15Ah, heckfire, this is a first attempt at this stuff and I hope it suits someone. Also, after reading it about 300 times, I probably skipped straight over any mistakes, so excuse me.
"We need to talk." May ambushed Phil Coulson on his way out of the dressing room, opening the intended conversation with a prompt that, ordinarily, spelled trouble. Yet, as he thought over those last several days following the departure of Lady Sif and her prisoner, nothing came to mind. Per his instructions, the team had taken a day off to recover and, though still somewhat subdued, things seemed to be getting back to normal. Better yet, they'd received no priority requests for their services and no alerts from S.H.I.E.L.D. HQ so... What could be wrong?
Still, May had asked and, clearly, something was bothering her so Coulson led her to his office where their conversation would be private. May waited for him close and lock the door before turning to face a confused but never flustered Phil Coulson. "What's up?" He asked, settling into a chair and offering her one."I'm sorry. This may seem like a stupid question, but-". May began, not yet settling down for the conversation she'd initiated. "Have you seen Ward lately?"
Puzzled by that innocuous question on the heels of such a, well, dramatic introduction, he responded automatically. "Huh? Sure, he's-
"Right after-" When the answer did not spring to mind, he thought over the past several days. Of course, Ward had been involved in the dustup with Lady Sif. And afterward, he'd, well, they'd all had sought a little sack time to recover. Though, he remembered, Ward had meant to carry on with his regular duties, predictably declaring that, contrary to appearances, he was fit and would hold the fort til the others recovered, an assertion he had maintained until Phil had flatly ordered him to take downtime.
"Since then?" Brisk and uncharacteristically the agent interrupted him to ask.
"Sure." His was an automatic response because, after all, they were on the Bus so where could he go? Once prompted, though, he could not think if he had seen Ward since he ordered him to rest. Maybe in passing. But Grant was a specialist, solitary and focused both by nature and training; no doubt he was busying himself with preparations for the next job. The man always seemed to be busy working on, well, work. "Okay," he answered after due consideration. "Maybe not. Why'd you ask?"
"Because," May's serious gaze held his, "no one else has, either."
What! Not a little stunned by that unwonted revelation, his initial reaction, a single inarticulate, "Hhnnn?"
By now, familiar with Coulson's methods, May waited for him to process the information and was rewarded, moments later, when he continued. "Since this disappearance seems to include everyone, I assume you have an answer for me."
In response, May quirked an eyebrow for permission and pulled up a computer screen. "Simmons came to me two days ago because he hasn't been to see Skye once in that whole time. She asked the same question and, believe me, I had the same answer. He is kind of a ghost at the best of times," she admitted, a sadly reflective smile clouding her face. This, Phil observed, coming from a woman who made solitude and inscrutable an art form, while he appreciated the absolution her admission offered him. After all, as the captain of the team, it was his job to know where, and how, it's members were. At all times. He nodded for her to continue. Little wonder it had been Skye who noticed the absence, he reckoned, making a mental note to commend her while pointing out that, in this closed environment, people did need personal space.
"We talked about it and no one's caught more than a glimpse since-" May paused for a fortifying breath, "the incident with Lady Sif."
"Well, I did tell him to take some downtime," he temporized, remembering the younger man's resistance to the suggestion that had, per force, escalated to a command before he'd put down the equipment on which he was working and gone to his room. Of course, Coulson admitted privately, he would not have locked him in, being fully briefed on the details of Ward's formative years, but Grant did not need to know that. Even the threat, however necessary he deemed it, left Coulson feeling like he'd just drowned a starving puppy. Perhaps it had worked too well. Never his intention! "I wasn't very nice about it." He admitted.
May suppressed a smile at that sheepish admission, if there was anyone whose 'not very nice' was nicer, she'd never met them. "So," she continued, searching for the file they had prepared and opening the video. "We, well, Skye and Simmons mostly, used the security monitors to track his movements. This is how he spent that time, Phil. The notations across the bottom indicate the time he spent on each activity."
Silence reigned for long moments after the video ended, during which Phil contemplated the listing at the end which calculated the total times spent on the various activities. At last he looked up to face his pilot and ran an unsteady hand through his hair. "Let me get this, in the last three days he's spent approximately 40 hours exercising, 20 cleaning and checking weapons, about 3 eating and bathing and 8 or just under it at least appearing to sleep?" He asked, incredulous.
Sober, May nodded agreement. "More or less. And making note of what he did consume," she folded her arms across her chest and paused for emphasis, "all told it was less than 2000 Calories, if he actually ate that much."
"What the he- heck?" Coulson voiced that rhetorical question, certain that, having dropped her stun bomb, May would elaborate.
"We've all tried to talk to him but he's dodged us or found some lame excuse to leave. Simmons had the best luck. She got him to drink a cup of sedative spiked tea; but he only had a little to be polite, which might have bought us a couple hours. No more because either he set an alarm or he had a nightmare and got up to do an hour and a half of calisthenics. He hasn't drunk anything but tap water since, so that's out as an option for getting him down.
"She have any idea what's wrong?" Coulson asked with, she concluded, hampered by the typical masculine blinders that never liked to admit it could happen to them.
"Phil," May answered quietly, allowing time for him to process an unpalatable truth. "He was raped. Lorelei compelled him to have sex. She gave him no choice in the matter. Something that has happened way too often in his life, so now, he's trying to regain control.
"If we're not able to make him see reason," her. slight pause was telling, the more so for the sorrow she allowed to reflect in her face. "I don't know how much further he'll go before he really hurts himself."
He nodded understanding. "Also," he added, "probably punish himself for being weak, failing at his job. He said that-right after-which is stupid."
Something Coulson would pick up on, May observed and snorted, "As if," no one who'd met Specialist Ward would call him weak or failing his responsibilities. Not Skye's 'T1000'. "You need to talk to him."
So it was that Team Captain Phil Coulson found himself outnumbered by his teammates and brainstorming the means of 'delicately/ compassionately' confronting their wounded specialist.
From the safety of the monitors, Coulson and May watched the specialist work the punching bag. No finesse and no footwork involved, he stood in front of the bag and pounded away, blows landing with metronomic precision until the places they could see, despite heavy wrapping, were soaked with sweat and blood. Even the casual glance showed a significant loss of weight and haggard appearance, anathema to a man who was usually the poster boy for a specialist in S.H.I.E.L.D. Coulson fumed, way beyond furious that, knowing the man's background, he had failed to anticipate the likelihood of this happening.
Beside him, May seconded his cursed response at the sight and patted his shoulder in encouragement. "Remember," she told him, "we can always use the night-night on him if we have to."
"Yeah," he admitted, "but we'd only be putting it off and that's not fair to Ward. He needs to feel we're there to support him not sneaking around behind to ambush him, which we already tried and it didn't work. Right now he doesn't need another problem, he needs some peace." So he heaved a sigh of resignation and left to confront his troubled subordinate.
"Ward," Phil Coulson stood just inside the gym, strategically placed so his agent could not leave without overtly avoiding him. Even that, quietly delivered, saw the usually steel nerved man startle visibly and spin to identify the threat then flush with palpable embarrassment. In seconds he recovered to stand, rigidly attentive, and respond, "Sir?"
Though his voice did not falter, Ward's eyes assumed a haunted and suspicious look as he continued. "What do you need, Sir?" It was a natural enough question, delivered with almost desperate intensity, Phil decided, that left little doubt he'd not only drowned that puppy, he'd kicked him first for good measure.
"Could I have a few moments Ward?"
"Sir!" He snapped a response, eyes straight ahead as though it was his first day at the Academy; then, almost as quickly reproached himself for his slavish overreaction and forced himself to assume a more natural stance. At that Coulson found himself again cursing the vicious and vain Asgardian they'd so recently helped defeat and return home. He could see, too, the barely controlled tension beneath the ramrod stance and feared it was less pride and more desperate need to prove, to himself if no one else, his worth. Damn that woman! he wanted to rage, seeing, as May had previously observed, that even a few days on short rations, too much exercise and too little sleep had taken a major toll on the usually self-assured young man. He saw something else. Beyond the red, fatigue hollowed eyes and over defined muscles of anorexia, Ward all but vibrated like a key struck piano wire, tension Coulson most assuredly did not want to ramp up before their talk.
"Let's go to my office, Grant, and I'll grab us a cup of coffee." Coulson offered the invitation as casually as he could, for all that it was, unequivocally, a command. And Ward met that offer with the fatalistic acceptance of a man being led to the guillotine, leaving little doubt that he saw nothing good coming from it. Indeed how could he? Experience had proven him right time and again. Nevertheless he faced the challenge head-on, as he had his whole life, and obediently followed Coulson.
For his part, having deposited Ward in his office, Phil made his way to the kitchen, planning the fastest turnaround he could, afraid if he took too long, his specialist would elope. He needn't have worried; May had been watching on the monitor and beat him there, anticipating his need.
Nor was she the only one. Even before he reached the kitchen, Coulson heard the animated discussion of the other team members, and sure enough, the scene of domestic tranquility which met him was as amusing as it was heartwarming. So much so that he paused to commemorate it with a picture before going in. Fitz-Simmons, clothing protected by toweling, were there with May, and the still bed-ridden Skye watching through a laptop, all working in concert to prep the assault on their guilt ridden teammate. Jemma was just pulling a batch of wondrous smelling scones from the oven which she set beside a plate of chocolate chip cookies, themselves clearly fresh made. And May filled a huge tray with coffee, cups and cream and sugar then helped stock it with cookies and scones. A little overwhelmed and wondering how he'd get the darned thing there in one piece, Coulson smiled in appreciation, "This is really nice but I'll never"
"You don't have to, Sir," Simmons burbled producing a no doubt scrupulously sterile specimen cart upon which May settled the tray. "We just wanted to let Ward- That is, to show him we care," she offered a blushing explanation and bustled back with-napkins, no less-which she placed on the already loaded tray. "These are his favorite cookies, and Fitz says he'll absolutely adore the scones. They're oatmeal."
"He will," Coulson decided then and there, 'if I have to shove them down his throat.' "Well," he followed the cart, already in motion thanks to Fitz and May, "Thanks. I better take it from here." Which, as it happened, was the door to his office.
More surprising to Coulson, Ward was still there when he returned with the promised beverage, though, sadly, he remained rigidly at attention looking, if possible, more friable than he had in the gym.
"Have a cup of coffee,". Coulson offered, indicating the loaded tray. "Maybe a cookie or two while we talk."
"I don't -". Ward broke off, recognizing the misstep, and consciously rephrased his refusal. "I'd rather not. Thank you, Sir,"
"Noted," Coulson smiled, disarmingly agreeable. "Have one anyway, Ward; and sit down." he instructed, sipping at his coffee til the agent reluctantly complied and awaited further instructions, cookie abandoned on his knee and the cup cradled in his hands as though it were a live grenade. Coulson had expected some kind of delaying tactic from the distressed agent, had been curious what he would come up with. Apparently, he noted with amused understanding, Ward had opted to ignore the coffee and sweet until Coulson forgot them. 'Not gonna happen, Grant,' he promised with a smile and selected one of his own to savor, enjoying the mid morning treat. "I have a problem I need your help with." he began, taking another bite.
"If I can, Sir." Ward responded, eyes surreptitiously checking his own cookie and swallowing hard.
'That a boy.' Coulson encouraged, finding himself again with an image of luring that starving puppy to food. 'Good boy.' "Pretty sure you can." He put the final frame of the women's carefully prepared report on screen watching the agent's reaction to the list of how he had occupied himself for the last 72 hours. Ward visibly flinched, and the coffee grenade 'exploded'. Well, Coulson admitted to indulging a slight exaggeration for effect; to be accurate, it more spilled over onto his pants; but, clearly this was something Ward had thought, or hoped, no one would notice. "Would you care to explain?"
For several moments, Ward stared at the display, almost visibly castigating himself for getting caught. Then he carefully set his coffee on the desk in front of him After that, he kept his eyes on the moistened material, scrubbing at his wet pants with one of the napkins the ever proper Jemma had provide as though it was the most important job he had. When he spoke, his answer was not unexpected, "The price of failure." A perspective too like that forced upon him by his father in particular and, quite probably, his SO, John Garrett. "I can't let it happen again." And that was justification for starvation and overwork? Coulson wondered, but he knew it was the kind of approach John took, one of the reasons Coulson had wanted Grant. Another 'Project' as John snidely referred to his request for the specialist. Didn't matter; Phil Coulson hated to see a good agent ruined, especially one already, if the not so oblique references in his file were accurate, vulnerable by upbringing. He didn't mind the term at all if it meant he could get to him early enough to make a difference.
"What failure, Ward? Let what happen?" Coulson asked, reaching for another cookie and reminding himself that, unlike his 'project', he did have to worry about those extra cookies.
"To protect and defend this ship, this team. That's my responsibility, Sir. And I walked away, just like that." Profound sadness reflected in his eyes with that forthright admission.
"Not 'just like that', Ward, and you know it."
"My choice, Sir. A bad one. I have to accept the consequences, atone for-"
"No, you don't, because you had no choice. You, like Fitz and the others she controlled, were conscripted, as good as drugged. But, Agent Ward, since you think you need it, what punishment do you think fits the crime?" Coulson could almost see the options flashing through his specialist's mind, likely none pleasant and all involving some kind of retributive violence. Until he cautioned, "Whatever happens, you're in it together, Ward. You and Fitz."
That statement took the wind out of him, thank God, Coulson breathed in relief. Because while Grant would no doubt accept punishment on his own account, he did not seem willing to visit it upon the quirky engineer of whom he had grown fond. Now, how to broach the real question, Coulson reminded, if he could think of-
"I- I slept with her, Sir," Ward all but whispered that admission, his face flushed in shame and his eyes focused on the damp coffee spot he still worried.
"Who wouldn't?" Coulson asked reasonably. "She's beautiful. She's a god. And she's got a hypnotic voice.
"She wanted you, Ward," Coulson did not bandy words or offer excuses, "and she took you, just like she took Fitz. Because she had a need that you filled; and because she could."
"She didn't take you, Sir." He pointed out.
"Well, first, Ward, she already had the Bus and you to fight for her; she didn't need me. Plus," he added, allowing himself the tiniest smirk of satisfaction, "she never got close enough. That didn't hurt."
"I guess not," Ward acknowledged, absently breaking off a piece of his cookie to taste and following it with a sip of coffee.
'That a boy!' Coulson encouraged his imaginary puppy with a relieved smile, 'have some more.' Then, aloud, offered Ward absolution, "And you did not abandon the Bus, either of you. Though I would have preferred one less passenger, and not so much drama, we did get Lady Sif back to Asgard with her prisoner. A job well done, for all of us."
Coulson watched Ward roll those arguments around in his head, saw, too, when another would make the difference and went in for the save. "We all fail sometime, Grant. Out-gunned, out-maneuvered, out-numbered, out-manned," he smiled, knew it was not a happy one as he forced himself to face his own dread recollection, and added the most telling option, "Dead." Ward flinched at that flatly delivered reminder and, with shaking hands, went back to cleaning his pants. He said nothing, though Coulson could see him swallow repeatedly and thought his eyes seemed a bit shinier than usual. His own were no less so, he was sure, but he had no intention of backing away from this dilemma when his agent needed him.
"Things don't always work out the way we hope, Grant. That's life. Sometimes we get to chose; sometimes life, or fate, chooses for us. We just have to make the best choice we can and move on." Coulson gave Ward a minute to consider that, then added his official estimation. "I think you did pretty well, given the circumstances, Grant. That's all any of us can ask of ourselves. You don't need to make up for anything.
"Now, how 'bout we go share some of these goodies with the others? They've been worried about you "And try one of these scones. Fitz says you'll love them."
"Oatmeal?" Ward guessed, leaning forward to take one.
"How'd you know?" Coulson quipped, taking a small one for himself and relaxing back into his chair for a few moments before shepherding Ward out to join the rest of the team.