John called it Game Over. And maybe it was another one of these quite general terms everybody else used as well, but he couldn't quite be sure, so he never called it that out loud. He had been tempted to evoke it twice, both times on badly thought out, badly coordinated (SHIELD) missions, but both times it turned out these hadn't been anything but good old exceedingly close calls. Bleeding out in Amazonas without an extraction plan wasn't a Game Over. Being captured in Baghdad for over 3 weeks also ended up not making the cut.

This, though? This was it, he was quite sure. He had known it the minute Coulson said that John was dead. The idea itself wasn't a very troubling one (that the game was over, not that John was dead – that was terrifying). He knew that he had fucked everything up, and badly. One minute they were so close, and then things downslided so quickly, he had literally stood there stunned and unable to react. Not only unable to prevent John's madness, his newly discovered thirst for blood and ultimately his death; not able to avoid everything else too, and it didn't escape him that there wasn't supposed to have been an "everything else", which put into perspective just for how long ago and how badly he had been screwing everything up.

No wonder John had been so pissed, and no wonder this was now a Game Over. Not only did he completely deserve it – after the last couple of days it was, frankly, a relief.

He wasn't going to just act on in immediately, though. He knew so much better than that. First, he had think, to make quite sure there weren't any other options. He left Coulson and company tow him off without acting out. With John dead, it wasn't like any immediate action was needed anymore. Hood, manacles, a couple of injections - about what he had expected, nothing more and nothing less. The place he ended up thrown into rattled him a bit more than he'd have liked. He knew exactly why, but was careful not to dwell too much on it. Coulson was still in charge of him, which made him wonder briefly. He had expected to be held in a real prison, but Coulson made it clear that was left of SHIELD needed the Hydra intel and that was the primary reason for his ongoing survival, and that was it.

It made a lot of sense, and after Coulson left he was left to wonder. If he could give them Hydra intel, he figured he would. Thing was, he didn't truly know anything important or groundbreaking. There was no plot to take over the world, to assassinate a president, to blow up a bomb that he knew of. There were little things, exotic acquaintances of Garrett and drop places that he might have heard of months or years ago. Most of these were probably inactive or compromised or dead. Writing them down felt useless, and he didn't. Coulson took a look at the white paper sheets, and didn't comment at all.

Meanwhile, John was dead. He made quite sure never to dwell on this too much. He was quite good at identifying things capable of throwing him off, and steering his thoughts away from them. It had become something he did automatically – like never looking down when walking a rope above a void. If something was pulling him left, he compensated by moving to the right, and that was it. And he might have spent his teen years flailing ungainly to avoid the falls, but now he only needed to course correct himself very briefly from time to time.

The first several weeks of his imprisonment were spent examining his options very carefully and quite cautiously. John was dead (don't look down). Nothing more could be done on that front. He was quite indifferent to Hydra, so that road was closed as well. He imagined the team would never accept him back. Scratch that – he knew they wouldn't, but they were the only people he had had any interactions left and he owed it to himself to examine all options before doing something that had no replay button. There was one last angle to consider - that he was being kept in order to be punished and that somehow this was beneficial to someone he had hurt (Fitz? Skye?). So he waited a couple of extra weeks on the off chance someone from the team would come down there to do whatever they wanted to do with him. They didn't. In fact, nobody did. There was a camera watching him, but he figured he didn't need to continue living to be watched on camera, so that was it.

A true Game Over, then. That was all right. He couldn't imagine being a specialist and not being at peace with the knowledge that one day, his usefulness would run out.

Between one thing and another, almost a month had to have passed (since John's death). Looking back, waiting so long had been somewhat of a mistake, because as time passed he found himself struggling to keep his thoughts as clear as before. He was usually fine with little to no human contact (Buddy), but this time everything was different. During his time with John, he had known that he had screwed up badly but he also knew that he was working toward becoming better (not so weak). He had had a clear purpose, before. Now, he had screwed up again (much worse), but there was no sense of direction, no way to make it better. Nobody would tell him what to do anymore, and he himself couldn't quite come up with any options. He did try (it had felt like Coulson had wanted him to, right after he was beaten down by May, but now it didn't look like that), but it only made him more restless as the time progressed. He knew the reasons for that, too, but he did his best not to name them (John, underground, weak, purposeless). Where he only had to steer away a minimal amount to avoid minefields before, he now had to compensate continuously – not to think of this, not to look down, step right, step left… He had resolved to count seven last days at one point, and that had been his big tactical mistake. It made him realise he couldn't tell the days precisely anymore. Mealtimes seemed off, not always twice a day, and at some point he began to wonder if maybe he wasn't sleeping at nighttimes, maybe he slept during the day. That threw him off. Being underground and mostly in the dark threw him continuously (he had been made walk down an alarming amount of stairs). At least it wasn't tight in there (as soon as that thought came, it started feeling tight). He had to spend several hours a day (was he sure they were hours of a day?) on controlling the crawling sensation of his body. It was becoming frankly difficult, and he had finally decided that he had waited enough.

It wasn't that he hadn't been exquisitely careful. He went to bed just as he always did, faced the wall as usual, and covered himself carefully with a sheet. Breaking the button in halves proved a bit difficult, and the edges weren't quite as sharp as they could have been. When he finally could feel the warm wetness tickling his skin and pooling under him, it had felt right, a little relaxing (maybe he'd finally get a full night's sleep, haha). The last thing he remembered thinking was that he was probably making a repulsive mess. A bit of blood made quite an impression. Pints of it… His clothes were soaked through, and he felt vaguely guilty at not finding a better way to go through with this. Sadly, his options weren't many. Coulson (May?) knew what he could do with almost anything.

He woke up strapped to the same bed (hands, arms, feet, torso - sturdy gear designed to hold violent inmates in place) and… well, he guessed he panicked a little. There was a blood transfusion going on, and his wrists under the cuffs were tightly bandaged. The fact that he couldn't move at all as bad (he had become a bit too susceptible to enclosed spaces) but he managed to work through it. What he couldn't quite work through was the idea that he might find himself forced to live through a Game Over. The idea of this never occurred to him before. He had always, thorough his entire life, assumed that, if needed be, it would be his act and his decision. To think that he'd be powerless to…

The second his mind went there he found himself slipping from the proverbial rope (of course it always came when he didn't expect it to happen, because when he was in control he controlled it, damn it). He felt it happen, flailed once, failed to compensate (didn't clamp down quickly enough and there were some images, sensations, and oh God not the smell). He fell but still managed to grab the rope with both hands, feet dangling over the (don't look down) abyss. And there was the chant of panic in his ears (Coulson came and went and surely said something, but he never listened). That took hours to chase away. He had clamped down on that lifeline so viciously, he ended up physically shaking from exhaustion and throwing up twice (third time, he held it down). An entire day (day?) passed with him just clinging to the rope, knowing he wasn't falling anymore but unable to climb back up and stand and walk.

He kind of managed it in the end. Being left out of the restrains helped a lot. He didn't remember what he told Coulson to get him out of there (maybe he didn't tell him anything at all, Coulson didn't seem to notice him half of the time he was down there). His cell (underground, deep, just like a well) was much barer than before. It sent him into another miniature panicking fit, but that, too, got clamped on. The next couple of days were spent exercising the most rigid mental control. He didn't think about other means to take his life (he wasn't ready for another failure). He didn't think about John, at all (don't look down). He didn't think about what for, where and for whom he could still be useful (the answers would amount to nothing, nowhere and nobody, anyway). He had to get a bit better first (in only he weren't being kept in the damn well). Everything would be bearable if he'd just… (no). He didn't think about May (Maynard, not Melinda). He usually never thought about May, but now he didn't think about May (he didn't dare examine the difference).

Eventually, everything got steadier (see, John, not weak). Everything that needed locking up was locked up again. He could control his own thoughts and feelings. There was a constant shivering in him, a fine tremor of uneasiness that wouldn't leave him quite alone, but that was just a physical reaction, and a round of push-ups regularly took the edge off (he couldn't train and sleep at the same time, which was a pity).

Coulson continued being angry (indifferent). Apparently, he wasn't allowed to take the easy (logical) way out. But Coulson would never tell him what he wanted from him, never gave any other direction, so Coulson didn't have a say in the direction he chose himself. The camera watching him was probably thermal and when he had bled out enough the cold in his limbs (and he remembered being so very cold) had alerted someone. Thing with blood was, it took time, it looked messy, and it was very hard to hide. There were other options, but these were worse (would look worse). Who knew who might be watching him remotely. Allowing John to die hadn't been the only way he had screwed up. It wasn't fair of him to traumatize anyone (Skye, Fitz, Simmons, close your eyes if you can't avoid looking down, and never open them again) even further. He didn't want them to have to see that… He just wanted a clean Game Over.

He knew he had to wait out this time because, quite frankly, he couldn't risk failure again. It would be bad, he knew it. Maynard kind of bad (except it wasn't truly Maynard he was blocking from his mind, was it?). Waiting, as before, made everything worse. Not only was claustrophobic down there, it was cold (shivering cold). Trying to figure out what to do with himself (Game Over) only made him more acutely aware that there wasn't anything left worth living for. Not trying to figure out anything and just sitting quietly on the floor made him want to scream and wish he was allowed to at least break something once in a while. He never acted out, though. There was no telling what Coulson would do.

He made another mistake in the end (he always made mistakes, didn't he?). The second attempt wasn't the clear-headed decision first attempt had been. He truly wanted a way out this time, and he was much sloppier than he would have been if he had thought this through clinically. A time simply came when everything just became… difficult. Wrong. Bad. Not on occasion, but every minute, every second, every breath. There was a sense of wrongness under his skin that never left. Further analysis felt dangerous (don't open your eyes, not even if you are slipping), so he avoided it like a plague. A time came when no matter how hard he tried, he could not stop thinking about whatever was crawling under his skin (pacing didn't help, sleeping wasn't possible, thinking about anything at all only made it worse). How to make himself feel better (strong enough, useful again) was an inaccessible mystery to him. He did his best to read all Coulson's cues (sometimes everything became a bit easier when somebody came downstairs), but that too was a closed door.

The one time he slept and ended up having a bad nightmare (water, a dark well, cold), he just stood up, got hold of the piece of paper he was supposed to be writing secrets he didn't have on, and proceeded to fold it up (stupid, stupid, stupid). Of course they saw – they came so quick he didn't even need another blood transfusion after all. There was a short fight – stupid, again, but it had felt good for a moment, until he was overpowered and everything became much worse than ever before. He couldn't stop shivering (weak). Coulson was on the other side of the electric fence (the only thing it ever did was send little shocks that didn't hurt at all), angrily talking. He wasn't sure about what (weak). Coulson never said anything useful, not like John (how not to be weak), like these precise instructions about what to do in Father's office (he had done everything they wanted, and he had smiled). And there, he was slipping again, because he was thinking about how he had been ten at the time and how could they do that to him, and he never, ever thought back on that (the limit to the horrors of his childhood had been Maynard).

"What am I supposed to do?"

And there was a good idea, right? Because he never asked aloud, had he? Maybe he should just have asked before? Maybe it would get better now? He waited a little (it would get better now, he needed it to get better, because he knew he couldn't take worse). He couldn't hold all the wrongness inside of him anymore.

"I don't care."

That was when he stopped slowly slipping and simply fell. So quick, he could have never hope to compensate for it. His fingers found the rope and slid away (too heavy to hold), and he was falling and what should have stayed inside (everything, ever) was rushing out (stop, stop, stop, stop, PLEASE STOP), and people keep secrets for a reason, Skye, and closing his eyes wouldn't save him anymore.

(John told him once that animals would not cry out when injured).

Stop.

(More precisely, he had asked why he thought that was).

Stop.

(Pack animals would, lone animals wouldn't, he had said).

Stop…

(Because there was no point in externalizing pain if nobody would listen).

Sto...

(John had smiled at that).

St…

(He never cried out).

(Not in that office).

(Not in the woods).

(Not on a SHIELD mission).

(Not in front of John).

(He was screaming now, wasn't he? Why? Nobody was listening…)

His mind felt like his body would have, had he truly plummeted down to his death, except he was still alive despite his best efforts (he hated Coulson as much as he hated John). There was blood in his eyes (good), and pain (the hardcore kind, the one that disoriented and made throw up and split his head in two, and that was even better). Why didn't anybody understand that he had to correct himself? It made sense to look the same on the outside as he felt inside, otherwise it was just pointless. He had to make sure he wouldn't be left down there anymore, he couldn't do that, everything was wrong and he was tired of hiding it, pretending that the wrongness wasn't there, hadn't been a part of him since he was born (he had done as he had been told and he had smiled about it, and he had survived to again do as he was told another day).

He was on the ground, being pinned face down to the floor. It was somehow funny, though he couldn't remember how or why. The pain was definitely not enough, but that has already proved to be easily correctable. He didn't need to use his pinned hands, you see? The floor was right there, slippery and red. He thought he maybe had laughed aloud, and he had hit his head again, and yes, he was definitely laughing now, and guess what? He'd just keep doing that for a while, it felt pretty amazing. Relaxing, that's how it really felt. Not having to keep down and quiet and pretend like everything was right. It also made the pictures fade. There were so many of them, and he had hoped he had managed to erase some of them but no. Everything was there (he had always known it was). The pain didn't destroy them, but it definitively blurred the lines until he could pretend he didn't recognize them. Didn't recognise himself in them. And that was good.

Red pain became white noise, and that was good, too. That was what he had always wanted (needed). For everything to simply stop.

For a long while, he floated in an open, soft, painless and quiet place, and that was it. He came back slowly enough to make peace with his restraints before he even fully registered them for what they were. He was somewhere different (thank God), somewhere well lit and with objects around him. Shapes. Even some colour. And there was a silence in his mind that felt both alien and amazing. He was empty. There was no beast howling inside of him, no monster clawing its way out of him anymore.

It felt… good. Peaceful. Like waking up after a gruelling mission in one's own bed, except so much, much, much better than that. He knew that he was very sick, but he also felt detached from all of it right now, like the entire universe was keeping a bit away for the time being. He was on some very heavy drugs. There were several drips pumping them into his arm, and he could moan in relief at confirming that there was still a good dosage left in the drip bag. All his body seemed relaxed and pliant and the terror was gone and everything was silent. Why the hell didn't he try this before? (SHIELD would have thrown him out, that's why). He went to a psych review after one especially rough mission. There had been a mention of meds, but they'd also warned him that it'd go into his file if he accepted them, and so he passed. You never got promoted to the next level with something like that in your file, everyone knew that. There had also been some offer of further talks, but he was suspicious of that. All in all, it wasn't like he could talk about anything that really mattered.

These meds were strong, he could tell. When his head cleared a little more and memories of the previous day came, none of them made his heart race or his mind reel. Everything was nicely held behind a thick sturdy barrier. Not one he had to erect and maintain himself (that one was staying down) but one that was already there. It kept things out and blurred the lines, and he could look on and not feel immediately sick. He could be weak for a while (secret was out). He didn't care that Coulson and May and everyone else knew about him now (John had always known, but he was dead). He was just happy that he didn't have to pretend to be something he wasn't anymore (something like normal). He was so grateful for the reprieve.

There wasn't even a rope in his mind to walk or to fall from anymore. There was a freaking bridge that held him safe - way, way above everything under it. He walked a couple of steps, smiling quietly. Hallucinating seemed like fun. He wished for two things right now: to be allowed to curl up a ball and sleep (he would settle for sleeping, though, nobody was letting him out of his restrains) and not going back into the well right away (one hour more on the outside, just a bit more, and he could take another couple of months down there). It felt like these two things would be quite enough for the time being. It the calmness kept up, he could use the respite to finally figure out a good plan for fix himself back into some resemblance of functioning and useful (human being).

He'd always been able to figure out what was needed of him, after all. And he had always found the strength to go through with it. Truth was, there hadn't been two Games Over in his life (these were just the ones John knew about). May (Maynard, not Melinda) and the well. The office when he had been ten (eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen). The fire (he had been so happy to avoid fifteen, he had failed to realise somebody wouldn't). The two weeks after John left for the first time. The first kill. The first multiple kill. The first kill of somebody he had been sleeping with for info. He had always figured out what was needed of him and he had done it. He had survived, and then closed the door.

(I am a survivor).

(You are a serial killer).

(One of the reasons the drug coctail was so amazing was that it allowed him to finally admit just how much he actually hated John. And SHIELD. And Coulson. And basically everyone ever to cross paths with him. He had been ten. Fifteen, with John. Twenty with SHIELD. They didn't have the right to do that to him, damn it).

(On second thought, maybe it wasn't that amazing after all).

If Coulson didn't want anything from him, he'd find somebody who did. He would not be trusted ever again, but he could still be useful for something (intel, pair of hands, distraction, anything at all). And maybe he would get better down the line (even though it never quite happened before). Maybe he'd stop screwing up and ruining lives while trying to save them. Maybe he could still make something good out of himself.

He had to talk to somebody who didn't want him dead for that to happen, though, and there was only one person he could think of.