Chapter Text
Excerpted from Soulmarks and You: A Guide For Young People, Gruber-Highland Academic Publishing, 1974
Right now, it might seem like everyone you know spends all their time thinking about soulmarks, and understandably so: many soulmarks begin to emerge during the teenage years. However, you shouldn’t put your life on hold just in case you get a soulmark! Only a little more than half the population will eventually develop a soulbond, so it doesn’t make sense to wait around for something that might or might not happen. If you have a soulmate somewhere out there, things will work out in due time. In the meantime, though, read over these questions and answers so that you can be ready, just in case.
I don’t seem to have a soulmark. What should I do?
First of all, don’t worry about it! There’s no way to tell if you will ever develop a soulmark, so the best thing to do is just live your life.
How will I know if I’m developing a soulmark?
Soulmarks can develop at any age. As far as we have been able to discover, the mark begins to develop as the circumstances of each member of the pair’s life make it more and more likely that they will meet, and it comes through completely when that meeting is certain to happen. It is possible for the mark to disappear again if a dramatic change makes it impossible for the pair to ever meet. Historically, this most often happened to those who traveled on long voyages, or soldiers going into battle. (It is impossible to determine if an undeveloped soulmark vanished because one member of the pair has died, or if it was due to other factors. Once the mark comes through, the death of the soulmate will cause it to fade, but not vanish.)
Physically, the emerging soulmark is usually felt as an itchy or tingly sensation. The skin may grow warm to the touch, especially as the mark begins to take shape. The moment when the mark comes through, you will feel a short, sharp pain, but it will pass quickly, and you may feel happy and excited. This sensation is similar to the one you will feel when you meet your soulmate, so remember what it’s like!
Soulmarks can appear on any part of the body, though the hands, arms, chest, and back are the most common areas.
Undeveloped soulmarks begin as cloudy blobs of color that can resemble bruises. Through a mysterious process that even modern science doesn’t understand yet, nobody but you will be able to read your soulmark until you meet your soulmate! To everyone else, it will still look like a blob.
You will be able to watch the changes as your own mark develops. First, the blob starts to take shape. Then it will start to gradually darken and become more defined, until it resolves into the final soulmark. People call this process “coming through,” “fixing,” or “going clear.” The final soulmark, as you probably already know, contains the first words that your soulmate will say to you, in their own handwriting. In cases where one of the pair does not write or speak, soulmarks have been known to look like pictograms, musical notes, or other symbols; if you don’t recognize or can’t understand what your soulmark says, there are researchers who can help you!
My soulmark came through! What do I do now?
It’s always an exciting time when a new soulmark has just come through. You may be tempted to start planning your life around the mark, trying to make things work out so you meet your soulmate sooner. However, that’s a bad idea!
Throughout history, people have tried to force their soulmarks, and it usually just makes things worse. One young man’s soulmark read “Go, Tigers!”. He had been planning on attending a college with the mascot of a bear, and changed to his second choice school—whose team was called the Tigers—when his mark came through. He soon realized, though, that nearly everyone used his soulmark phrase as a greeting on game day. He spent many years getting repeatedly disappointed before he finally met his soulmate—at a zoo!
Soulmark words are very personal, and it’s extremely rude to ask someone what their soulmark says. Keep those conversations for your soulmate, or possibly trusted, confidential advisors like your doctor or members of the clergy. Remember, you will feel a physical sensation as your own mark becomes fixed, so don’t be taken advantage of by people who might try to learn your words and use them to get something from you.
The best way that you can prepare yourself for meeting your soulmate is by doing your best to build a successful, happy life, with a good education and a fulfilling career. If you build a life you’d be excited and proud to share, that’s the best gift you can give your soulmate!
My soulmark says something really common, like “hello” or “excuse me.” How will I know when I meet my soulmate?
It can be discouraging when your soulmark is of a common greeting, but don’t lose heart! When soulmate pairs meet, their marks react; even if your soulmate is the thousandth person to say your words, when it’s the right person, you’ll know. You will feel the mark becoming fixed, and you and your partner will be able to see each others’ marks.
Why did my soulmark change?
In the time after your soulmark comes through, but before you meet your soulmate, you may find that your mark changes from time to time. This is because situations in your own life or your soulmate’s life have changed, so that you will meet in a different way. Many soulmates like to compare notes when they meet about what events in each others’ lives triggered the changes in their marks.
Can I do anything to meet my soulmate sooner?
This is a very common question, and the answer is: nobody knows! Many people have tried, but it’s impossible to tell if they ended up meeting their soulmate sooner than they would have if they had done nothing. Because of that, it’s important not to make any major life decisions on the hopes that it will bring you closer to meeting. However, there are some minor things that are probably safe to do. For example, if your soulmark is a common greeting like “hello,” you might make a habit of responding to such greetings with a colorful and distinctive greeting phrase so your soulmate will instantly recognize you as their match. Alternately, people who live in remote areas that rarely get visitors sometimes choose to move to more populated areas. If you do something similar, pay close attention to your soulmark; if it begins to fade as the move date grows nearer, that may be a sign that your move would prevent you ever meeting at all!
In any of these circumstances, though, remember that soulmarks may be misleading, because you don’t know the context in which your words will be said. Peter O’Toole famously recounts the story of his soulmate looking for years for the match to a soulmark reading “call me Ishmael,” never realizing that they would meet at the rehearsal of a dramatic adaptation of Moby Dick!
My soulmark isn’t fixed yet, but I’ve been feeling really weird lately! Could it be the bond?
Have you recently been in any crowds? Research has shown that if two soulmates who haven’t met yet are physically near each other without exchanging their words, they can develop hormone imbalances. These imbalances can make you feel more intense emotions than normal, and sometimes can even cause you to be physically clumsier than you usually are. You may find yourself crying, laughing, or getting angry at people without realizing why. You may also find yourself reacting negatively to even casual touch by people other than your soulmate. This condition has been known by many names, such as “Mark madness” or “soulmate twitches,” however, the official name for it is Near-Miss Hormone Disruption.
If you are experiencing these kinds of symptoms and there isn’t another reason for it such as physical health or stress, consider whether you may have had a soulmate near miss.
Some common places where near misses have been documented to occur include large lecture classes in college, theater and concert performances, sporting events, and crowded public spaces such as shopping malls. If you think you may have had a near miss, try returning to that location and places nearby—your soulmate may be closer than you know!
When I meet my soulmate, how do we bond?
Soulbonds develop in two stages. The first stage begins when the pair’s soulmarks start to develop and ends when the marks become fixed—when the pair meets and exchanges their words. The second stage begins when the marks fix and lasts for an indeterminate amount of time while the connection grows. While your soulbond is maturing, you may feel unusually protective or possessive of your soulmate; this is normal and will fade once the bond is complete, which usually takes several days. If you are unable to spend large amounts of time with your soulmate after meeting, the bond may take much longer to mature, so it’s in everyone’s best interest to try to arrange things so that doesn’t happen! Don’t worry, though, once the bond is mature, you won’t have to spend every minute with your soulmate. Your mature bond will allow you to carry their presence with you, wherever you go!
April, 1977
The first time Phil noticed it, he was in the shower after working on the yard all afternoon and thought it was a smudge of dirt.
The second time he noticed it, he was scuffed up and aching all over after an unfortunate incident at marching band practice (he was seriously considering swearing undying enmity against the entire trumpet section unless they started paying attention so they didn’t walk straight into the woodwinds every damn time) and thought it was a bruise.
The third time, he was doing his trig homework and scratching idly at a weird itch on his arm when he looked down and dropped his pencil in shock at the word “you,” written clear as day across his right forearm in a spiky scrawl. Almost as soon as he’d noticed it, though, the letters blurred like wet ink, smearing back into a purplish blob. When he rubbed his finger over it, it tingled. It felt weird, but kind of… friendly, he thought. Or maybe that was just his imagination.
He sat at the table watching the mark for long enough that his mom came in to check on him, snapping the kitchen light on and startling him out of his daze.
“Phil, what are you doing sitting in the—oh,” she said, moving closer. “Is that—”
He held out his arm, and she put a trembling hand to her mouth. He could see her soulmark tracing over the back of it, faded and pale since his father died, but still legible: Excuse me, miss, do you know where the library is?
“I have a soulmate, mom,” he said, and couldn’t hold back a wide grin at the thought.
His mom wrapped her arms around his shoulders, bending down to kiss the top of his head. “I can’t wait to meet them, baby,” she said. “They must be a very special person to be the match to somebody like you.”
“Mom,” he said, feeling his face heat. “I’m not that great.”
“I beg to differ,” she said. “And I have no doubt your soulmate will agree with me someday.” She cleared her throat, giving him a last little squeeze before moving away. “I think this calls for a special dinner,” she said.
Phil perked up. “Pancakes?” he asked, hopefully.
She smiled at him, moving to take the big mixing bowl out of the cupboard. “Pancakes it is.”
September, 1979
Phil would have said, if you’d asked him before, that he knew perfectly well that he might not have a soulmate. That just because his parents had been soulmates, that didn’t mean that he would be the same; soulmates weren’t, as far as anyone could tell, something that ran in the family like height or a funny nose. He would have said that he was happy either way, that he just planned on trying to work hard and build a good life no matter who would end up sharing it with him.
He’d have been lying through his teeth, but he’d have said it.
The truth was, he’d always known—well. He’d always hoped. As a scrawny, nerdy kid stockpiling comic books, he’d imagined someone who would be for him like Bucky was for Cap, best friend and partner in adventure. In middle school, after Phil’s father had died, he’d been formless and poisonous with grief, getting more and more angry every time someone told him to keep his chin up and be a man for his mother. He’d comforted himself then with the thought that one day there’d be someone in his life who’d be there for him, just for him, who’d stay with Phil when all he wanted was to curl up in his room and sleep until he didn’t feel like there was a gaping pit underneath his ribs, who’d understand when all Phil wanted was to hit something until the pain in his hands drowned out the pain in his heart.
In high school, finally filling out a little thanks to marching band in the fall and track in the spring, he’d started dating at last. But nobody he took to the movies or danced with at school was special enough to replace his imagined soulmate in his late-night dreams, as he bit down on one hand to keep quiet while the other worked himself to furious, desperate climax.
All those daydreams and wishes seemed silly now, as he looked down at the mark on his arm, idly tracing the scraps of letters that sometimes appeared out of the swirls. He took to wearing long sleeves more often; he wasn’t ashamed of his mark, far from it, but it felt private, sensitive and tender like something to protect. He didn’t want to answer questions about it for curious classmates, didn’t want to join Bill Lindsay in his frequent speculations. (Bill was constantly talking about how he was sure his soulmate had giant knockers, to the point that Phil found himself hoping that Bill’s soulmate would be, like, a thirty-year-old guy with a face like a shoe. Of course, Bill would probably not even care; that was the whole point of soulmates.)
The fact that Phil’s mark had shown an entire word so early had made him hope it would be one of the ones that came through fast, but weeks went by, and then a month, and Phil had to admit to himself that the mark showed no signs of becoming anything other than a rather pretty swirl of purple and blue, with occasional letters surfacing like the world’s most frustrating bowl of alphabet soup.
Fine, then. It was probably just as well; there was school to get through, tests to take, a life to build. When he met his soulmate, Phil was determined to be able to give them options, to make them happy.
That didn’t stop him from starting each morning inspecting his arm for changes, thinking, maybe today.
Time went on, and his mark stayed fluid, and Phil started thinking seriously about the future. His dad had left him enough for college, if he was careful and worked summers, but which college? Which major? Phil wanted to do something important with his life, to make a real difference, but even as he started sending out applications and writing essays he had a hard time thinking of what kind of difference it could be. Phil was no Captain America, after all.
Phil moped his way down the makeshift rows of tables set up in the gym for Career Day. There was Mr. Stephens to talk about being a CPA (ugh), and Ms. Danforth to talk about being a lawyer (…maybe?) and doctors Ramirez (dentist) and Jones (podiatrist), and on and on, pretty much the same people who came every year. He looked down the row of military recruiters, Army, Navy, Air Force, Marines… huh.
There was a new guy, all the way at the end of the row. He was over with the military people but he wasn’t wearing a uniform, just a long black leather coat, even though it was only September. He was tall and broad, with dark skin and a shaved head, and he was glaring like he wanted to murder anyone who looked like they were going to stop at his table.
He was pretty much the coolest guy Phil had ever seen; he headed straight over.
“Good morning, sir,” he said politely. Unlike the others, the man didn’t have any recruitment brochures on his table. “Who are you representing?”
The man raised his eyebrows. “The Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement, and Logistics Division.”
Phil caught his breath. “SHIELD? I thought they only recruited from the military and other intelligence agencies.”
“Huh.” The man uncrossed his arms and reached out to shake Phil’s hand. “Agent Nick Fury.”
Agent Nick Fury. He was definitely the coolest guy Phil had ever met. Possibly the coolest guy alive.
“Phil Coulson,” Phil said, trying to make sure his voice didn’t squeak in excitement. “Sir.”
“And are you interested in SHIELD, Phil Coulson?”
“Yes, sir,” Phil said at once, then clamped his mouth shut before he could let loose the stream of babble about Captain America and Peggy Carter and the Howling Commandoes that was poised on the tip of his tongue, ready to make him look like a loser in front of Agent Fury.
Agent Fury looked like he knew exactly what Phil was thinking anyway. “Mind telling me why?”
“SHIELD really stands for something,” Phil said. “I mean, not that the Army doesn’t, but SHIELD is special. They… they protect people, it’s right there in the name. They help people who can’t help themselves, and they’re not there to fight wars or, or get political points for some guy who’ll never even know their names, they’re doing it because it’s right, you know? I mean, um, well. Of course you do. Sir. Sorry.”
“Huh,” Agent Fury said again. “Captain America fan, then?”
Phil’s face got hot. “Yeah,” he admitted. “But not just because of the super-soldier thing. Because he was a good man. It’s not just him, either. The Howling Commandoes, Agent Carter, they could have all had a safe war, nobody would have blamed them, but they saw something needed doing and they did it.”
“I’m not sure we live up to your opinion of us,” Agent Fury said. “But I do know that the best agents I know think like you do.” He looked at Phil, piercing and thoughtful. Phil swallowed hard and tried to look mature and serious and non-loserlike.
“Do you have good grades, Phil Coulson?” Agent Fury finally asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“Extracurriculars? Hobbies?”
“Marching band and track, sir. And, er. Collecting comics.”
“What instrument?”
Phil blinked. “Um. Saxophone?”
“Good,” Agent Fury said. “Trumpet players are assholes.”
“Oh man, are they ever,” Phil agreed. “They’re nice one-on-one, but in a group, forget it. If I was the direct— um, never mind.”
Agent Fury looked at him oddly. “No, go on,” he said. “If it was your decision to make, what would you do to get the trumpet section under control?”
Phil wasn’t entirely sure that Agent Fury wasn’t messing with him, but who knew what amazing secret agents were like, really? Maybe they could tell from the way you blinked your eyes what your personality was. Maybe if you scratched your ear it meant you weren’t trustworthy.
Phil’s ear immediately began to itch. He ignored it.
“The problem with the trumpets is they egg each other on,” he said slowly. “One of them starts goofing off, and the others follow. But it’s really just a couple of guys who usually start everything. If I was in charge, I’d give them something else to start—make them switch out leading section rehearsals or something, so they’d get the others to follow along with something useful for a change. And, um, I’d switch the first and second chairs. Bill is good but he doesn’t practice much, he just has a knack for it. He plays well but the others don’t have the talent to get by if they act like he does. Greg isn’t as showy but he puts in the time, and people like him. If he was the one setting the tone for the section I think things would go better.” He trailed off, unnerved by the intent way Agent Fury was watching him. “Um, but that’s just my opinion,” he added. “I’m not an expert or anything.”
“No,” Fury agreed, his voice thoughtful. “But you’ve got a good eye on you.” He pulled a card out of his pocket and started writing on it. “You going to college?”
“I plan on it, sir.”
“Good. SHIELD Academy doesn’t cover undergrad.”
“…Sir?” Phil was hardly breathing. Could this really be happening?
“Major in something useful,” Fury continued. “Learn to question everything and solve problems. Pick a department with a lot of office politics, do some student leadership— you’ll need to be good with people.” He handed Phil the card, which had a mailing address on it. “If you need some advice, feel free to write,” he said. “But don’t come to me expecting all the work done for you, I’ll want to see how you’re thinking.”
“Yes, sir,” Phil said, clutching the card to his chest. “Thank you, sir! I—just, thank you!”
“Save your thanks,” Agent Fury said. “You may not feel the same once you realize what you’ve gotten into.” He nodded at Phil, then his stern face broke into a sly smile. “Then again,” he said, “I think you might surprise me.” He stood up and started walking away, even though Career Day lasted until lunchtime.
“Sir?”
“See you around, Coulson,” he said, over his shoulder, then he exited the gym with a bang of the door and a swirl of his long leather coat.
Seriously. The coolest.
Phil went to the guidance counselor during study hall, and came out with brochures for all the colleges she could think of that had good programs for history, political science, international affairs, psychology, and sociology; he figured that was enough to get him started. Track notwithstanding, he didn’t really think he’d be the type SHIELD wanted for glamorous, James-Bond-esque fights on top of racing trains or whatever; he’d far more likely end up doing some kind of intelligence analysis, decoding bugged conversations from the Kremlin or something.
He made himself a note to make sure that all the colleges on his list offered Russian as an elective.
He started spending more and more time at the library, researching and making lists, writing application essays and looking for scholarships; he harbored a secret hope that he could pay for everything himself and leave his dad’s money for his mom to use. He checked his soulmark after each envelope was sealed, hoping to see some change. There wasn’t much, but he was pretty sure that the purple blobs were taking on a more consistent shape, so that was something, anyway.
Spring came, and with it the results of his applications and essays. Phil made himself a special notebook to keep track of everything, the dates and requirements, financial aid offers and costs. He got accepted everywhere he’d applied, which was a problem; it was a lot easier to throw an expensive school into the mix when you thought you’d probably not get in.
He wrote Agent Fury a letter.
Dear Sir, he wrote, then thought that sounded too impersonal and wrote Dear Agent Fury, then thought that looked completely ridiculous—they weren’t pen pals from summer camp—and just wrote Agent Fury, with a colon after it.
Agent Fury:
I’ve decided to study history and political science, with an emphasis on international relations. I’m also planning to pursue study in foreign languages. I’ve been taking Spanish in school, but I think that I will study Russian in college. Do you think that course of study would be appropriate to prepare me for your agency?
I am also struggling a bit with my choice of school. Some of the schools I am considering are renowned in this field but very expensive (Georgetown, for example) and some also have good reputations but are more affordable, such as the University of Wisconsin at Madison. Do you think that the extra costs of attending a private school will be worth it in the quality of education, or is it better to conserve resources by attending a state school?
Thank you very much for your time and advice.
Sincerely,
Phillip J. Coulson
Three weeks later, a thin, creased envelope with a strange stamp and no return address arrived in the mail for him.
Coulson,
Good choices on the major, as long as you don’t get sucked into the Washington bullshit. It’s good to know what they’re doing, but keep a skeptical eye. Russian’s a good call, but keep up the Spanish if you can: they’ll both be useful.
If you want to go into politics or lobbying, feel free to go learn bootlicking at Georgetown or Columbia, but SHIELD doesn’t give a damn about state schools or ivies as long as you work hard and come out with something to show for it. I’m not going to tell you how to spend your money, but if it were my decision to make I’d spring for a state school where I’d still remember what the real world looked like when I was done.
Your grades and test scores look good. Keep it up.
Fury
Phil wasn’t sure whether to be creeped out by the fact that Agent Fury was apparently keeping tabs on him or flattered that he found Phil worth spying on in the first place. Either way, he found himself reading the letter over several times. He liked the way it was addressed - “Coulson,” it had started, and he’d signed himself “Fury.” Like they were equals, like they were already colleagues.
Phil sat up a little straighter and picked up his notebook.
After talking it over with his mom and sleeping on it a few days, he sent his acceptance in to the University of Wisconsin at Madison. He’d be entering the rising class of 1984 as a history major; he’d work out whatever minors or double majors or certificates he needed once he’d gotten a few classes under his belt.
The next day, the mark on his arm was darker and more clear, still not readable but definitely shaped like letters. Phil decided that was a sign he was on the right track.
He sent a note to Agent Fury letting him know his decision, and got a postcard back with a picture of the London Bridge on the front and a postmark from Nicaragua. It just said “Congratulations - Fury,” but Phil kept it carefully folded up in his notebook with the other letter.
After graduation, there was another piece of grubby mail with another foreign and interesting postmark, this one a bigger envelope that the postman had folded over to make it fit into the box. When Phil opened it, it contained two mimeographed pamphlets with SHIELD’s eagle logo on the covers. They were called “Idiomatic Conversational Russian” and “Idiomatic Conversational Spanish.” The package also contained a note, written on the back of what seemed to be a form in Chinese, that said “You’ll need these as a supplement to what they teach you in class. -Fury.”
When he opened the Spanish one—he’d started working on Russian at the library but he was still struggling with the Cyrillic alphabet—he realized that the whole thing was devoted to the most colorful and filthy collection of profanity he’d ever seen, neatly arranged according to what country or region it was most used in. The text was underlined and annotated heavily with notes in the same handwriting as Fury’s letters.
Phil got a lot of really nice presents for graduation, but that one was his favorite.
Right before his first midterms, he got a postcard that said “good luck” in Russian. Somehow, Fury’s writing was recognizable even in Cyrillic letters. Phil pinned the card up on the bulletin board above his desk, to remind him of his goals when he was tempted to throw his Russian book out the window.
When Phil got on the Dean’s List his first term, he sent Fury a copy of his grades and his class schedule for the next term.
He got a Christmas card on January 4, with the picture of a baleful-looking bird sitting on a snowy branch, glaring out at the observer in a rather unfestive way. The inside contained a single line of Russian that Phil, after some research, decided was best translated as “Great, kid, don’t get cocky.”
Phil wasn’t a hundred percent sure that was a Star Wars quote, but he thought the odds were pretty good.
He got back to school after the holidays to learn he was enrolled in calculus.
“But I’m a history major,” he said plaintively to nobody in particular, standing in the middle of the student center staring at his class list.
Someone’s laden backpack hit him in the shoulder, and he stumbled off into a corner to look at the rest of his mail before he tried to correct his schedule. Between a flyer for the comics club and the Russian-language newsletter that he hadn’t subscribed to but still received once a month, he found another of Fury’s envelopes. This one had what looked like a muddy bootprint all across the back. Inside was a single sheet of paper. “Three terms calculus > linear algebra and differential equations > intro to cryptography,” it said.
Well, shit. Looked like Phil wouldn’t have time for that comics club after all.
Phil’s social life, such as it was, suffered under his new study schedule, but his soulmark seemed to be thriving; it seemed like with every term it got sharper and darker, the color more vivid and the shape more obviously writing. Phil still couldn’t make out what it said, but he was confident he was on the right track.
Sometimes, Phil thought of things he might like to say to his soulmate if he could. Things like “what does your soulmark look like?” and “how would you feel about being soulbonded to a SHIELD agent?” and “are you Russian? It would be pretty cool if you were Russian.”
(Phil might possibly sometimes have entertained himself with daydreams about how he might one day be on a mission for SHIELD and have to rescue a Russian defector and his first words would be in Russian, something cool like “don’t worry, I’m here to rescue you!” and then his person would say “oh thank God, I’ve been waiting so long for you!” and their marks would burn with recognition as Phil dashingly rescued his soulmate to a waiting helicopter. Phil’s soulmate looked different in this fantasy every time, sometimes a broad-shouldered man in a military uniform and sometimes a pale, red-lipped woman in furs, but Phil himself was always wearing a suit like James Bond, and he’d brush snow off his collar in the helicopter and make sure his soulmate wasn’t injured in their escape and then roll up his sleeve and show his mark, visible to anyone for the first time.
He knew it wasn’t going to happen, okay—none of the scraps of letters he’d seen in his mark were actually Cyrillic letters, for one thing—but a guy needed something to think about when he was contemplating a calc problem set, a Russian translation, and an essay on the geopolitical ramifications of the Monroe Doctrine, and they all had to be done over the weekend.)
At the end of freshman year, when he received the notification that he’d been accepted into the Russian-language immersion student housing for the next year (despite not having actually applied), he just shrugged. He needed to work on his accent anyway. Plus, maybe it would give him a chance to work on the Russian swearing from his pamphlet. (Russian apparently had an entire obscene sub-dialect built on four basic curses, and Phil was dying to find someone to practice using it with.)
Over the summer, Phil worked in Mr. Martinez’s garage, just like he had every summer since he was fifteen. He liked the work, plus it gave him a chance to polish up his Spanish, which Ricky Martinez informed him now had a hilariously Russian accent. One day, feeling oddly chatty but not really feeling like talking to anyone he knew in town, he wrote Fury a long letter about the garage, trying to capture the satisfaction of working on a problem with his hands as well as his mind. He wrote it in English, because he was on vacation, and also he didn’t know the Russian for “carburetor.” He also mentioned that he’d started running again, and that he’d gotten out of shape over the school year.
This turned out to be a mistake; the reply— this one on the back of a flyer for a community theater production of Julius Caesar in Albuquerque—pointed out that SHIELD agents were expected to maintain their physical fitness, so he’d be well advised to keep up with some kind of workout schedule when school started back. Phil, miffed, wrote back, “I’m double-majoring in history and international studies, minoring in Russian, and doing this cryptography series in the math department that doesn’t fit with the requirements for any of them, when am I supposed to find the time?”
The reply came a week before Phil was due to head back to Madison, in the form of a large package with a Japanese postmark, which turned out to contain a Sony Walkman and a set of intermediate Russian language tapes.
“Master these and I’ll send the advanced ones for Christmas,” the accompanying note said. In Russian, naturally.
Phil didn’t bother asking how Fury would know if he mastered the tapes; Fury somehow always knew.
Besides, Phil had always wanted a Walkman. He blew a week’s wages buying blank cassettes and spent the weekend taping all his favorite albums to take back with him to college. He’d need something besides just Russian to listen to while he ran.
June, 1984
“Congratulations,” Agent Fury said, stepping out from behind a hedge.
“Thank you,” Phil said, thankful for the time he’d spent re-training his flinch reflex to a freeze reflex, courtesy of the martial arts instructor at whose studio he’d “won” a series of free classes in a contest he’d never entered. “If you’d told me you were coming sooner, I would have reserved you a ticket for the ceremony.”
“I sent an RSVP.”
“You sent a Vigenère cipher,” Phil pointed out. “In Russian.”
“Like I said.”
“The keyword was ‘motherfucker.’”
Fury smirked.
“More to the point,” Phil continued, “it got here two weeks after the deadline.”
Fury tipped his head. “Fair enough. Mail service in Sokovia’s always been for shit.”
“My mom just left,” Phil said, fighting back the urge to adjust his mortarboard. The tassel was annoying, but his mom had wanted pictures. “We’re meeting for dinner later. You could join us?”
“Thanks,” Fury said. “But I can’t stick around; I’ve got to be in Caracas by morning.”
“Oh,” Phil said. Nobody else he knew had ever actually gotten to meet Fury; Phil sometimes felt like he had a foul-mouthed, terrifying fairy godfather. “Well, I appreciate you stopping by.”
Fury nodded. “I wouldn’t have missed it,” he said, and Phil blinked in surprise, because he sounded completely sincere. “You did good, kid. I’m proud of you.”
“I—oh,” Phil said, and swallowed hard. There was a stinging feeling behind his eyes that he was not going to give in to. “Thank you.”
Fury nodded. “You’ll get your admission packet for the SHIELD academy soon,” he said.
“I will? I mean, isn’t there an application process?”
“What the hell do you think you’ve been doing all this time?” Fury said, which, well. He had a point. “I already took care of it.”
For a moment, Phil couldn’t think of anything to say. “I—I mean, thank you,” he managed. “I won’t let you down, sir, I promise.”
“You haven’t yet,” Fury said. “I’m looking forward to seeing what you do next. I have a feeling you’re going to be good for us.” He straightened his shoulders, obviously preparing to go. “I’ll be seeing you.”
Phil looked at him, tall and imposing in his long leather coat, standing out among the graduates scattered across the green like… Phil didn’t even know what like. Like a secret agent in a crowd of college students. It was only the second time they’d even met, but Phil had come to depend on him, on his obnoxious demands (that pushed him to be his best), his curt and profane advice (that always pointed Phil in the right direction), his no-nonsense praise.
“I hope you will,” he blurted, and then before his better judgement could stop him he lunged forward—Fury brought a hand half up as though to block an attack before stopping himself—and threw his arms awkwardly around Fury’s broad, leather-clad torso.
“Be careful in Caracas,” he said. The leather was hot from the sun against his cheek—or possibly Phil was blushing; that was a very distinct possibility.
Fury’s arm came up slowly, and he patted Phil’s shoulder heavily, three times. “Thanks, kid,” he said, something new and—Phil thought—pleased in his tone. “Give ‘em hell at the Academy.”
Phil pulled back, clearing his throat. “Yes, sir,” he said.
Fury grinned at him, gave him a companionable punch to the shoulder that would have knocked Phil back a step two years ago, and vanished back around the hedge.
Phil huffed a sigh, then pushed back the sides of his unzipped graduation gown and shoved his hands in his pockets. There was a rustle of paper in the left one that hadn’t been there before, and when Phil pulled out the contents he found a thick wad of twenties folded around a note.
“Have some fun this summer,” it said, not even in Russian this time. “You won’t have time once you start the Academy. I’ll be watching your career with interest. —Fury.”
Phil put it all back in his pocket. He hesitated for a minute, then unbuttoned his shirt cuff and pushed up his sleeve. In the sunshine, his mark practically gleamed; the color was almost irridescent, eggplant purple with a glaze of blue. He still couldn’t read it, but it was definitely developing; it was only, he told himself, a matter of time.