And Then I Wrote Marvel

Look Me in the Eyes (dad!Phil Coulson x Reader)

Spoilers for Agents of SHIELD Season 1, and (N/N) is nickname.

"Hey, you alright?" You looked up from where you were glaring holes into the guest room wall at the hotel room to face your father, Phil Coulson.

You couldn't bring yourself to be sad. You hated being sad, so your go-to emotion was always anger. You didn't inherit your father's level-headedness. "Just peachy, Dad," you replied, returning to your death stare.

"I can tell, kiddo." He sat next to you on your bed and put his arm around your shoulders, drawing your closer to him. You felt your anger dissipating and obligingly leaned your head on his shoulder. He planted a kiss on the top of your head.

"He messed with us. He told Skye that he loved her and did...the thing with Agent May..." you trailed off, and you could have sworn your father was chuckling at you for your discomfort with saying it straight out. You were silent for a few seconds, not sure if you were ready to say this out loud. "He kissed me, Dad."

He turned to look at you, his eyes wide with shock. "He did what?"

You could feel your anger rising again. "He kissed me. That's the first time I've ever been kissed, you know that? And it was all fake!" You hit your fist on the bed in your outburst. Breathing hard, you clenched your fists and let the tears fall.

Phil looked ready to punch the bed himself, but his currently erratic emotions were calmed when the tears dripping down your face caught his eye. This surprised him more than anything, even the fact that the traitor Grant Ward had stolen your first kiss; you hated crying. It gave you the worst headaches that would last for hours, and it made you feel worthless and weak, no matter how much science, your friends, and yourself told you that it was healthy.

What many would call "releasing" the pent up emotions from the past however many years didn't make you feel the slightest bit better. It made you feel a hundred times worse. Your worst self-doubts were amplified, any guilt or embarrassment you ever felt crashed down on your shoulders, and you just cried harder.

There was no reasoning with you when you were this way. All that your father could do was to hug you, tracing your spine and rubbing circles in your back, waiting for your head to finish punishing you for being you. This was how he conveyed his love for you, and how you felt it.

As you began to calm down, you pulled away from him, resting your body against the wall. "Thanks," you whispered. "I'm sorry about that."

He cracked a smile. "There's nothing to be sorry about. It's all part of the job description. You want me to grab an ibuprofen for you?"

You nodded, your head already pounding mercilessly. "I love you, Dad."

His smile widened. "Not as much as I love you, (N/N)."
--
"Fitz-Simmons, I'm going with you," you told them.

"Did Coulson approve that?" Simmons asked skeptically.

"Of course. He knows that I can take care of myself. I learned from the best, after all." They still didn't believe you. You sighed turned toward your father, who was walking toward the jump jet. "Dad, I'm allowed to go with Fitz-Simmons, right?"

"I already told you that you could go. Do they not believe you?" he responded immediately.

"Nope."

"Well, be safe you three."

You found your home away from home without much trouble, and you volunteered to take the initiative and board the Bus. "I'll be back in a few. Don't come after me," you commanded.