Agent Phil Coulson was about a second away from throwing his gun across the room. "Maybe it's the gun that's rusty," he muttered to himself as he sat down and examined the gun under the glow of the desk lamp. "No, it's definitely me that's rusty," he muttered, echoing the words May used on him earlier in the evening. He set aside the gun and dropped his head to his hands, rubbing at his tired eyes. He flinched when his fingers made contact with the red, raw area around his right eye. With a sigh he got up and checked out his reflection in the bathroom mirror. Looked the same as it had when he had checked it out an hour earlier.

Sitting back down at his desk he put the gun away, turned on some classical music and settled in to do some work. He filled out the data and narrative reports on the newly completed mission, read up on some possible threats around the world, made a few notes on them and answered a few emails.

Nobody from the team bothered him. He'd left them all in the galley an hour earlier, cleaning up after dinner. Getting them to clean up after themselves made him feel like a camp counselor at times but he took it in stride. They had quickly come to know that while he was certainly available for things of importance, he much preferred to be left alone after dinner. The younger team members hardly ever bothered him, May would stop by his quarters once in a while, usually to tease him about something but she kept her visits brief and if he gave her "the look" when he answered the door she just turned around and left him alone, unless the fate of the world was at stake, which of course did happen every once in a while.

When his work was done he looked at his watch, almost 9:00. Crossing the room he headed for the bathroom. He pulled his tie loose and slid it out from under his well starched shirt collar. Folding it neatly and methodically, as usual, he then moved to unbutton his shirt, remove it and fold it neatly. And so the well practiced routine of getting undressed continued until he stood in front of the sink wearing nothing but a pair of plaid boxers. He frowned at the sight of the surgical scar on his chest and the scar on his back left by Loki. They were still new enough to be red and sensitive at times. He ran his finger lightly over the scar on his chest as he'd done since the day the bandages had been removed. He thought about how nobody, outside the medical team, had even seen his scars.

He grabbed the black hoodie hanging on the hook on the back of the bathroom door. Emblazoned with the SHIELD emblem, it was his usual attire for the few hours a day he wasn't in a standard issue dark suit, crisp white shirt and conservative tie. He pulled it over his head, once again aggravating the scrape on the side of his face. Muttering a few choice words under his breath he quickly pulled on a pair of striped pajama pants before leaving the bathroom.

He glanced at the monitors, trying to get an idea of where the rest of his team was at that moment. He spotted all of them in the cargo bay where Grant was leading what looked like a kick boxing class. For a fleeting second he thought about heading down and joining them or at least sitting in a corner and watching. But his growing headache sent him back to the bathroom for something that might help the situation. He shook a few pills into his palm and swallowed them with a handful of water.

Phil curled up in the corner of the couch, his bare feet tucked under him. Grabbing his reading glasses off the end table he read for a while, finding little to hold his attention. Part of the problem was the rather boring book, another part was lingering pain from being tossed around during his earlier bout with shifting gravity. The headache had faded a little but his face still throbbed in time with his pulse. He got up stiffly, cursing the fact he was feeling every bit his 50 years that evening. He was about to open the door to the little fridge behind his desk and grab the ice pack when he saw the now thawed ice pack on the bookshelf. Apparently he hadn't but it back when he used after getting back to his room. Another sigh and he glanced at the monitor again. The team was still in the cargo bay, it seemed as if he'd be able to head over to the galley, grab another ice pack and maybe make himself a quick cup of tea before anyone noticed him.

It wasn't as if Phil had anything against his team. They were a fine bunch of agents, although most of them a little on the young side. He just had no desire to be around people very much. He had a few friends he had keep in touch with over the years but the life of a high ranking SHIELD agent left little time for a real social life. Phil had always thought that aspect of the job was a perk. He genuinely enjoyed being alone. Those few who really knew him, knew he was quiet, shy and more than slightly socially awkward. Even as a child he had preferred to play alone. He had a great imagination even as a young boy, losing himself for hours in his thoughts and his books.

Now as an adult he preferred to give off the impression of the straight laced agent with the dry sense of humor. Never letting anyone get too close was pretty much a goal of his. Made his life "less messy" he kept telling himself. And for the most part he believed it.

Phil shoved his feet into his well-worn slippers and tossed his glasses on the desk before heading out into the hall. He moved quickly to his destination, not running in to anyone on the way. He filled the tea kettle and set it on the burner before reaching up to the top cabinet and rooting around until he found his favorite striped mug in the back. He dropped in a chamomile teabag and a spoon of sugar before he reached in the freezer and grabbed a fresh ice pack. Sitting on a stool at the island he gently pressed the ice pack against the scrape, hissing slightly as it made contact with the sensitive spot. He took a deep breath and let his mind wander in a dozen different directions.

The whistling tea kettle brought him back to the present. He poured the water, gave the tea a quick stir and grabbed a Twinkie from his secret hiding space behind the canned vegetables. Shoving the treat in the pocket of his hoodie he picked up the ice pack from the island and headed quickly back to his room.

Breathing a sigh of relief as he made it back without seeing a soul, Phil kicked off the slippers, ate the Twinkie while wandering aimlessly around the room and finally settled down on the couch. He curled back up, hot tea in one hand, ice pack in the other. He let the music and tea relax away some of the stress of the day.

He reflected on what he referred to as "back in the day". The time when he could keep up with 20 hour days, living on coffee, chocolate and an occasional cigarette, smoked in secrecy. He mentally ran through a laundry list of missions, some successful, some not so much. It was during reflections such as this that he sometimes wondered what it would be like to have someone to share his memories with, someone who really understood him.

As usual he didn't ponder the decisions he'd made in his life for very long. No point in that he often told himself.

With the tea gone he set the mug on the end table and grabbed the afghan off the back of the couch. The ice had long started to thaw but it was still cold enough to help a little so he curled up on his side under the blanket, wedging the ice pack between his face and the throw pillow. Using the remote he turned on the bank of televisions on the opposite wall of the room. He tuned one to the weather, one to a news station and one to a baseball game.

The game ended with a walk off homerun in the bottom of the 9th. There didn't seem to be anything of real significance going on in the world and there were no weather related issues in the general area of the "bus".

By 11:00 Phil could hear the sounds of the team heading for their cabins. He held his breath, hoping nobody would knock. He let out a sigh when he heard a soft knock and May's voice calling his name.

"Coming," he muttered as he hauled himself off the couch and opened the door enough for her to get a look at him but not enough to make it look like an invitation to come in.

She took half a step into the room and got a good look at him. "You look like crap," she bluntly pointed out as she gestured towards his eye and cheek.

"Your concern is overwhelming, May," he snorted as he shoved his hands in the pocket of his sweatshirt.

Sensing her boss wasn't really in the mood for teasing, or interaction of any kind, May changed her tone. "You sure you're okay?" she asked, genuinely worried about him.

"I'm fine. I took some pills, used the ice pack, drank some tea," he smirked as he took a step closer to the hallway, causing May to do the same. She took the hint, gave him a smile and a quiet "good night".

Phil rinsed the mug out in the bathroom sink, put the ice pack back in the freezer and turned everything off. He flossed, brushed his teeth and flicked off the bathroom light.

He was physically tired, exhausted even but as usually happened after a mission, his mind was still racing, thinking about what went well, what could have gone better. He knew going to bed at that moment would be a waste of time; he'd lie awake for hours.

Being 30,000 feet in the air, there was certainly a limited number of options as to what he could do to keep busy. Also factor in his reluctance to actually have any human contact and the options got even smaller.

He paced around his quarters for a few minutes, picking up a few random books, files, pictures but nothing held his attention for more than minute or so. He finally put his slippers back on and headed for the cargo bay to visit Lola. Luck was on his side once again and he managed to make it there without being noticed by anyone. Chances were pretty good May had told the rest of the team that he was really not in the mood to talk to anyone.

The cargo bay was eerily quiet. A few remnants of Grant's "class" were strewn about, two empty water bottles, a towel and a navy hoodie similar to the one he wore. He resisted the urge to pick things up.

Phil spent a few minutes with the bag, not putting too much effort into his punches but getting out some of his vague frustrations. It helped with some of the lingering stiffness from the day and did clear his head a bit. With one last punch he walked in the general direction of his beloved Lola.

He didn't like to really admit he talked to the car but truth was….he talked to the car. He whispered a running commentary about the day's mission as he rubbed away all but invisible smudges on the hood, doors and the bumpers. When he was satisfied there was nothing left to polish he climbed into the driver's seat and sat back, losing himself in his thoughts.

The plane hit a pocket of turbulence somewhere 1:00 AM, jolting Phil awake as his left knee hit the underside of the dash before he woke up enough to realize where he was. He rubbed his knee with one hand and his eyes with the other before climbing out of the car and heading back to his room.

Ten minutes later, having traded his sweatshirt for the matching striped pajama shirt he slid into bed. He spent the next 5 minutes completing his nightly ritual of plumping and rearranging the pillows until he was comfortable.

The last thought on Phil's mind before falling asleep was that it had been a good day and deep down he almost wished he had someone to share in his happiness.