –"

"Just… tell me."

Fury sags as the fight seems to leave her, and he rubs at his brow.

She doesn't register the words as he says them, but she's out the door and in another. And then… there he is, she can see him through pane in the door. The red stained sheet covering him closes her throat so tight she can hardly breathe. There's a snag at her elbow as she tries to enter, then someone's on the floor, and a hard hand is on her shoulder. Without conscious command, she goes to remove it from her person, but she's locked in an embrace, strong arms wrapped around her, and the familiar scent of leather filling her nose.

And there's nothing after that, nothing but staring, and numbness, and long nights, and endless days and…

She standing, still, forehead resting against the glass just like before. And there are eyes on her just like before. Sad eyes she's spent days avoiding. Fitz with his perpetually glassy stare, and Jemma with her red tipped nose, and Skye… Skye with her straight shoulders and wide eyes, pretending the world hasn't crashed around them.

She hears them shuffling closer, but can't bring herself to lift her head and acknowledge them. But they understand, she knows they do. She's heard them tinkering around in his office during the day, laughing, grieving, and at night she tries to block out the happy music of children's movies as they fall asleep huddled together.

Part of her wishes it would be that easy for her to mourn. That she could sit, surround by his things, and laugh and cry and work her way to a place not shrouded in utter bleakness. But this is the second time he's died on her, and she can't see it working like it did. It hadn't really worked then either though.

Another part of her wishes she could sleep away the rest of this nightmare, but even if she could, she can't, sleep doesn't come. It hasn't for days, his cold eyes just stare at her when night arrives, when her eyelids become so heavy they slip closed over burning eyes. And when sleep does finally find her, she's jerked awake by the echoing of a gunshot.

Breathing out, the glass fogs, and she reminds herself it's almost the end. They'll place him in the ground, and it'll be over. Then she can pretend Fury never brought him back, that she never let her hopes get so high, that these last few months never happened because it just makes the ache worse.

'It's almost over. It's almost over.'

She repeats the mantra, over and over and over, pretending the words will provide her with some sort of solace. But they don't, they suck the air from the room and sit on her chest like a weight. She hasn't breathed in days because of them, but the phrase continues to cycle through her mind.

And she doesn't register the strangled sound that crawls its way from her throat, but her eyes finally focus past her reflection. He's motionless on Fitzsimmons' table, covered in a sheet, his face hidden from her view. She can't even remember why it's taken so long to put him to rest, but guesses in the end it doesn't matter, he's in no hurry to get anywhere, and she's not ready to part with him again.

Then she's locked in a warm pressure, and she can't tell if her shoulders are shaking or if it's just the ducklings, and if she had the energy she'd force her way out of their embrace because she can't acknowledge this has happened. That she placed a bullet in him. That she's the cause of her own heartache. And their contact is too hot, chipping at her walls, but she leaves them be because they're holding her up, keeping her in the here and now, and all they're asking for it is some comfort.

She knows they're preparing: for condolences they'll merely nod their heads at, and stories they've never heard, from people they've never met. She knows they'll stutter when someone becomes bold enough to ask about the mission he fell on because they've been ordered to lie and none of them are very good at it. They're preparing for when they finally arrive at Stark Tower. Everything's worked out, every detail, and there's nothing for them to do. Preparing for when they'll be on their own again.

But she's been assured it will be nice, something Phil would have liked, and that everyone will be there, from Fury – because even though most think he's dead, he owns it to Phil – to Rogers, and anyone who wasn't captured or killed in the Hydra debacle. But none of that eases the growing distress in her gut. Or stops the flashes that come with every blink, of a wooden box sinking into the ground.

They squeeze tighter, and she finds herself holding them back. She isn't sure how they'll cope once they're no longer secluded on the Bus, outside of his sphere of influence. Or how she'll manage, but she knows she will. She has before, and she will again, it'll just hurt for a while. They're all move on, grow. They'll be changed, but they'll survive. With everything she isn't sure about, that is what she's certain of.

Releasing the younger agents from her hold, she hastily wipes at her eye, erasing any hint of tears. The chorus of sniffles around her almost makes her laugh, but it isn't quite in her yet; there isn't enough room in the darkness for something so bright. Clearing her throat, she casts her reflection one last longing glance because she can't see past it again, refuses to look past it. Ordering everyone to get some rest, she informs them they'll be landing in a few hours, and then there won't be time for it.

Watching them trek up the stairs, she goes to follow them, fingers absentmindedly trailing along the glass doors until they meet metal, and fall to her side. She physically pulls herself up the spiral stairs by the railing, all but spent by the last lifetime. The music starts again as she reaches the cockpit door, she can hear something about lucky crickets and starting from the beginning, and the corner of her mouth ticks up.

As she shuts the door, and takes her place in the pilot's chair, she reminds herself: they'll survive, together or apart, they'll make it.