Hello there! Quick disclaimer that this is my first ever AoS fic and is 100% not beta read, so please let me know if there are any glaring errors in grammar, characterisation or anything really.

This piece is sort of an It's A Wonderful Life and A Christmas Carol inspired thing, and on the lead up to Christmas I'll be looking into where the team might be (with a chapter for each Ward, Skye and May, and a combined one for FitzSimmons) if Coulson hadn't put them together. Please assume that the team have been together for a fair amount of time; a good few months to a year or so at least.

Lastly, I'm a final year uni student, approaching deadlines with lots of stress for the next two weeks. Please be forgiving if updates are a little slow until about the 16th.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything you recognise and there's no infringement intended on Marvel's Agents of SHIELD or It's A Wonderful Life. I get nothing but a sense of enjoyment out of writing this, but I have been nice all year and am hoping Santa will bring me Ming-Na Wen, Elizabeth Henstridge and Iain De Caestecker for Christmas because they are just too darned adorable.

Anyway, please do read and let me know what you think!

1. Coulson

He flinched a little as the unexpectedly cold coffee touched his lips, setting his mug down and swiping the back of his hand against his face with a sigh.

He noted with a shock that it was already 11.15pm. He hadn't realised just how long he'd been sitting there, trying to plough through the paperwork. No wonder his coffee was cold, he'd made it hours ago.

He strained his ears into the silence to see if the team was still up. He could rarely hear anything from his office-come-bedroom anyway (wasn't there research that said you should keep your work and leisure spaces separate?) but the hour, the date and the ringing silence made him think it was likely his team would all be tucked up in their bunks, as well they should.

He set his pen down, leaning back in his chair and pinching the bridge of his nose as he sighed. How he wished he could call it a night. He wasn't sure Big SHIELD or Agent Blake would be too understanding though.

He disliked that man with a rare passion he usually reserved for real criminals or Asgardian demigods. Blake had always seemed to have something against Coulson – May had, in her usual simple honesty, called it jealousy. Coulson privately disagreed, but whatever it was, Blake seemed to enjoy making his life as difficult as possible, even if he had to go out of his way to do so.

Shaking his head slightly at his sombre mood, Coulson got up from behind his desk and paced around his office for a moment, trying to stretch his legs as much as possible in the confined space. He wasn't, by nature, a despondent person. It didn't fit well with the job description, not caring. You were supposed to care, but not too much. Just enough to spur you on to get your mission done. Nonetheless, right now, he had to admit he was feeling pretty low. It wasn't just the complaint Blake had filed about his team that had him filling in paperwork at this hour. Sure, that was a big part of it. After all, it had been pretty unjust. It had all started when what should have been a simple mission gathering intel had gone south. Skye and Ward, though the latter would never admit it, had been in serious danger twenty storeys up in a mark's compound. May was on the ground doing as much as she could but she was fighting against an endless tide of men and against time the team didn't have. He had told FitzSimmons to do whatever was necessary to save their teammates. Under pressure they had done what they did best; worked together to solve the problem. Their solution – a lot of explosive science he didn't really understand – had been unorthodox, a little foolish even. But it had gotten the job done, the team were all in one piece, no civilians had been hurt, the cover story held and they'd even recovered the intel.

And yet, the next day, Coulson had received a call informing him that Blake, who had put in for the mission in the first place (and had been none too happy it had gone to Coulson's team), was filing a complaint. Something about unnecessary damage and negligence on the part of the agents involved. That simple yellow form had not only grounded the team for a week while the bumps were all smoothed out with Fury, but it had seriously shaken up the two scientists on the team. For all he tried not to get more attached than necessary, he couldn't help but think about them with a strong, father-like fondness. Jemma, as he thought of her in private, with all her sweet and sometimes nervous energy was still shaken with memories of the Sitwell debacle and as serious as her ongoing fear at being court-martialled was, he still had to stop himself outright laughing at the thought of little Jemma Simmons successfully disabling a senior agent like Jasper Sitwell. Fitz too, was pretty worried this would get them fired, or at least, in his words, 'go on their records with a big red 'x' next to it, or whatever it was SHIELD did in these situations'.

He'd thought it best not to point out that what SHIELD did do in these situations was much worse. Or at least, it was for a legitimate complaint. Blake knew there was nothing in this mess that would get Coulson and the team any more than a slap on the wrist and a bit of time out of action (as if he needed more). Phil just suspected he wanted to cause trouble, especially after the rebuffs he'd given him when Jemma had been infected, his strict email blast about visiting agents not touching Lola and a few past disagreements he probably shouldn't think about too much. He could feel a headache coming on.

But while this had all contributed to his less than shiny mood, it wasn't only that. He was preoccupied, he couldn't help it. His brush with death still threw him for a loop every time he thought about it, and he thought about it every day. On multiple occasions. He still hadn't shaken the baffling habit of blurting out the words 'it's a magical place' every time someone mentioned Tahiti and most nights he awoke in a cold sweat after dreaming about the place, or the event, that had put him there. He was beginning to fear there was something more to the injury - and to Tahiti - than he had been given to believe, but every inroad he'd tried to make into doing his own investigations had been blocked and he had no doubt that Fury had had a large part to play in that. It, honestly, infuriated him in a way that little else could that he had died, but the Director had decided he didn't qualify for the detailed account of events. May had soothingly told him to Trust The System, more than once in the past few weeks and months, but he really couldn't see how even Level 8 clearance wasn't enough for this. If the dreams about being stabbed didn't plague his sleep, then these thoughts did.

As preoccupying was his more general low mood and, as much as it was such a cliché it pained him, he always felt this way at this time of year. The holidays gave him a chance to reflect on what he had. But it also reminded him what he didn't have. It wasn't that he indulged in maudlin outbursts (mentally or literally) lamenting that he was in his mid-forties and had none of the things most men in their mid-forties had; a partner, a house, kids all of that. It wasn't even necessarily that he wanted any of it. But almost inevitably, with all the emphasis put upon these things at this time of year, it was hard not to think about your own life. And Phil Coulson was no different. He couldn't help but think about some of the missions he'd played a part in, some of the less savoury things he'd done in a pinch, the fact that his last few Christmases had all been spent largely on his own, sat in his office and filing paperwork. Just what he should be doing right now he thought with a grimace, finally sitting back down at his desk. He briefly thought about calling Karen, but didn't suppose putting a call through to Portland at 11.30 at night was the best idea and for all he knew, some other guy would be there to pick up the phone by now. She had been rather beautiful.

He huffed a sigh and went back to the forms in front of him. He didn't hate the holidays per se, just wished they could pass him by without such a fanfare. After all, they weren't for people like him, they were for people like FitzSimmons and Skye, who had been bouncing off the walls for the last 10 days (Ward and May had drawn the line at them decorating and playing Christmas songs before the second week of December – they weren't exactly Christmas people either and they enjoyed their peace and quiet). The younger members of the team had spent their time on the ground decorating the Bus, playing Christmas songs and films and baking an array of cookies and cakes that almost had Coulson wishing he was joining in the festivities; Jemma really was a fantastic cook. They'd even installed a tiny fake tree on the coffee table where, they'd informed Coulson in voices that suggested that he no choice but to participate, they'd be opening presents on Christmas morning, so they needed to have a tree somehow.

And despite all of their delighted energy, he couldn't help but think their day would be better spent without him darkening the mood. Even May, for all her quiet melancholy moods and preference for quiet solitude, had sought out the team's company more and more over the last week, clearly soaking up the happiness from the others, while Coulson had secluded himself in his office, citing paperwork every time they tried to coax him out.

He propped his head up on his hand, as he filled the forms in as diligently as possible, despite the heavy tiredness settling over him. He signed his name across a few lines at the bottom of the latest bureaucratic document, scratching his pen into the paper more as the ink began to run dry and felt his eyes begin to droop a little lower. He didn't know when he got so old that he started falling asleep at his desk, head on his hand but, before he knew it, he was in a heavy slumber.

He opened his eyes, panicked, and for a moment believed he would be lying in bed once again trying to shake memories of Tahiti from his brain. The panic that had briefly subsided was back in full force as he took stock of where he was and it was a moment before the logical part of him told him that this was a dream, as he had done many times before; lucid dreaming did have its benefits. It was cold wherever he was and a light drizzle landed on his face but did not linger. He squinted into the dim light, and through the mist that was floating lazily around, picking out row upon row of shadowy shapes. He couldn't quite believe his eyes and yet...yes, he seemed to be in a graveyard. Why in the world would his subconscious take him there?