paradisa

[Sleepytime has not been kind to Phil. After waking up from a restless, rather disturbing sleep strangely devoid of dreams, but not of unpleasantness, he's pretty much been fighting sleep very quietly for the last few days, catching a few hours here and a few hours there. Having kept his ear to the ground...or his eye on the journal, as it were, he's been hearing a little about just what went down, and is still trying to make sure nothing of his was taken. Not that he has much, anyway, he hasn't collected much as of yet and prefers a utilitarian room anyway.]

[He did, however, find every last one of his disposable razors gone. He's still not happy about that. He's not happy period because...well. First he's dead, then he's in a magic castle, then he's forcibly doped for days and wakes to have his stuff rifled...]

Is it normal to be sick of this place so quickly?

[Filtered to all present Avengers and their fellows]

Everything all right on your end?

☻ annoyed

believinginheroes

[Phil's been in Paradisa for a while, and he's adjusting to life in the castle. Slowly. But still adjusting.]

[He's also still trying to cope with the thing he thinks he knows...the thing he hasn't really talked to anyone about: where he was when he showed up. Or, more specifically, where he is pretty sure he wasn't.]

[So he's blowing off a little steam in the bar downstairs, nursing a scotch and just enjoying the solitude...until he's not, and feels that old familiar restless itch between his shoulderblades, the one that got him the very assignment that he's pretty sure is responsible for killing him. He can only think of one way to scratch that itch, at least in this place.]

[Pulling his journal out, which he can lift since it's been explained to him how it works, Phil lays it open on the table and pauses for a sip of his drink.]

This message is for my friends...but it's pretty much for anyone, now that I think about it. [He pauses...he's good at his job, but not the most social of animals, so it's a little awkward, inviting anyone and everyone to basically come and say hello...]

Anyway, uhm...I'm Phil. And I'm down in the bar. If you're...bored.

[A beat] I've...I know there's some pretty strange things in this place. [Another beat] I'd kind of like to see just how strange. So...come on by if you have a story to tell.

☻ bored

believinginheroes

"It's okay, boss. This was never gonna work if they didn't have something to..."

[The world got dark just then, everything getting suddenly dim and distorted. For a split second, Phil was afraid. He wasn't scared of dying, he wasn't even scared of Hell or hopeful of heaven...he just needed to finish that one stupid sentence. He needed to make his point...he *needed* them to know why it was okay for him to go.

He hallucinated before the end. He had to be hallucinating, because the cold cement floor and chrome surfaces were something...much different before he died.]

* * * * *

[Through the journal, there's a muted noise as Phil stirs, making a soft, drowsy sound as he opens his eyes and rubs his face. He's flat on his back and staring at the ceiling of a room he didn't recognize. Blinking, he sits up and looks around...and oddly enough, the carpet catches his eye. He remembers it from his dim fever dream...]

What...

[He rubs his chest, and finds no sign of injury. Did he lose some time in there? Maybe he'd been transported to another SHIELD facility where they worked on him. It didn't feel that way, though...no pain, no tenderness, he'd been shot and stabbed in the line of duty before. Kind of came with the job description.

So the question remained...]

Where the hell am I?

☻ confused

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journal posts

Entries tagged with phil coulson

003 - back in action...again {dictated}

002 - drinking to drink {action/dictated}

001 - recalled to life

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January 2015

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