15It took a while, but here is the next chapter. Thanks to everyone who has borne with me. Again, my most sincere and heartfelt gratitude extend to LittleBounce for her great editorial labours ( despite having her own excellent stories, not mention actual labor, to work on) on behalf of this wee sgeul. And to those who have favorited, followed and reviewed, a very hearty handshake. ooh, Caveat. I lied about this being the last chapter, it turned into a behemoth so I was forced to cut it down to size. Elf
Perils and Picnics
"Come on, Ward." Fitz offered reason to the, thankfully only mildly piqued, Specialist. What did ye expect me ta do? I barely saw her before she yelled a' ye!"
"And that's why you two were cowering back in the corner?" Ward's rational demand battered the excuse as he approached his target.
"You don' have ta work with her all the time. I'll never hear the end of et, 'cause she expected me te stop you doing that."
To which Ward displayed his bio monitoring watch with an arched brow.
"She's worried abou' ye, Ward. Wish she'd worry abou' — No! Don' you dare —!" Quick as a wink, Ward's metal-edged arm closed around Fitz, immobilizing the smaller man's arms between them before he virtually carried him the short distance to the nearby bulkhead. "Ward, no!" Fitz pleaded, struggling, eyes wildly desperate. "Ward, you don't need te do this."
"Oh, I do, Fitz. You need the lesson," he intoned, eyes glinting mischief as he pulled from his pocket the ice cold bottle Fitz had just opened for him, carefully thumbed the top while he positioned it and emptied its contents to the gratifying shrieks of his victim.
"I've never seen him so ... playful," a smiling May commented, watching with Coulson as the engineer's ear piercing shrieks accompanied his desperate attempts to escaped that icy deluge.
"I'm not sure I've ever welcomed a mess to clean up more than I have this one," he agreed, encouraged by the moment of abandon that perhaps he was not, in fact, too late to rescue this wounded pup. While he had, predictably, accepted Simmons' monitors and terms, Ward did not appear to hold the necessity against her, nor their lack of moral support against Fitz and Skye. Of course, given his fondness for the hacker, that was not a surprise. What was, is that his response toward the engineer seemed refreshingly and uncharacteristically puckish.
On-screen, Ward released his victim, stepping away to collect the IV stand and a mop which, even single-handed, he plied with surprising proficiency. "What would you have done, Fitz? If I were really —"
"I know, I know! Ye just took me unaware, Ward."
"What should you have done?" He repeated, patient.
"I shouldnae have asked ye ta teach me."
"And that's how it will happen, Leo," he instructed, letting his student wring the sodden mop. "When you least expect it. You can't let your guard down. Ever." Satisfied with his efforts, Ward replaced the equipment and asked again. "What should you have done, Fitz?"
"Okay, okay. I was thenkin'. Em, I stomp on yer instep."
"Wide stance. Doesn't work."
"Knee."
"Telegraphed. I shift."
"Grab yer personal parts and —"
"Not your best choice, too easy to stop with that and after you piss them off, you'll have a harder time putting them down. Next."
"Lift my feet up and drop." Fitz ventured, bending to remove his wet shoes and sopping socks.
"Might work; but I'm bigger. If I fall on you, you could be injured or trapped. Plus, now I'm mad and it'll be harder to escape." Ward answered, collecting the socks and equally water-logged slacks his pupil handed over at his gesture. "Anything else?" He asked, squeezing the excess out against the sink wall before he put them in the dryer.
While Ward was occupied, Fitz disappeared for a moment into his room and returned wearing a new pair of slacks which he fiddled to adjust.
"Leverage, Fitz," the Specialist reminded evenly. "Leverage. So what —?"
"Oh, oh! One arm, up an' over, then down," Fitz exclaimed in delight.
In response, Ward repeated his attack. But this time Fitz was ready. "Up, over, turn and down," Ward coached, smiling as the engineer completed the maneuver and broke free, though he clearly took care for Ward's injury. "Good, that's good, Fitz. Remember that and remember — be ready. Because I will be."
Eyes glowing with his success, Fitz bounced to catch the IV stand as he turned to Ward. "C'mon, let's go work on that storage room and see what we need for supplies."
"Hnnh," Coulson's initial reaction. "Good to see Fitz getting a little training."
"Now," May's reply was a bit more realistic, "all we can hope is he doesn't practice on the unwary." But she, too, was smiling. About time something good happened to Ward.
• • • • •
"So what's the best move you can make to break a hold?" Ward finished filling the container he held, put the last three in a new one and set them on the cart beside him. "That's 51, Fitz. Do you have somewhere you want them stacked?"
"Thumb. It's got limited flexibility an' ye can use it as a 'come along'. Wouldn' tha' be more of a get along, though?"
"Don't quit your day job. Where do you want these boxes?"
The engineer considered it then moved the just filled containers to the lower level of the cart. "Et's a carton, Ward, no' a box."
"Carton, box, whatever. Who cares? Where do you want them?"
"You hold stuff, too, Ward, an' ye don't see me calling you a carton."
"Again, don't quit your day job. What's next on the list?" Ward reached further into the deep shelf they'd been working to pull the remaining contents to the fore, taking advantage of the Claw's protective inflexibility to scoop the items nearer for perusal. "What are these things, anyway?"
"Ye wouldn't know what they were ef I told ye, just collect 'em up by the numbers aside the packaging, et's easiest that way." Fitz answered absently, scanning the listings on his tablet.
"Your wish, my command," Ward's reply was uncalculatedly casual, enough so that he started a bit at the unwary naïveté it reflected. What was happening to him that he found himself joking, actually joking, with this young man when nothing in his history or training advised the wisdom in such reckless involvement? One did not make friends with possible adversaries, that was one of Garrett's rules: 'Don't play with your food'. Back then it had sounded really badass to a 15 year old, now it just sounded predatory. He was supposed to be a S.H.I.E.L.D., not a raptor. Ward shook such ruminations from his mind, those things were for later consideration. Now, thanks to Fitz, he had this job to provide much needed occupation to counter his enforced inactivity. Which, he reminded, he should quit pondering and start collecting ... 084? "Hey, Fitz! 084!"
"Wha'?" the engineer's vague response reached him from the far corner.
"084' Fitz. What are these?"
"Valves, micro. They come en handy on lots a things. Why?" And, as if he'd only just heard the query, "Oh, you mean the number? Yeah, kind a weird, isn' et? But et's just a number."
"I was just pointing it out, Fitz. Not intimating it's a conspiracy or anything; unless it is, then —"
"Et's not a conspiracy, Ward. I realize et's yer job to be paranoid, but still —"
"I have to point out the old adage: just because you're paranoid doesn't mean no one's after you. Words to live by, Fitz." What the hell?. This was getting to be unreal. What was wrong with him, did someone slip drugs into the IV? Well, he decided, not much he could do about it now; but he made note to refuse the next dose until he was convinced it was unadulterated. Meanwhile, he reached for a carton to hold the 084's and started counting.
Some twenty minutes later, Fitz set his tablet aside and straightened into a stretch before turning to Ward. "I'm gettin' hungry, Ward. How 'bout you?"
"Yeah, that'd be okay, but I want to finish this first."
"Tha's all right," he assured, accepting Ward's need to finish anything he'd started. "I can go fix a sandwich and get us a few drinks. Make et kind of a pecnic. What say?"
"Sure," Ward agreed absently, dumping another box of small, mixed items to the working surface of their transfer cart beside him and continuing to work. "But you're still not getting to first base." What. The. Hell?. This frivolous banter was just wrong! Ward paused a moment, ostensibly considering the question. But in truth, he struggled to come to grips with his recent behavior. This wasn't him! He had never engaged in horseplay! either physical or verbal, even as a child, because, back then, he'd spent all his efforts protecting and caring for his younger brother. And afterwards, with Garrett? Well, with Garrett, the games he'd played had been in a 'foxhole' and those stakes – were life and death. Period. Ward did not play games!
"Well, what d'ye want, Ward?" Fitz asked, accurately divining the Specialist's quandary and fanning the spark of playfulness with his reply. "And, as ye've started et, I wouldn' try anyway, 'cause ye're too pretty."
A comment which Ward greeted with all the disdain it deserved as he edged back to let Fitz out. "Beef, I guess, Fitz. Or whatever's available."
"Right," Fitz breezed past his studiously engaged partner, "back in a few." But when the door shut and the room shuttered him from view, Ward's expression morphed to one of utter disbelief at his loss of control while Fitz's evinced unparalleled delight in the same.
'Idiot!' Ward berated, plenty used to hearing it from Garrett. "What are you thinking, Ward? Get a grip." He had maybe a quarter hour to gain a modicum of equanimity before Fitz returned and he meant to. What to count now? Well, a middling rack held — he shifted one experimentally — lightweight, mid-sized boxes (he was sure these were boxes, whatever Fitz avowed) which appeared to share a number, so this was his objective. Turned out there were more more of them than he'd allowed and he began stacking the overflow on the ground, having no more convenient area, and every intention they'd only be there a few minutes. But when he turned to clear a space for them, the boxes staged a flanking attack.
Ward jumped at the collapsing attack, automatically on the offense. As quickly, he spied the culprit and, the blinking alert of the blabberwatch. The IV, which he'd virtually forgotten, had become entangled about one of the boxes and, when he turned, the added tension had unbalanced it and set off a chain reaction. Having reasoned that out, Ward realized he'd been preparing to battle 32 well-wrapped but ill-prepared boxes into submission.
Just great!. What else could go wrong? First he was scared by a bunch of boxes, and the resultant jump in his 'vitals' set off the damned Benedict Watch so everyone could enjoy his humiliation! The picture that painted was just too good and, like Valentine Smith in Stranger In a Strange Land, the whole scenario was so horrible he'd no choice but the release of laughter.
Ward was still chuckling, minutes later, when he reached deep into the corner to clear away a small box of some kind in preparation of placing the now counted boxes and when the interloper proved intractable, Ward added his other to the effort even though that cut down on visibility. He knew where the damned stuff was, now, if he could wrest it free.
Suddenly, nothing warning but a pinch at his splinted wrist, warmth sprayed the boxes below, painting them in bright arterial blood. While his heart started, the tattle-tale watch let out a single abortive bleat and fell silent as Ward, not unfamiliar with such occurrences, tested the trap. Careful to slip between wrist and rack, with his free hand, he tourniqueted his injured wrist, a calculated preference to relying on the 'call' button. Fitz would be back soon and they'd work it out, no fuss.
"What are you doing, Fitz?" Simmons demanded, sparing the briefest glance at his food laden arms as she hurried past.
"Et's lunch, Jemma. Were we no' to eat?" He reasoned, matching her speedier pace, and began to worry though he had no reason to do. "What's the matter," he asked following the clearly upset scientist.
"His monitor went off!"
"— and?"
"And then it stopped, Fitz, which it very well shouldn't have."
"He's very —" Fitz began but she cut him off as they reached the door.
"Put that down," her whispered instruction was loud enough to be heard throughout the Bus. "Go see what's happening," she urged, shooing him towards the door. And Fitz had to admit that, however bossy, at least she was trying to abide by her agreement with Ward despite obvious concern.
Fitz smelled the blood before he saw it, barely opening the door wide enough to allow access when Ward hissed a warning. Fitz's heart slammed in his chest, loud enough that he was surprised Simmons couldn't hear it from her post outside the door. "Wha' happened?" Fitz shot the question at Ward, searching his pocket for a flashlight he always carried, and privately thanking Simmons provident suggestion that he leave his com open so they could communicate despite Ward's understandable reluctance to 'sharing his shortfalls'.
"I don't know," Ward's calm reply helped. It really helped the panic that wanted to scream and run about for all that he knew it was wrong and would ill serve his friend. He had held together before, he would do now. "I went to shift this box and — it bit me."
"Can ye get free?"
"I don't want to try if I can't see what I'm hooked on," Ward explained, still calm, a feat Fitz knew was beyond him as the wounded man shifted to give the him access.
"Okay, I get that. Let me see can I get a look." Fitz edged beside the wounded Specialist, careful of the piled boxes and pooled blood which, thankfully, did not appear to be getting any bigger. Light or no, it was a close fit and Ward's body shadowed the scene. Tiptoes, then, Fitz decided and crawled onto the lowest shelf, using it to boost himself closer to better see where Ward was pinned. "I can nae see anything," he reported, embarrassed that his voice wavered, "let me get a feel."
"No, you don't, Leo" Ward informed, his tone calculatedly icy, "I'm not that kind of man," and, as intended, the engineer caught his breath on a coughing chortle and settled into his accustomed businesslike demeanor. Seconds later, augmenting his vision with the flashlight, he edged in to check from below.
"Feels like a screw or some other kind of fastener. Et's bent upward and caught on yer splint."
"Can you take the splint off? Would that make a difference?"
"No. Et's wedged in there. Le' me see ef I can get a bit closer." Fitz stepped up to the next shelf, which he used to propel himself nearer the Specialist, little noticing and less caring that blood crept along the slats to paint his shirt. "I think I can —"
"I can just pull it off —"
"No!" Fitz snapped a deterrent grip on Ward's good hand. "Ye'll do more harm than good. Just hang on a bet. Le' me look." Penlight in mouth, the smaller man shifted for leverage and caught Ward's wrist in both hands then pushed the captive splint towards the wall as he lifted up and, in surprised delight, dropped the light as Ward's hand came free, then gaped with horror as blood spurted from the wound with renewed vigor.
"Oh, my God! I can' believe —.
"It's okay, Fitz," Ward's solid, calming voice assured him. "I let go when you pulled. I'll get it. Was about time to loosen up on the pressure anyway."
"As if." Fitz scoffed as he crawled free of the imprisoning rack to catch its stalwart victim. 'Some rescue!' But standing alone, the Specialist looked less steady than he sounded and readily accepted the supportive shoulder he was offered. "C'mon, Ward, let's go." And, he noted the measure of his need also, that Ward neither balked nor argued his suggestion. IV and flagging Specialist in hand, Fitz no sooner reached the door, his offered words both encouraging his wounded partner and informing the rescuers waiting outside the door.
"It would have been faster if you'd let us put you on the cart." Simmons commented, little hiding her irritation at his cussed insistence on watching everything she did. Proffering for verity the antibiotic dose she'd prepared then piggybacked onto his old IV line, she could understand that Ward, confounded by his unusually and seemingly inexplicably jocular outbursts, questioned his loss of control. It would, however, have been more amusing were he not in danger of bleeding out before she could treat him.
"I didn't need to be babied," Ward insisted yet again, "I told you, I could walk on my own just fine." His attention, unwavering despite his sinking blood pressure, Ward waited until Simmons moved away to gather her surgical equipment and only then nodded the okay for May to start a second IV in his uninjured arm, which she managed with a sympathetic look and irritated sigh.
"Yeah," Simmons acknowledged, cutting him no slack, "but it took twice as long and you'd have fallen on your face without us."
"I'd have made it."
Quite probably true, she admitted having seen him operate, or he'd have died trying.
"I've done it before." And the sad fact all acknowledged, he certainly had. "And if I hadn't," he added as an afterthought, the chilling reminder, Coulson noted from his discreet observation of the Specialist's treatment, of why he'd finagled the man's transfer, "I deserved what I got, because I failed." And failures don't deserve to live. That had always been the huge difference of opinion between himself and Garrett: Coulson had felt that, in keeping with their avowedly altruistic purpose, the training of personnel should be focused toward that end. One could not train agents like attack animals and expect humanity, self-sacrifice and compassion. The frustrated and bewildered Robot now under Simmons' care proved that point for him.
Ward could do it alone. Always had. Because he'd always had to. But he didn't have to, that was the point they were trying to make Ward see. He no longer had to go it alone. Lamentable as this incapacitating injury had been, the team had hoped it would provide their solitary Android with proof it no longer had to be that way. On the negative side, Coulson observed in evaluating the accident, he'd refused to rely on the easily accessible 'alert' attached to his splint; but, on the positive side, he had waited for Fitz, expecting, if the engineer's observations were correct, the pair of them would manage. For Ward, that was a big step. Not whole-hearted reliance on Team, Coulson admitted, but a promising beginning. Maybe the gentle touch was starting to work on his emotionally scarred and starved pup.
He watched as May assisted in the minor surgery, Fitz and Skye watching from just outside the sterile perimeter. Everyone cared about their Specialist, that much was clear, (and he'd certainly known a few he'd gladly have jettisoned, so he knew whereof he spoke). Ward was a Keeper. Now, if they could only convince him of that.
Vague memories of yet another decadently self-indulgent bath in bed followed him to consciousness as Skye coaxed him awake. "Ward, come on, wake up."
Slumber warred with that sweet call of welcome, laying claim to his eyelids, but years of habit won out and Ward forced himself awake. "What?" He croaked, surprised at how dry his throat was despite the two IV's suspended above his bed. That same conditioning had him checking his ability to function should the need arise. Both legs and feet responded, but —in the background, the measured, comforting beep of the monitor picked up— his right arm did not! And when he meant to check it, he found his protectively padded left arm handcuffed to the side rail. Thus provoked, his vitals nudged the already strident alarm into high gear, adding counterpoint to the clanking 'cuffs. Skye tried to help, he noted, absently proud. She gained leverage with a solid grip on his thumb to stall his efforts.
"That will be enough, young man!" Despite the incongruity of her address, Simmons' effectively delivered command cut through Ward's panicked attempt at escape, while the syringe she held at the ready provided added incentive to cease and desist his misbehavior. "Exactly what is the complaint, Ward?" She asked, sweet-voiced as ever, eyes drifting to his wounded arm. "If you're worried about your arm, it's all right, it's going to be fine. We merely used this opportunity to check on your hand," her patient explanation made him feel like a naughty child, "but we didn't want you moving while I replaced the bandaging and Fitz cleaned the splint," Her comforting voice provided reason, finally taking pity on the worried Specialist. "So we left the neuro-suppressor on. Not only will it keep your hand still while it's unprotected, it will help with the pain as I've had to do a bit of repair on some of the musculature as well.
"Now, do you want something to help you sleep, or will you be okay?" In Ward's world, that was a rhetorical question and they all knew it.
"I don't need to—"
Simmons snorted her disbelief at her patient's predictable reluctance to rely on others, especially as his eyes began drifting almost the moment he denied any need of sleep. "Ward, I realize you don't see yourself succumbing as do those of us pathetic mortals; but please, this once, let it happen. You've lost over three units of blood (as I calculate it) and, while I can replace the volume, I cannot do a thing to replace the cells you've lost. That is strictly up to you, Sweet; it takes time and rest." (Okay, rest wasn't critical, though it helped, but she needed leverage to assure his compliance and this —dirty play as it was—was just the thing). "You're healthy and young, so the rest of today and tomorrow should be enough time to make a good beginning. Will you wait that long?"
Given reason, Ward nodded acquiescence. Which Simmons, smart girl, rewarded with her effusive thanks, even as she set the syringe in his IV and explained the sedative would help him rest when they removed the suppressor and replaced the splint. 'Good boy!' Coulson smiled at the progress his pup continued to make. Learning to rely on others was going to be a long haul for Ward, who'd spent at least thirty years on the receiving end of the worst humanity had to offer; it was time he shared in some of the good. For Ward — and May, joining his vigil for the young man— it was past time he cashed in on the good, might as well take out that second fowl since she was handy and he was at it.
"Sandwich?" Ward glared at Fitz, incredulous. "Last I remember, you were dragging my bleeding body out of storage. Are these those sandwiches?"
"No, a course not!" Fitz joked in retort, "ye loon. We ate those."
"I'm starving, so I'm pretty sure I did not consume my sandwich. You know, the one made for me."
"No, that was—" the engineer clammed up and busied himself helping Ward into pajamas and slippers for the promised picnic, careful of both IV's and his pressure bandaged wound. "Well, ye don't need ta know who it was."
"No," he conceded good naturedly, "tell Skye I'll get her later."
"How ded ye—" Fitz started, slipping an arm around the cautiously rising Specialist.
"She's a 'sharer', Fitz. It's a bit annoying; but it's what she does. In a way I can understand it. She might as well have eaten it, anyway, I didn't get a chance, did I?"
"No, ye did not, and I'm sorry abou' that."
"Wasn't your fault, Fitz, my own stupi—"
"No, it was not, Ward. Et was just an accident, things happen. Could na be helped. Now, we're gonna forget it."
"You got it, Fitz," Ward agreed, eyes focused and cautious where he stepped. More so than usual, Fitz noted and edged a bit closer to offer the needed buttress against a fall.
When at last they reached the common area, Ward's eyes and heart lit in delighted relief that the couch was both unoccupied and welcoming with blankets and pillows arrayed thereabouts. More than anything just now, head woozy and vision speckled with blanks, Ward just wanted to lay down and recover from the trek, horrified that Jemma's estimations had proven true. Even so, that failing was not one he could acknowledge, one never advertised injury but soldiered on. Tempted and tried, he'd had years of practice denying himself those heart-warming experiences and this was no different. 'Keep the edge' that refrain haunted and drove him toward one of the smaller, unpadded—
"Ward," the quiet ring of Coulson's address drew Ward to a falter. "We've saved a seat for you." Ward didn't need to —but did cast a fell look he couldn't resist —to know which it was. He almost moaned. Garrett would—
"I shouldn't," he tried to claim duty's call.
Coulson's deceptively intractable response accepted none of it. "Still, Ward—Grant— we'd very much like you to have it."
'Defeat looms', his training warned. 'Stand firm,' but, as Ward accepted the inevitable and allowed Fitz to take the lead, a frisson surged through him even more intensely rewarding than walking from a firefight untouched, an elation entirely unexpected for so small a reward. Still, as Fitz settled him on the sofa, providing pillows to support his splinted, aching arm and blankets to stave off the chill which seemed to have overtaken him en route to the picnic, that singular wanton act of abandon did not seem so great a misdeed. Ward was still trying to gain the upper hand on the tremors which had come on him in transit when a heated weight blanketed his shoulders and draped across his lap, providing welcome warmth courtesy of —he glanced back to see—May, her kind gesture accompanied by a wink and a smile.
Well-practiced Reflex returned the gesture while Ward struggled to make sense of it. After all, they had decided to keep their sexual encounters to themselves and, (in any case), he was in no shape to accommodate her. So why else would she—well—be interested?
The initial injury? That had, when said and done, been his own fault and they'd exchanged apologies days ago on that account. The arterial blowout had been his own as well. There was simply no explanation, as Ward read matters, for May's action. But it did include him in the group which, while puzzling, was novel and oddly pleasant.
Coulson watched his rescued pup from his place in the seating grouped around the coffee table. Even without the tipoff paler than normal complexion, his movement was tentative—no, unwontedly cautious—as though he wasn't certain his strength would see him to the goal upon which he focused singular attention. And there, after an abortive attempt to do penance in a plain chair, he sank into the selected couch with a relieved sigh. May supplied the heated blanket Simmons had advised them in planning this evening out that she thought he might need. As that was her purview, none had questioned the suggestion and he was glad they'd had it ready because Ward huddled amidst the nest they'd prepared, sliding down to rest his head on the back of the cushion.
"So," Skye asked from her own invalid friendly seat, "are you ready for that sandwich and soup, Big Guy?"
"You mean the one Someone helped themselves to at noon?" Ward's playful grin taunted. "Are we talking about that sandwich?"
"And it was delicious, too, Ward," she smacked noisily,
"Now, now," Jemma ushered in her utility cart, laden with sandwiches and a tureen of stew. "Let's play nice or Someone," she intoned archly, "might suffer a relapse and miss dinner."
"And the sign of that, I'd venture," she added pointedly watching Skye paste an innocent look onto her beet red face, "is facial ticks. Wouldn't you agree, Fitz?"
"Oh, yeah. I'm sure et is," he smirked with good natured glee in support of his friend.
"Good, that is settled. Now, you'll want stew to go with your sandwich," Simmons mothering gene kicked in as she produced a lap table, complete with cheery print napkin, and set up a bottom heavy mug — to offer greater stability, she answered his questioning brow—and a sandwich neatly quartered for manageability. "And I've some lovely juice for you, too, Sweet. Apple, as I felt orange might be a bit of a challenge to your stomach just now."
Ward savored that moment's concern and cached it away in the very small section allocated to such tender, frivolous memories, touched that she even considered him. He didn't even roll his eyes at the blatant display of mothering while, behind Simmons, Skye tempted her wrath with renewed eye work and Fitz's snickered response won him a glare to accompany the abrupt delivery of his own sandwich. A measure she repeated with Skye's sandwich and a clearly cautionary query. "Does anyone else want to continue this childish behavior?"
When dead silence answered, she smiled in satisfaction at having ended their escalating squabble. "No? Wonderful."
Simmons continued to the coffee table centered among the grouping of chairs and set out bowls and the remaining sandwiches on the cloth bedecked coffee table which, Ward was not the least surprised to notice, matched his own properly deployed napkin. Jemma did nothing halfway or unplanned; it's what made her such an excellent scientist and, apparently, a good mother. While Simmons, completely in command of social protocol, set about serving up the stew and drinks, Ward saw to devouring his long delayed meal.
And though he'd never allow either of them the satisfaction of hearing it from him, privately he had to admit, this was one great sandwich. No, it was a culinary masterpiece. It was — well! it had been a long time between meals and he was really hungry. Probably it was just further manifestation of his blood loss. Didn't matter. He'd do whatever needed to recover and return to his job. It would be a sacrifice but he could eat another four or five of these little babies, Ward smiled to himself watching Fitz inhale his own. Damn if he wasn't right, little bugger.
"So, Ward," Fitz began, waggling what remained of his own quickly disappearing sandwich before Ward. "Isn't et the best?"
"It's okay I guess," he replied, his delivery calculated to provoke, "Probably just because I'm so hungry."
"Ye're full of et, Ward, I saw ye droolin'. Ye canna deny–"
"I was not drool—"
"Well "
Simmons' perky intervention halted the escalating chatter before it got out of hand, Coulson noted, hiding his amusement behind his own excellent sandwich and thanking the gods of fortuitous timing that she'd missed his last, sizable intake of coffee or he'd be enjoying that gulp through the unconventional channel of his nose. As to the proposed game (which, in the ordinary course of events he would've declined)— in for a penny, in search of a pound. He knew he'd never make the point with Ward about allowing himself to become part of the Team instead of peering in through the window of his self-enforced isolation if the senior agents, functional parents of this flying kindergarten, abandoned them, especially at such a vulnerable moment. Beside him, May shifted, no doubt fondly contemplating the same exits he had wistfully inspected for escape options only moments ago.
"What sounds good?" He asked, pleased when she settled back into the actually very comfortable armchair, resigned to join in, whether she wanted to or not. He could not agree more, personally, but if it helped Ward, he would rise to the challenge. Besides, May had grown too reclusive, too introspective for her own good. Come to it, so had he. Maybe they could all benefit from some fun and games.
"Battle—" was Ward's predictable call.
"Canna play tha', Ward. Everyone's gotta be included. That's what makes et Game Night."
"How 'bout Risk?"
Ward's second suggestion, Coulson reflected, while certainly one for which he had a marked affinity in that it suited his tactical facility and training, was also one which, suiting his professional command of strategy, was best left by the wayside now. Before he was obliged to interfere, Skye spoke up.
"I don't think we should be playing war games, we get enough of that already. Besides, I still get tired and I can't concentrate. How about Charades?"
Artful manipulation or not, that was an excellent idea soon adopted as one which would allow Ward to kibitz without needing to move around significantly and had the added advantage that, should he fade out as he had several times already, he could chime in any time he wanted. As it happened, that proved a decidedly welcome advantage in the game.
"It wasnae cheating," Fitz defended the win on that round as Ward drifted back into sleep. "He's not a hustler. Et's just his training."
"Like I SO believe that!" Skye thrust her complaint in his face, pugnacious in disgruntlement. "He hasn't opened his eyes in the last thirty minutes but he still knows the answer?"
"Wha'? Ye think we planned thes? How dya think we did tha'?"
"I don't know. Yet—"
"Shhhhh!" Simmons separated the two, her forceful whisper ushering them aside to leave Ward out of the dispute. "I've been watching, Skye. It seems to me he's monitoring our guesses and using them to deduce the answer. He's just very good at it. Besides, this is supposed to be fun not a bloodletting. Several of us," she pointedly eyed Skye and the marplot charades player, "have lost enough blood already I think, let's not aim for more, shall we?"
"I could not agree more," Coulson stood to join them gauging, as it seemed Jemma had, the drooping Specialist. "It's about time we all get some rest and spare our recent wounded."
"I certainly concur, Sir," Simmons approached her slumbering charge, well aware of the risk in too close an approach. Her soft voice and gentling touch saw Ward's eyes flutter to join his no doubt already awakened mind; proof if he'd need it, of the old adage, 'a soft voice turneth away wrath', though in Ward's case, it was less a matter of wrath and more one of straightforward duty. Ward's motivation for over-training was not one of vindictiveness, rather of soldier like duty. The sad fact that he was an extremely proficient killer did not make him a brutal, psychotic murderer, however hard John Garrett had worked to remake his 'rescue' in his own image.
And that was why Phil Coulson, Goody Two-Shoes in John's derogatory resistance to the resurrected Avenger's request, had fought to get him on the Team. No matter how jealous, brutal or intensive Garrett's efforts, the 'tin man' had a heart. It was just very, very well and safely bunkered against Garrett's corruption. In fact, in his own unique way, Grant Ward's spirit was as undefiled as Skye's: it just had not seen the light of day since his grandmother's death. Past time, in Coulson's mind, it did.
"Well," Jemma announced, interrupting Coulson's wishful thinking, her slender strength adding to Fitz's in steadying the paling Specialist who was now on his feet and protesting he needed no aide. "I think we shall agree to disagree on that one, Ward. I'm getting tired of patching you back together." Jemma settled his wounded arm comfortably across her shoulder, and smoothed his sleep rumpled hair before catching the double bagged IV stand and nodding to Fitz on his other side. "Let's get you back to your room, young man."
As they moved away and Coulson turned back to help May tidy up, he heard her, fearless as ever, inquire, "Now do you need the restroom?"
If Simmons' personal brand of nurturing medicine couldn't work magic on his beaten pup, likely nothing could. But Coulson was betting Ward's reclamation on the Team; and just maybe, May's, too. Would that, then, make him a Too Goody Two-Shoes? He smiled at the fanciful notion. One could but hope.
"C'mon, Ward," Fitz continued his interrogation while helping Ward out of the pajamas Coulson had provided them and into his own, more comfortable, over-sized T-Shirt and sleep shorts. "If ye weren't awake and watchin', how'd ye get the answer. Just, ye know, so I can amaze Skye, as she thinks ye were cheating."
"I heard," his laconic response to that hopeful provocation, "I wasn't sleeping, mostly. And how could I cheat?"
"Exactly my point," Fitz grinned encouragingly! "So what did ye do?"
"Oh, Leo, will you leave off already?" Jemma chided absently, prepping the new IV bag with which she replaced the one on his good side before carefully discontinuing the one above his newly repaired artery and broken hand. As she adjusted the drip rate, she warned, "talk fast, guys, the Sandman is coming."
"Vidi, Audivi, Cogitavi," he mumbled, already drifting toward sleep.
"See?" Simmons crowed in self-satisfied delight, "just as I said."