Even when she's off the grid, there are a handful (maybe less) of people Romanova can work up a real sweat with. May doesn't have the clearance level to know where Romanova is, but she finds her when she wants to work out. A bottle of vodka, the stuff that doesn't get exported all the way to the US, turns up on her door, and Romanova meets her at the gym.

May reminds her sparring partner that recovery does not mean Romanova can take it easy, and she doesn't. May's muscles are up to the task; they know what to do, but her lungs are weak. She's breathing hard too quickly, gasping when she should be able to control the flow of air through her mouth. Romanova floors her three times, then they slow down and work on technique while May catches her breath.

"Collapsed lung?"

May dodges and makes Romanova work to miss a kick. "Too many lungfulls of a vapourous hexabenzene coolant."

Romanova's hands fly past her face and stop, just past May's shoulder. "Extraction?"

"Accident."

Romanova lets May throw her, then does her the courtesy of throwing her hard. May's lungs still aren't up to what she's asking of them and her vision swims when Romanova helps her up.

"Went in for the engineer, took too long."

Romanova works through the throw slowly, paying attention to her feet and how she shifts her weight. She nods. "You'll heal." Romanova doesn't suggest patience. When they towel off, May asks about Rogers.

"Our Brooklyn boy's hiding out in a small town. He fits in there."

Rogers takes her for coffee in a diner where the waitress calls them both "hon". He's easy enough to find in a tiny upstate town where her tai chi in the park draws more attention than Rogers using the perimeter of the town for his morning run. They're used to him, he says, waiting for her to finish. He joins in the last few forms, following her smoothly.

"Still don't have one of those." He gestures at the young couple paying more attention to their phones than each other by the window.

"Don't let Fury force you. Everyone around you will always have one if you need it."

He insists on buying her breakfast, not because he's gallant, but because he's happy to have the company. There's an open sincerity in his face that reminds her of Simmons. She nods and accepts the strong coffee and thick slices of bread stacked high over eggs and hashbrowns.

"They make the jam here." He passes the jar. Raspberries from last summer linger in her mouth as he studies her. "What can I do for you, Agent May?"

"I need a favour."

"And Natasha sent you?"

"She alluded to your location."

"Is your favour a blind date?"

May sets down her coffee. "No."

"Then it's yours."

No matter how she washed it, or how Simmons tried to help remove the blood, the handkerchief she places on the table is stained beyond saving. Rogers picks it up, running his fingers over the monogram.

"His?" Even washed several times the fabric's stiff, like canvas.
May raises her eyebrow. "Mine."

Rogers folds the ruined handkerchief neatly, smiling. "I gave it to him to keep. For luck."

"So he did, and maybe it was."

He settles back in his chair when she begins, and lets her finish the story without the interruptions Skye would have made. When she's done, their plates are long gone. She's not sure how much coffee she's had; Rogers is a good listener. When she's quiet, having said much more than she intended, he leans forward and nods.

"I'll take care of it."

She nods her thanks, then leaves her chair to return to her world, away from this strange little town where everyone's too friendly.

"Wait." Rogers catches up to her at the door after he pays. "Everyone's always trying to set me up so I know how annoying it is."

"And?"

"You two. Maybe you should go out sometime. Catch a film, go dancing." He grins, suddenly unsure. "You still do that, right?"

"They- we- do." She leaves the fact that she and Phil don't out of it, but she can't help returning his smile.

"Think about it, there's no S.H.I.E.L.D. frat rules to worry about now you know."

She doesn't want to, but she blushes, just enough that he must be able to pick it up with his superior vision.

She does take the time to think, even though she'll tell Coulson otherwise later. Fitz is over thirty metres from the doorway, at the rate the blast doors are coming down on the encroaching cloud of coolant and smoke, she has seconds. The oxygen mask in the emergency kit on her left will take precious tenths of what little time she has to put on. She fills her lungs and runs into the blue haze, trusting her body to take her to Fitz and back before it's too much for either of them to take.

The catwalk echoes through the alarms beneath her feet. The technician past Fitz lies at too odd an angle for her to have survived the explosion as he has. She lifts his shoulders, dragging his feet across the metal beneath them. Using the burning in her nose to keep her conscious, she pushes beyond. Sparks burst gold across her vision and not even the pain in the back of her throat will be enough to keep her moving if she's miscalculated.

Three meters from the door, Coulson's with her, taking Fitz from her exhausted arms. They stumbled back together. Alarms muddle in her ears and her breathing slips her control.

Slowly, she orders, but her body's taken too much to obey. She coughs until the muscles of her chest spasm tight and she has to gasp to get any air.

"May?"

She asks of Fitz with her eyes, but her coughing drowns out his reply. Ward was with her before. If Coulson's here now, Ward must be bringing the Bus. Simmons must be with Fitz. Skye's just behind Coulson, her face tight with concern.

"You should have put on the mask." He holds her shoulders when she struggles to breathe between coughing fits.

"Wasn't thinking," she says, her voice raw and deep.

"Of course not."

Skye frets, then returns with the first aid kit. "You're going to be fine."

May nods, tears stinging her eyes. Fire courses in her throat, as if bubbling up from her lungs.

Coulson digs through the kit, finding the needle he wants and jamming it into her arm. "I'm sorry."

He can't put her under. She needs to fly them out of here. The canyon's tight and the trees tall and thick: they need her awake because she got them in here. She factored that in when she left the mask. It will take several minutes for the toxin to work through her bloodstream, and several more for her tissues to respond. Her breath is worse than she anticipated, but once they're airborne, she can let Simmons treat her lungs.

Coulson and Skye both need to keep her on her feet. Skye keeps insisting she'll be fine, which means she must look as bad as Coulson's unwavering smile suggests. May was in that warehouse less than a minute, took as few breaths as possible and yet Ward hardens his eyes when they drag her to the cockpit.

It's bad.

She doesn't feel the blood on her lips, but her nose must be bleeding because blood spots the instruments. Coulson presses soft cloth beneath her nose.

"Can she-? Should she be-?" Ward's concerns quiet when May takes the controls. It's just the first few manoeuvres. Once they're up, they'll be fine.

Her fingers shake on the throttle. Behind her, Coulson switches hands, holding her face with his left and the throttle with his right. His fingers cover hers, a shadow of flesh and bone. He doesn't pilot, but he lends strength to her hands when her fingers tremble. Steadying her hand when she reaches up, Coulson says nothing. They lift over the trees, turn through the canyon. Coulson's hands follow hers, putting strength in her fingers that she doesn't have.

"Go, I've got it," Ward takes over, He and Ward are her legs when they're finally aloft. Her blood mars the deck, soaking through Coulson' fingers instead of clotting.

Ward has the Bus; Coulson has her. An acrid mix of chemical residue, mucus and blood fills the back of her throat. She can't warn him, but he knows. Her next coughing fit wracks her body from hips to shoulders. Sickly, bluish-red blood stains his suit and his white shirt. She can't be sure if it's the continuing nosebleed, coming up from her lungs, or both. Coulson knows she's about to retch, even though she can't get breath to tell him.

Skye returns at the bottom of the stairs, holding the a plastic bin she myst have stolen from FitzSimmons' lab. Coulson explains that she doesn't need to be here, if she's not okay. May assumes she muat be worse than she feels and catches a glimpse of how bloodshot and grey her eyes are in the glass. Her tears have a purple tinge; her skin too pale beneath.

Giving Coulson a look that somehow says both that she's part of this family and that first aid needs no security clearance, Skye stays. It's better because there's so much less mess when May vomits into the garbage than onto the deck. Her stomach empties her lunch, (Fitz made sandwiches), then frothy blood and fluid. She can't cough and vomit simultaneously and one outweighs the other. Consciousness fades; she's been too long without breath. Gasping, she snaps back to reality against Coulson's chest, his hand keeping her hair back.

"You're going to be okay," Skye reminds her.

Coulson answers what she wants to know. "Fitz is fine. Simmons is treating him."

"Yeah, he's doing better than you," Skye says.

She wants to say that was the idea. If Fitz is breathing better than she is, than she was successful. Another spasm of coughing and her stomach heaves but it's truly empty now. Coulson doesn't remind her to breathe. She taught him most of what he knows of breath control and he understands that she's trying. He holds her tight, keeping her from thrashing on her knees.

The new voice is Simmons, chiding them for not getting her to medical faster.

May can't even argue with the snide remark Skye makes about the Calvalry resisting treatment. Hating the nickname is exhausting and Coulson wants her back on her feet. He's warm through his damp shirt. It's her sweat that covers him, soaking into the cool fabric.

Simmons snaps an oxygen mask over her face and grabs her arm, probably to put her out. Coulson stops her, explaining the stimulant he gave her so she could fly the Bus out of that mess. Simmons' clipped voice moves so quickly through her thoughts (mostly recrimination for Coulson what he's done and May for not arguing with him.).

"It's hard enough patching all of you up when you take necessary risks, when you add unnecessary ones, well, then that's a whole other Gordian knot for me to untangle, isn't it?"

Cool and dry, the oxygen fills May's mouth. Her eyes sting, then she can't keep them open. Something warmer than sweat runs from her eyes down her face. When did she get so tired? When she's sure she's conscious again, she's lying on Simmons' cold metal table. Phil has her hand in his and his eyes rest on hers.

"Skye thinks you're heavier than you look."

Medical equipment beeps around her, but none of it screams. Simmons clucks her tongue at the readouts. Skye unties May's boots, gently freeing them from her feet. The worn leather rustles against the floor when she sets them down, gently. May would have just dropped them, but she can hear the care Skye takes with her combat boots. She's such a sweet girl.

"Fitz was unconscious, breathing shallowly, when he was exposed. May exerted herself, pulling him across the facility. Her blood is barely oxygenated, her pulmonary alveoli and bronchioli are inflamed and bleeding into the pulmonary mucuosa."

That's why her head's spinning.

Skye interrupts to add the nosebleed and the vomiting to Simmons' unending list of symptoms.

"Experimental coolant from unlicensed, poorly planned fission reactors designed by idiots who think they can split an atom just because they think it sounds like something villains ought to be doing in their secret lairs, is never meant to be inhaled."

Coulson touches her cheek, his thumb sliding through the sweat and blood on her skin. "I think she's aware." His dry tone suggests he's calm, even jovial but his eyes are too soft. She's bad. He knew that, and he needed her to fly the Bus. They're safe for the moment and they both knew she'd pay. She doesn't mind, she never minds, but it's slicing right through the scars over his heart.

Her fingers won't move when she tries.

"Bedrest," Simmons threatens. "Three days. I get to use restraints-" She reconsiders and looks at Coulson. "You might have to use the restraints. You will order Agent May to rest and strictly adhere to my medical judgement or we turn this aeroplane around and head right back to the medical facility in Incheon so they can deal with her stubbornness, lack of respect, lack of consideration for her own safety-"

She can't reach Simmons. Her fingers still won't move but she manages to flop her hand into Coulson's arm. He takes it, because he always does.

"She'll behave." He squeezes her numbing fingers. "I promise."

"All right." Simmons relaxes, just enough. She's so worried that her voice is stiff in the air. "Right. She needs to breathe slowly and shallowly to try and contain the damage. We need corticosteroids, bronchodilators, anti-inflammatories to bring down the pulmonary oedema."

"Okay. Where are they?" Skye follows her directions when Coulson- Phil- doesn't move. He knows where they are. He knows where everything is, but he won't move from her side as the two of them scurry around them.

"You're going to be fine."

Opening her mouth sends her lungs into a spasm so vicious that he has to roll her on her side so she can spit out the bitter, metallic mess suddenly filling her mouth. He gently replaces the mask over her face, but his eyes are on it now, in case she has anything else to cough up.

"It's all right," Phil repeats, for May and the women hurrying to try and heal her. "Small breaths. Slowly."

She hears him. She always does, but her chest burns as if someone's taken a blowtorch inside and she can, yet can't, ignore it.

He leans closer, making his voice rise above Skye, Simmons and the damn machines. "Màn yīdiǎn." His pronunciation is always just a little off, even though he tries, and she can hear her mother correcting him. "Hūxī. Màn yīdiǎn."

She tries. He's closer to her, whispering in her ear, shoring up her trembling self-control because as much as she tries to separate herself from the agony in her chest, she has to breathe.

Pain flashes white, as blinding as the lights around them. Then the white fades into black, and she hears him, whispering in her ear all the Mandarin she's tried to teach him. Silly phrases that he remembers half-wrong because he's worried and her lungs threaten to turn themselves out onto the table, but it's only more fluid.

He brushes her face with his cheek before he replaces the mask again. "Màn yīdiǎn."

More alarms, this time more urgent.

"Her blood oxygenation is falling." Simmons says, almost angry with her equipment.

Skye's just behind her, wanting to help. "What do we do?"

May sees her younger self so often in Skye, heart before head, so willing to do anything for the team.

"Slow down," Phil starts; he's Agent Coulson, team leader, again now and these are orders. "She'll be fine. Simmons, you know what to do, let Skye help you."

They slow around her, still hurrying, but calmer, more purposeful. He reaches across her body and hushes the alarm, turning it silent. "It's all right," he tells all of them. "You're doing great. She's going to be fine. Trust yourselves." His smile makes her want to cling to consciousness but exhaustion seeps over her like warm water. "We trust you," he finishes for both of them. One of his hands holds hers tight to his chest and the other strokes her forehead, slow and calm, just like he needs them all to be.

Later, when she's been stripped of her filthy leather jacket and moved to a bed, she floats back up out of darkness. May's vision improves slowly, colour returning before shapes are distinct and there's red all over Phil's chest. His neat white shirt, now hopelessly stained, with darker patches already turning brown, hangs slightly open at the neck. His tie's gone.

Ward's in the corner now, his voice deep in contrast with Skye's whispers. Simmons smiles again, perking up because she's done what everyone trusted her too. What she could, and it's extraordinary, as always.

"You'll need rest while you recover, and your lungs will be weak for awhile. Don't push yourself too hard." Simmons pats her shoulder. "I know you won't listen, so I've prepared how I'm going to treat you when you tear your fragile lungs to shreds saving Fitz-"

"Hey-" He waves from the corner, sheepish and grateful in his pyjamas. "Thanks for that."

Can she speak? Her throat's full of sand and sharp stones when she tries to swallow.

"You're welcome," Phil says for her. "You've seen she's all right. Go on, let her go back to sleep." He remains, after the others have waved and smiled and disappeared into the Bus, he's there. "You look like hell. Your lips are still blue and you've got-" He reaches for his handkerchief in that pocket, but it's not there because it's soaked with blood somewhere.

Captain Rogers gave him that. He's had it for months, always in his pocket, his good luck charm. He has to use a tissue and he licks it, just to see if she'll wince when he reaches for her mouth.

She doesn't. Pulling him closer, she manages to kiss him with dry lips. His warmer ones rest on her cheek, then her forehead. He brushes her mouth clean, strokes her hair back and smiles.

"That's a little better."

He stays. She fades in and out, his clothes change and the days slip by, and he stays. He reads mission briefings, German newspapers when they refuel in Bavaria, and pieces of the novel he's been reading. She doesn't ruin it by telling him that it's a brutal story full of sex, death and betrayal. The thick book promises dragons and an throne of iron and he reads it well. His voice, calm, clear and patient, is the heart of her time in bed.

She's almost sorry when Simmons relents and lets her up.

When she's back on her feet, Phil won't let her spar with Ward right away and insists she spar with him, so she won't over exert herself. The holds are different between them, gentler, and it's hard to let him up when she straddles him on the mat. Kissing him would be wrong, too much, too close to when everything went wrong, but her forehead touches his. Their sweat mingles and they catch their breath together like lovers from another time. She fakes an attack, feigning the horrible spasms of her lungs that everyone's afraid will return and he grabs her, holding her close. Whispering for her to breathe slowly, he then smacks her shoulder when she laughs. He pins her then, throwing her down hard enough that it stings but she's healing and it's a good hurt.

His handkerchief, his lucky charm from Captain America, appears to be the only casualty after the Bus has been cleaned and the blood's out of the carpet. She finds it tucked in the back of a cabinet in the med bay and as many times as she washes it, it's ruined. She'll need Romanova, and a few favours to find Rogers now that S.H.I.E.L.D is gone, but Phil deserves this.

She can't thank him the way she wants too, not yet, but she can get him a replacement.

The package arrives weeks later, stamped from Ukraine. May knows Romanova, Barton and Rogers must be safe, and she hopes they remain so because they're all as good people as they are- were- agents. None of them are agents now.

She means to leave it on Coulson's desk, but Skye drops it off instead of her. She doesn't even see what's in it for days because they're a thin line of protection in a world falling apart.

He finds her days later, when she's checking the armoury. "May, thanks."

She nods, ready to let it go because that's what they do.
"It was just a handkerchief," he insists.

"Not to you."

He's both pleased that she cares and dismayed that he's so obvious. "Thank you."

"I owed you."

"Melinda-"

She smiles. "Phil."

"He sent two of his and made five of my own. All monogrammed, lovely fabric."

"Romanova says he has good taste."

"Yeah. They're beautiful." He has that wistful look he gets, like a little boy waiting. "That other one wasn't ruined you know. Handkerchiefs are meant to be used, not stored in a case."

"Uh-huh."

"Anyway, thanks. Captain Rogers sent a really nice note."

She's ready to let it go, but he keeps smiling at her.

"Oh?"

Phil's smile takes on a recklessness that she so rarely sees in him. "We should go dancing."

"Yes."

"Or to the movies."

"Yes."

"Or married."

"Did Rogers suggest that?"

"Not directly." He leans closer to her, near enough that she can feel him.

"He's not known for his subtlety."

"Maybe he's been taking lessons from Romanova."

"Perhaps."

"Is that yes?"

She smirks. "I've already said yes twice."

"You did."

Before he asks again, she kisses him, because that's so much easier than finding words.

Pressing her back against the ammunition cabinet, he joins her silence. It's what they have and it works.