15A/N. Here is the last of my tale. Many thanks to any and all who have read, hopefully enjoyed, and commented. Hope it pleases.
And I would be heinously remiss did I not thank as effusively as possible the marvelous, and marvelously capable editor, LittleBounce, for her unfailing kindness and willing aide in getting this done. She has prvided not only her expertise in editing but numerous very good ideas and loads of much needed encouragement when my confidence flagged. God Bless.
Oh, I don't own AOS, if it needed said.
Elf
Let me do that." Fitz caught the rifle stock from Ward and finished the assembly, clicking it into place and sighting the barrel as a final check. He applied a finishing swipe with the cleaning rag then handed it back for the Specialist to load.
"You shouldn't have to do that. It's my responsibility."
"Well, Ward," Fitz knew a bit of attitude had crept into his tone since the two began this task; but this almost compulsively repeated self-blame Ward had for his inability to shoulder his "responsibilities" so infuriated Fitz that he dearly wished he'd a prayer of venting on its generator, John Garrett. Wasn't right to take it out on his friend, who was already the victim of that manipulative, self-serving bastard. Couldn't anyone but him see it? Well, with the events of this last week or so considered, maybe —no, certainly—Agent Coulson had done, else Ward would not be on the Team in the first place. And he had encouraged their scheme to provide aid to the temporarily impaired Specialist. In the several days he'd finally been up and about, and barring the mis-step that first morning, that had been a swell plan. Yeah, sadly the solitary soldier did not expect the assistance offered, tolerated it with grudging acceptance and, as had grown increasingly evident, greeted his unexpected inclusion in the numerous community amusements with a wary confusion. Between them, he and Jemma supposed that he chose solitude because, for his entire life, he'd been isolated, physically and socially, both before and, even more, after Garrett contacted him. He'd never had a place amongst peers, never before been included. A smile played about Fitz's lips just thinking about Ward's crash course in communal living. Ward wasn't antisocial, they decided, he was just completely unexposed to the delights of sociability.
"Hey, Fitz!" Ward snapped to gain his attention, rifle loaded and confusion over Fitz's mental decampment evident. "Well, what?"
"Oh, sorry." Fitz hurried to rephrase his unspoken complaint. "I was gonna say —and it's true—I dinna mind, Ward. That's what friends do for friends, help out when it's needed. Plus, you're Family, as well."
Friend. Ward froze at that word, immobilized by the mention alone of such intimacy. As Fitz and Simmons had noted earlier, the concept of social intimacy, was not one the 'puir lad' found himself comfortable embracing. And, given his past, who could blame him? 'Puir lad'! Leo snorted disgust. Jemma taunted him with this every time the chance arose. It had happened once. One Time! But she couldn't let it drop.
Fitz acknowledged—proud and unashamed—he'd managed to hit Ward with the 'double whammy' as Skye called it. Two words Ward had good reason to distrust. But, like Coulson said, the task they'd set themselves was just like gentling a skittish horse, it wanted patience, persistence and a 'boatload' of kindness. For Fitz that wasn't a hardship because he liked Ward and, being closer in age to each other than the only other male aboard ship, they had more in common. Then, too, he'd always had a soft spot for wounded animals. Oops! Better not let Ward hear that or his 'wee wounded wolf' might bite him on the bum. In the mean time, seeing a stunned Ward formulating his response, Fitz interceded.
"It's alright, Ward. Ye don't have to say anything. I was merely stating a fact. What's next? Wannae do a bet of training?"
"There," Simmons sounded pleased with the appearance of his nascent scar, a single thin trail of blood marking the drain's removal as she discarded it and patted the two inches of blue stitches with antiseptic. "It's healing quite nicely, Ward. Now hold still while I get that IV out." Careful in freeing it from the stabilizing, protective tape, and apologizing for each inadvertent flinch her efforts caused, Jemma pulled the flexible cannula and set it with the drain while she held pressure on the site.
At last! Ward breathed in relief—that was one of the damned things down—and none too soon. He hated IV's even as he had to admit they served a purpose; he'd made too many trips to the hospital for the whole routine to be comforting. But Simmons' patience provided compassionate care he did his best to accept with no more than equanimity, telling himself he would not, must not, succumb, however tantalizing, to the lure of family and friends. Neither had gotten him anything good. He knew they all believed the offer a kindness; but he knew it wasn't. For him, it never could be.
Friend. Ward didn't have friends. Aside from sex, he didn't do intimacy. Had he ever? Because For him, emotional intimacy had not turned out well. Two memorable cases in point: he'd watched his brother devolve from a bright, delighted toddler to a cringing, broken spirit, the deed affected by those very people who should have cherished and nurtured him. Ward might have preserved his body but none of the sacrifices he'd made had saved the man his brother should have become. And then….
…Then — Ward swallowed the memory — there was Buddy. Buddy, his savior, his tutor, his partner, his friend for five long, hard, wonderful years. And in one moment of mindless, soul wrenching obedience, he'd brutally ended it all. He'd lost much more that day than his only friend, he'd lost what little may have remained of good in him because who, with any shred of humanity left them, could kill their best, their only friend in the whole world? He'd done that for the right to follow John Garrett but the cost had been his humanity.
"Ward?" Simmons sweet-hearted concern drew him from those morbid reflections to the current reality that presented a surely false view of unity in this curious mix of agents, their geek facsimiles and deadly heroines, better men than he, one and all. He did not belong.
But for the moment…
"You're free to go till this evening," Simmons smiled, securing the final piece of tape to his newly placed bandage. "And, Ward?" When he returned her attention, she cleared the work tray in dismissal and caught his good arm, giving a last check to the modified IV there. "Please be careful, Sweet. I'd like to keep this site going till the end, all right?"
He succumbed to temptation and rolled his eyes. "Promise me, Ward?"
Freedom!
His brain pretty much shouted it in the William Wallace style. Ward smiled, seeing in his mind's eye the memorable, heroic last scene in Braveheart. Notwithstanding the excellent sword work, and not-horribly portrayed battle scenes, that was the best of the movie. Kind of made you feel you could actually win one. That's how he felt right now. He could see himself, kilted and armed, powerful strier surging beneath him, the might of tyranny under which he'd lived for 15 years arrayed against him, the things he'd done—had to do—to survive. The price of perfidious rescue he was repaying still. And then, just this once, choosing to fight for himself and his dreams, he'd cry—. "They may take our lives, but they will never take our freedom."
Free, at least till tonight's infusion of amino acids, minerals and 'extras'— the buildup cocktail Simmons had prescribed to speed healing. He was all for that, all for anything that would get him back to normal quicker. The one thing he couldn't escape was Simmons' damned monitor. Thanks to his own stupidity the monitor hadn't much over-activity to tattle on these past days while he lay in bed rebuilding blood. Now, he realized, hog-tied by the bio-monitor, freedom was a mere technicality, a semantic victory, a formality even, since Simmons had niggled from him the promise he would not strain the IV site, and, thus, effectively curtailed most of the exercise to which he was accustomed. Might as well drop by his bunk, he decided, his mood growing decidedly less upbeat. At least he could find something there to occupy him.
The door was open! More curious than angry, Ward made a soundless approach and eclipsed the door, pulling it to behind him before he spoke. "What are you doing?" Skye spun to face him, arms full of …was it… clothes? Perplexed, he demanded, "Why sneak into my room? I don't have anything worth stealing, and there's no place to go. We are on a plane."
"Sneak?" Her voice, though equal to his in volume, emerged in a satisfying squeak but she recovered quickly. "I was not sneaking, I'll have you know, Grant Ward." And just like that, she turned her back and, bold as brass, continued rummaging through his storage, talking as she worked. "Jemma and I finally got your bloody clothes clean and I am in here putting them away."
Very thoughtful, if unexpected. He was about to thank her when Skye went and spoiled it all.
"Since you couldn't be bothered, it seemed a—"
"It seemed a load of crap, Skye. I was recovering from a—" Don't justify yourself, Ward, you candy-ass. Garrett's oft heard, well remembered rebuke rang in his ears and, as suddenly, the hacker's sweet perfume and enticing arms enfolded him in a heartening grip. Thereafter he lost track of all but the wonder of her attention.
Naturally the Blabberwatch chose that moment to ring the alarm. "Damn! Get away from me, quick." Ward enforced his desperation by pulling out of her too welcome embrace, certain unless his tattletale shut up he could kiss further developments goodbye.
"Sit down, Ward," Skye urged, as anxious as he and leaning dangerously close if her purpose was to help him settle. "Deep breaths. Relax. We don't want the health nazi to descend." Unfortunately for Ward, her humorously accurate epithet sparked a spate of almost manic laughter which Ward instinctively fought to silence. He only exchanged it for uncontrolled coughing while the damned monitor swung into high gear.
Maybe not as desperate as him, but certainly trying to help, Skye pounded Ward's back. In response, the watch discovered another level of stridency.
"What," Simmons demanded suddenly, slipping into the already cramped space and leaning near to check her patient, "is going on here?"
"Nothing. He just, uh, swallowed wrong." Skye's halting answer sounded phony even to him.
"Do ye need us te do anything, Jemma?"
Us? Oh, God! Ward dared a peek, in the fashion one does at an unfolding catastrophe, to see May and Coulson arrayed in equal concern behind the engineer. Could it get any worse?
Wrong question, he knew that the instant the thought crossed his mind. "'M fine," Ward choked out, doing his best to breathe normally while evading Simmons solicitude and justly leery of the ampule she clutched. "I'm okay!" He shrugged aside her no doubt well intentioned aid, fending off her approach to his IV site. "Don't, Jemma." That stopped her. Though only temporarily, he did not doubt. "I'm alright," he insisted, having at last gained traction on the cough.
Simmons did not look convinced, but she did hear him out, pocketing the vial in exchange for the stethoscope which she plied for interminable moments before stepping away with an expectant look.
"I came in here to find Skye scrabbling through my belongings."
"She was not scrabbling, Ward, she was returning your laundry. Did she not tell you?" The look Simmons shot Skye intimated she was crazy to have said nothing in her own defense.
"Oh, yeah, she told me, alright," he glared a warning, unnecessary if the one she returned meant anything. "Then she said something that made me laugh and—" he shrugged. "Things kind of devolved from there." He finished, leaving his account of the events intentionally vague.
"I see." The look Simmons favored them with left no doubt that she did see, too clearly. "Perhaps I should have delivered the clothing."
"No," Skye's hastily rephrased explanation sounded as false as it had the first time and Ward palmed his face in embarrassment while the three outside the door smiled on benignly. "It's just, once he started coughing, the alarm went off and we couldn't make it stop," she concluded with a shrug and a pleading look. When she turned back, Simmons, ostensibly re-checking Ward's breathing, used her free hand to trace comforting circles on his back and it was no surprise to her that his breathing seemed easier.
In fact, watching, Jemma's affection was readily evidenced to Coulson in the attention she bent upon his wounded pup. Coulson approved, seeing the Specialist relaxing into her impromptu massage, enough so that he literally swayed with her every move. Good, he thought, the gentling of Agent Grant Ward proceeded apace. But, seeing he'd begun to notice his surroundings again, it was past time they move away and leave the prickly Specialist at least the illusion of personal space. God knew, looking at her stance (which was no less protective than Simmons'), Skye wasn't likely to.
Coulson caught May's attention and became certain, as only ex-partners could be, that she'd followed his reasoning, as she would his lead. He was tempted to see the end of this intriguing vignette, but the look of horror shadowing Ward's face before Simmons stepped in between to administer aid left no question that it was time for a tactical withdrawal. Besides, he knew he could count on Fitz to fill in the blanks later on.
"Well," Simmons began as Ward's distress eased and the remaining team edged their way from concern to casual hovering. "As you appear recovered, I see no reason to alter existing restrictions. But," she added, pressing the point with a warning finger as she turned to leave, "I think it would be best if any interaction between you two remain safely platonic." Jemma smiled to herself at Ward's sighed relief, certain, as Fitz eagerly filled the void of her departure, she had little to worry about in that regard.
"Oww, Wanker! Not the hair!"
Ward covered a smile at the tactics in use, pleased that the combatants carried on despite crying foul. One of the first lessons he'd learnt in combat, of whatever kind, you don't win—don't survive—by whining. If his family hadn't made sure he knew it, John Garrett most certainly had. And he meant to ensure that the two locked in what bore every resemblance to a cat fight learned the lesson as well, but by less brutal methods.
To that end, he changed position, shifting suddenly into a crouch to see if, and when, either noticed the peripheral action. Another essential in battle was to keep track of peripheral targets. It had saved his ass uncounted times. So far—he made a note to mention it at the break, neither looked to have noticed. Still time, he knew, but the sooner they started, the sooner that habit would become second nature, and the greater their chances of survival.
Satisfied he'd a fair sampling of both fighters' experience level and skills, Ward began to offer advice enough to each of them to keep it a fair fight.
"What do you think for a couple of amateur?" He asked as May slipped in beside him
"Looks like a drunken brawl," her chuckled response barely audible. "Emphasis on drunken." After a moment, she flashed a raised eyebrow in query, "Think either noticed me?"
"Doesn't—"
"Ow, again. Hair!"
"Enough." Ward very carefully did not raise his voice but both stopped statue still the moment he spoke. "Skye," here he did allow his exasperation to show, "quit pulling Fitz's hair." And stepped onto the mat, sparing a wink for the now smirking May, as he then hurried to confront his 'bad kitty'. "Would you explain why you have all but snatched Fitz bald in less than thirty minutes?"
"He's not—" Quick to rethink her excuse, Skye began again, "he's bigger," she explained defensively. "I need an edge. You said—"
"No," Ward's snapped reply caught her attention, "I offered that as a last ditch option in a real life struggle. There's always going to be someone bigger, Skye. In the instance of sparring, there is no excuse for resorting to that because the purpose of the exercise is to gain strength and endurance as well as the relatively safe experience in hand-to hand combat. I've taught you better." For an uncomfortable moment he glanced between the two. "You're afraid you'll hurt him." It was a statement rather than a guess, it's truth evident in her cringing reaction.
May made no effort to suppress her outright sniggers as Fitz's cheeks flamed like Skye's. Ward favored her with a you're not helping glare before turning back to his students. "That's no excuse, Skye. As the more experienced agent, it's your responsibility to control the encounter and ensure that your junior is both relatively," he stressed the adjective with a raised brow, "unharmed, and that he learns something from every encounter and improves his skills.
"Can you say that you did?" She answered with a guilty shrug.
"So, did you do him any favors showing him how to brawl?" If possible, Skye slumped even more. A reaction Ward allowed for a half minute more, well aware that both felt the sting of his comments.
"Don't get me wrong, for a pub brawl, not bad technique," he gave them a few seconds caught sight of May's blooming grin, and went on to make his point. "For a couple of tipsy girls. Hear me? You asked me to teach you to fight, I can't do that if you don't listen."
Ward squared Skye's slumping shoulder, carefully gentle because of his frustration and too aware of the risk as his emotions seemed somehow closer to the surface of late and restraint harder come by. Probably all this talk of friends and family had him on edge. "No, I'm talking to both of you..." Just get a grip. Focus. Push all that extraneous twaddle aside. He glanced aside, pleased to see Fitz attentive and willing to share with Skye the rebuke they'd both earned. "This is not a game. I'm trying to give you the skills to survive against people who, make no mistake, will not for an instant pause in killing you or regret doing so."
He had their undivided attention. Now, to address their regrettable observational skills. "Did either of you notice anything while you were engaged?"
Though Skye met him with a blank look, Fitz looking a bit perplexed, began to shake his head in response, then asked, "What, ye mean when you dropped down for a bit and got back up real slow?"
'Well, hot damn!'
The look May returned was as stunned as, surely, his own and Skye's, even more so.
She openly gawked and demanded, hands going pugnaciously to her hips, "What? When did he do that?" She demanded her glare split between the senior agents and the bemused engineer, outrage at her failure evident. "You did not!"
"But et was right there," he averred, amazed, "how can ye —"
"Fitz, quit while you're ahead."
Advice he wisely accepted from his s.o. (Fitz was careful to even think it in small, unremarkable letters) but his spirit soared to know, at least in Ward's estimation, that he, a 'useless geek', had caught onto something the more experienced Skye had not. Lit initially in proud delight, his face as suddenly shifted to embarrassment for what clearly left Skye hurt and affronted, which had never been his intent.
"Don't worry that you didn't get it, or that you did, Fitz," Ward admonished. "It's a matter of training and perspective. Skye, if it'd been on a computer screen, I have no doubt you'd've caught it. But being open and aware of external, tangential approach and attack is another aspect of combat you need to learn. The sooner you learn, the safer you'll be. Okay?"
Both returned animated nodding agreement.
"Because the bad guys aren't going to queue up and wait their turn. You need to be aware, always, of your surroundings." Ward had used the distraction of conversation to edge nearer and now—an object lesson— he struck. Aiming a flattened, carefully placed hand toward Skye, while he'd snapped the clawed arm, mantis like, to capture Fitz.
Seconds later May bent to help an indignant Skye to her feet while Ward held a brief grip on Fitz which—he was pleasantly impressed—yielded quickly to the maneuver he learned a few days ago. "Been practicing?"
"A bit. Did I dae it right?"
"Perfect, Fitz," Ward assured, noting with admiration the speed of his actions. The engineer had a distinct gift in hand-to-hand. Though definitely not a combatant, Fitz could be, if inclined, a decent soldier, a fact as surprising as it was confusing to Ward.
The interlude of discovery ended abruptly as Skye pulled away to accost him with her anger, "What'd you do that for?"
She made it, uncontested, to within an arms length but no further as Ward manacled her throat in a grip that could have crushed it but carefully did no more than insure she could not break free.
He knew what it was like, having been on the receiving end of a John's approach to anger management. First time, of many, Ward had barely been able to whisper for a week, so he could attest to its effectiveness. Fortunately Skye, ever quick witted, got the message and stood, arms folded and temper reined in, tacit admission she had chosen unwisely.
"Always," Ward released his grip, "be aware of who and what is within your immediate surroundings. Twenty feet is good, but ideally, as far as possible is better."
"Why?" a good question and one both kids now hanging on his words should already know.
"Because anything can be a weapon, either disguised or just lying in plain sight. And anyone can turn on you." If his conscience tweaked at this too timely warning, he absolved himself of the charge because all he'd been ordered to do was find out why and how Coulson had resurfaced following his apparent demise. All he was after was information, so what harm could he do these open-hearted people who offered him a place amongst them? He wouldn't have to forswear himself because he wasn't going to have to do anything against them. John wouldn't do that to him.
"So," ever the detail oriented scientist, Fitz wanted to know, "how do we do et, exactly?"
"There are no rules, Fitz, you just keep alert and aware. It's more a matter of noticing things (like me) than looking for anything in particular. If you make it a habit to familiarize yourself with every area you enter, especially the ones you see a lot, scan every one every time with that mindset, you'd be surprised how much you notice. Never assume nothing's changed."
"Show us." the doubtful Skye demanded, ignoring Fitz's cringe at her authoritarian demand.
But that didn't phase His Specialist. Five minutes later Ward re-entered the gym and generated a throe of envy in his two pupils by accurately picking up on every alteration they'd made.
"You're a spy, Ward. You could SO bug the gym and just watch what we did. Admit it."
"Can't admit what I didn't do, Skye. You saw me leave, when did I have the chance to do that?"
A brief but spirited discussion later, as expected, Skye proposed her solution to the problem only she worried. "We'll do it again, Ward. Only this time you and May will be locked up in a storage closet for five minutes, so we can set it up, then you'll each do your own 'run through'. That's how we'll do it, so there's no cheating."
"You know this isn't going to prove anything Ward hasn't shown you already, right?" May asked, relaxed, almost overtly anticipating the challenge.
"Humor me," and both agents did, amused at the temerity behind Skye's rather flippantly sarcastic request.
"Now," Ward snapped his fingers to draw the still incredulous Skye's attention, "let's see how you do."
The results, he and May agreed later, were heartening, with both catching a very respectable portion of the objects involved, though Fitz did a trifle better as he seemed somewhat more attuned to the sounds her movements, stealthy as they had been, made in the rooms dynamic. Being an engineer, he was likely accustomed to listening for subtle variations in machine and instrument noises ever present on any mobile facility. That, plus his habit of scanning a room like a Cylon. Accordingly he had ended the lesson with encouraging comments on their inaugural performance and urged them to make that scrutiny part of their routine no matter what else occupied them. He planned to test that attention to detail in some way or another on a daily basis and suspected, if the calculating look in May's eyes were any indication, that she would be doing the same.
"Now, who's ready for a little two-on-two?" He asked.
"It's two stitches, Simmons, no big deal."
"The head, Ward. You've simply suffered one concussive injury after another since the original damage occurred. Did I not entreat you to have a care?" She asked, attaching a line to his only recently unattached IV.
"It was my own fault, Jemma," Ward explained, intentionally using her given name. It was a cheap trick but one he knew from experience would work to derail her justifiable ire.
"And just how did you contrive to put a four stitch gash in your chin after I expressly warned —"
"Ah, Jemma, leave off him. Et was my fault. I should ha watched—"
"She was just trying to show me this cool move—"
"As a senior agent, it was my responsibility—"
"Enough!" Simmons voice rose above the babble of abject apology, humbly accepted blame and excited explanation which followed Ward's own squint eyed plea for leniency.
"I shall, rather magnanimously I think, say no more about responsibility for this regrettable incident." Jemma paused to change the gauze she held to Ward's still seeping wound which, for cosmetic reasons, actually should have had 6-8 stitches. Seeing him cringe and close his eyes against her admittedly shrill complaint, she settled for a lower volume on the remainder of her lecture. "But there will be no more training for you, Ward, until I give you the okay. Is that clear?"
It was a measure of Ward's misery that he made no effort to contest her decision. He barely nodded at the terms she imposed and lay quietly upon the examining table awaiting her return while Fitz made good his slithery escape. Skye hovered briefly before fading away and May, having already assumed control of the gauze, offered further help.
"All right, Agent May, I've slipped him a short-term sedative and I want the answers he refuses to provide," Simmons demanded, cleansing the cut and applying a topical antiseptic. When May remained silent, she caught up the suture pack and turned to her patient, unable to let him suffer for another's silence. But neither was she going to drop her pursuit of answers. "What happened? It isn't just morbid interest, I assure you. You know the signs as well as I. This makes the third impact injury in under a week. I need to base treatment on his condition."
Properly gloved and draped, May caught Ward's unresisting face, adjusting it to best present his wounded jaw to the light and stabilize it. "It was an accident, Jemma," she knew the trick Ward had used, aware as he that Simmons was unaccustomed to hearing her given name, and could be just as relentless in its use, given the need. However, this time, what Simmons knew could only help Grant.
"Of course it was," she snorted delicately. "I'd not imply otherwise; but I need to know what he hit, how and how hard. That's all."
"We were doing a two-on-two drill and I was engaged with Skye while Ward and Fitz were paired. Skye was..." she paused to seek a suitably unprepossessing descriptor, "over ambitious and angry."
Simmons raised a brow. "Really?"
"I've mentioned that serves no purpose in combat, the Berserker principle not in the equation, but I doubt she bought it. Hopefully, she'll learn that lesson before someone she cares about —"
Simmons set another stitch before looking up at the grim faced agent. "She didn't!" Jemma quailed at the very thought that the emotional, high energy hacker might have completely lost control, succumbed to the Staff's lure. At least Ward had the advantage in being so thoroughly aware of the risk he posed he was, perhaps overly, judicious in his actions. Lord, what if... Then reason took over. "Wait. We got rid of the Staff, didn't we?"
"This had nothing to do with the Staff. She just got frustrated and charged me. It was my fault. I should have stopped her." May's gloved hand unconsciously, but not unnoticed by the bio scientist-cum medic, caressed the bruise blooming on Ward's jaw and throat. "Instead I shifted so she'd miss me, to make the point that control is more important than brute force."
"And—?" Simmons set a third stitch and suppressed the silly thrill that the usually laconic May was comforting her fellow when that was not her wont at all. She noticed, too, when May became aware of that intimacy and quickly reverted to all business.
"...And she ran full bore into Ward and Fitz. Fitz landed on the bottom and absorbed much of the impact but Ward still hit the floor."
"Did Fitz lose consciousness?"
"A bit of melodramatic wheezing and the like but, no, he's okay, not used to the dings one accrues even in sparring. Maybe a bit bruised."
"I'll check him out later, when I've done here. What about Ward?"
"Oh," May shrugged, fatalistically accepting that her distraction had failed. "Ward was more stunned than unconscious, I'd say. He appeared a bit dazed but that effect was short-lived, perhaps five minutes."
"Was there any slurring of his speech, pupillary—"
"No," May cut in, forestalling the standard litany of questions which, after years of service, she knew by heart. "His pupils were equal and reactive, a bit sensitive to light, but I know he already had a headache. He seemed to have a bit of trouble responding to questions, but he said he couldn't hear. 'Got his bell rung' is how he phrased it. Which I wouldn't doubt- he kept shaking his head and tapping at his ears."
"Good Lord!" Simmons' ejaculation interrupted her recitation, unusual behavior from her excepting the sentence-finishing penchant she practiced with Fitz.
"He was striking himself?"
"No, more worried at his ears like they were stuffed up." May clarified.
"Oh, well," she declared almost too brightly, "I believe a scan is in order," and turned about to prepare.
Preparations would take but a few moments, May knew, and waited with the slumbering Ward. "You know, Grant," she patted his chest, allowing her fondness a brief romp in the light of day. "This whole family and 'mothering thing' would go a whole lot easier if you'd quit trying to maim yourself."
"I could not agree more," Simmons commented from behind, startling May to wonder if she'd been that inattentive or if Jemma was that stealthy when she put her mind to it; though, thanks to years of experience, she evinced neither surprise nor displeasure over the failure.
For her part, Simmons politely made no mention of the incident as they got the scan and returned their patient to his bed. "This IV will let him sleep a bit," she explained, setting a second line into the modified delivery system and thumbing the controller. "And this one will let him wake up when the smaller is done. In the mean time, I believe we should consult Agent Coulson."
"Were it up to me, Grant Ward..." Simmons checked to be sure the IV site had quit bleeding then blanketed it with antibiotic cream and finished with a tidy bandaid. Her hands were gentle despite the tone she adopted. Probably, for the tender hearted bio-scientist, it was harsh; but Ward knew real harsh. With that delivery, she couldn't even belly up to the starting line. But then she found the rest of her sentence hanging around and supplied it.
"... Yeah, if it were up to me, you would still be in bed recovering from repeated 'cognitive re-calibrations'." Her smile showed an enjoyment (even pride) in the Natasha-coined phrase and he wondered when and where she'd heard it. But not enough to pursue it lest she reconsider Coulson's recommendation. "While I can't stop you, Ward, please take care. At least until the headache you don't have goes away. All right?"
He nodded acknowledgement, unaccountably finding his throat a bit tight when he knew he should have replied. Oh, he knew all the patter, polite banter, schmoozing chatter, you name it. He'd had to under John's tutelage. But these people had offered him more than a port in the storm; had done more than just benignly not hinder his recovery. They'd given every indication that they cared. About him. And that was the bit that was driving him to distraction.
This whole concern for Grant Ward 'the Sweet' instead of Agent Grant Ward, 'lights out' Specialist, was definitely giving him fits. And Fitz' worshipful camaraderie had compromised the familiar comfort of anonymity. Blown it all to hell, in fact. This last week or so he'd suffered a different form of bombardment: smothering togetherness and killing kindness.
I can do it myself, he'd stubbornly declared, over confident with his newly mobilized fingertips.
But he couldn't. He admitted privately he'd have made a mess of that steak, probably splattered all that succulent glory across the floor. Because he was too proud to admit there was something he couldn't do. Too afraid to get used to help which, like Charlie Brown's football, could be snatched away at any time.
He'd ended up leaving it on the plate, untouched, every nicely sectioned piece; then just left. Unwilling, when it became obvious he'd needed help, to admit he should have asked. That's how John had shown up his weakness and need for guidance, by setting tasks and when he could not complete them, requiring him to own up to his failure and "ask" for help. He hated how that made him feel, as helpless and vulnerable as he'd ever been under Maynard's heavy hand. So he quit asking.
He worked best alone. Safer that way. He didn't deserve to have what they offered on the Bus. Never had. Never would. Look how he'd treated the truly sweet Jemma Simmons. He'd snapped at her. Said he was tired of her always pushing in on him, snatching things out of his hands. Butting in.
He'd driven her away. Two weeks of the team's mollycoddling, hovering concern had driven him stir crazy and, in gratitude, he'd turned on them. Proof, were it needed, he'd no place among them. He was, as Skye'd correctly called him, a T-1000; he did the job, fulfilled his function, and awaited further orders.
He could not be trusted. Ward slammed his palm against the slightly forgiving internal wall of his temporary room in the MedBay, secure in the knowledge that the closed curtaining provided him a much needed measure of privacy. There, he vented the uncharacteristic storm of emotions, little caring that he looked a madman. He very nearly was, by damn! He desperately needed perspective and a rational view of what was happening to him. He needed to understand why, against all his training, against all his hard learnt good sense, he found himself—he almost quaked at the mere admission of it—craving company with these noncombatants. Oh, sure, he could sit in a common room and read or prep equipment and let their animated jabber wash over him, an audible indicator that his charges, one and all, rested at home, safe and happy within his vigilant shield. But the notion that he should actually join in the frivolity that vigilance allowed them... the whole concept was unfathomable.
Ward slammed his left fist into the pillowed railing of the headboard, feeling only a little foolish for not considering beforehand the tool of his anger abatement; but he recognized too well the pickle he'd be in if he "maimed" his other hand. He'd suffered none of this damned soul searching before he broke his damned hand and was, per force, relegated to the position of a "wounded warrior". That's what Simmons called him when she remembered to avoid "Sweet". It wasn't much of an improvement, but at least it acknowledged his single worthwhile contribution to the team. Muscle.
The whole damned team had blithely ignored his separation this past week or so, jumping in to lend a hand if it looked like he was struggling. Almost as if they had a watch schedule set up for him. And the hardest worker, Simmons—Jemma—had caught the brunt of that duty with his medical care, several baths throughout when he couldn't get up to do for himself, and admirable vigilance in providing care that left him wishing with all the heart he had that he did fit in. That he could.
But mulling on that idle temptation brought him back to the issue upon which he stewed: Jemma Simmons. She'd fled his "fowl humored" ingratitude and he could not leave things as they stood. His hideously inappropriate behavior had been poor recompense for the hours she'd spent on him since his psycho-episode. And all the thanks he'd offered for her sacrifice? He'd practically spat in her face.
Just as he was really settling into a comfortable rhythm with his belligerent pounding the Blabberwatch erupted, certain as chum in the water to draw attention from the "health nazi". Did he care? Hell no! Ward decided and continued his assault. If nothing else, the cussed monitor would deliver Jemma, alone, to receive her much deserved apology.
But. . .it didn't.
Unaccountably, Ward missed that previously resented attention. Then he stopped as another - horrible - possibility occurred to him. Had something happened? He heard no other alarms, no outcry; but all senses went on the alert anyway.
Deadly quiet, jangling nerves stilled and his lethal programming wakening, Ward bent to the bedside chest, slid the drawer free and carefully withdrew his handgun, automatically checking the mag and pocketing several more before he rose. No Icer, this. If the Bus had been taken, he was not going to play games with anyone. He'd take out—
"Oh... shit!" Coulson scrambled for Simmons' comm button as he gawked at the screen, horrified as Ward froze in his barehanded attack on the bedding, almost visibly shifted gears, then bent to retrieve his gun. As Skye so saliently called Ward, a T-1000, this one rising from the floor, shifting chameleon-like from frustrated pup to lethal weapon in that instant. "Simmons, stop!" he commanded, not panicking just yet but concerned. "You need to take it slow."
"No, sir, I'm sure we'll be just fine."
Simmons' blithely whispered reply chilled Coulson even more than turning back to the screen to find Ward's room vacant. Which meant, his gut froze at the prospect—and felt a whole lot like panic, this time — his pup was on offense and on the move.
The powerful arm snapped across Simmons' face, muzzling the single, startled squeak that escaped before she recognized her bandage job and the tension-roughened whisper.
"No sound."
Easy enough, she conceded, having trouble just keeping up with Ward, backward and tiptoe, keeping her footing by virtue of her carefully placed death grip on his still-healing arm while he dragged her into the now blood-free and nicely-organized storage closet.
"Well," she whispered, excitement bubbling when he released her, "that was certainly exciting." And this, as good a place as any to do what she'd come for—to see what had upset him. "What's happened?"
"That's what I need to know," he eyed her, grim faced and serious as he spun her round to check for injury.
"Nothing, Sweet," she answered, doing her own patient eval, and managing to pat his arm as he revolved her. "We just thought you'd... well, Coulson said you'd need some space so I waited a little bit. But—" she gave a rueful shrug. "I couldn't stand it and came to see if... You're not mad, are you?"
"So," He asked, suspicion crinkling his eyes, "everything's okay? Really?"
"Yes, we're all fine, Ward. Waiting—" then the bio-scientist considered him for a moment, solemn. "Are you all right?"
"No," Ward shifted under her regard. Suddenly those pat, Garrett-coached phrases upon which he usually relied seemed completely inadequate. He stepped out from Garrett's shadow. "I—I shouldn't have snapped at you, Simmons—Jemma. I don't know what—why I did. I'm just—"
"Frustrated?" Simmons answered for him, smiling her understanding. "I know. When I was ten, I broke my foot and got so tired, and sore, and so angry at how long it took to get anywhere, to do anything, especially with those stupid crutches banging along, I yelled at absolutely everyone. I was simply impossible to live with." She chuckled over the memory.
"Not you?" Ward feigned disbelief, heartened in spite of himself, to hear he was not alone in this response.
"Oh, Lord, yes! I'm afraid my parents were ready to murder me by the time I'd healed. They kept saying they couldn't understand what had come over me, I was usually such a good girl."
"The best I know."
"Ah, that's sweet!" Simmons bubbled, pinking at the compliment. "Thank you." Then she recollected her purpose. "Now, Grant Ward, shall we go finish that wonderful steak?
...'Holy shit!' he yells, and the entire auditorium goes dark." Fitz concluded his animated narrative of the pair's prank on the overblown ego of a fellow student. "That was the last time he lorded it over the youngers, I can tell you. Right, Jemma?"
She agreed to the appreciative laughter of the team. His team, Ward amended, relaxing into the moment's ambiance, and wondered if, just maybe, these moments and the unsolicited help he'd been receiving these past days weren't some of those "extras" he'd dreamt of finding in the nebulous "somewhere and time". If so, he decided, this was his long sought after "bolt hole with extras".
And, if it were, he'd be glad to stay a while.