WARNING: CONTAINS MENTIONS OF SELF-HARM AND SUICIDAL THOUGHTS/ACTIONS.
A/N: Okay, so, yeah. I just really wanted to write something for this pairing, because I've loved the thought of them since the pilot episode, and even now, I still do, albeit in a more indecipherable way. For the record, I do hope for a redemption arc in terms of Ward's character, because dammit man, he had the potential to be so great, and he still does, but it's going to have to take several gruesome seasons for me to be at all okay with it. Anyway, this takes place pre-2x01, considering the fact that Simmons is still at the base with the rest of the team, so. ALSO, Ward may be a bit ooc, considering that I'd only watched 2x01 and the preview for 2x03 when I wrote this, and my Ward is a bit more...erratic than canon!Ward at this point in time. Story title comes from Breezeblocks by alt-J.
they go along to take your honey
Ward's questioned the state of his heart before, wondered whether it has some defect that inhibits him from feeling the strong pull of remorse that should be there after infiltrating a team full of inherently good people for the sake of bringing the organization they're risking their lives to defend to the ground. However, every doctor he's been to has said otherwise, grinning as they label him perfectly healthy.
But here, looking across his chamber at Simmons as she stands frigidly before him, mistrust in her eyes and defiance in the set of her shoulders, he feels the heart he's deemed defective cave in on itself a bit. There's none of the enthusiasm she always radiated before, and he finds himself missing her chatter about the alien matter of something or other, missing the easy way in which she carried herself around him.
He was her friend, and she's still his.
He's so so happy to see her.
Trip looks at him cautiously as he stands by the staircase that leads down into the basement where he's being kept, one hand wrapped around the railing and the other on the sidearm he usually keeps hidden beneath a jacket, now in plain view for him to see. Grant's gaze flits between the two, and he wonders if Trip's barely-concealed affection for Simmons is still intact, chronicling different ways to use that attachment to his advantage in the recesses of his mind.
Stop, he commands himself, biting the inside of his cheek. Stop it.
Simmons turns away from him and walks to where Trip stands, laying a hand on his forearm that instantly makes his posture relax. "I'd like to be alone with him." Before Trip can voice his protests, she smiles wearily up at him, and Grant wonders what he's seeing in her face that would let him think leaving her alone with a man like himself would be a good idea, because soon after, he frowns and nods down at her.
Giving his hand a squeeze, Simmons turns back to face him, all the warmth that'd been directed at Trip visibly dissipating from her soft features only to be replaced with rancor. Grant fixes her with an expression of indifference, urging the despondence he feels away; he did try to kill this woman, even after acknowledging the fact that she means something to him.
Wallowing in self-pity that she isn't being nice to him is a luxury he'll never be able to afford.
He waits until the door to the base closes behind Trip to say something.
"I told Coulson I'd only reveal what intelligence I know to Skye."
At that, her eyes narrow, and he winces, realizing his words were proverbial dirt in a wound that's still too fresh. Even if he doesn't know her reasons for being here, it's not wise to jump the gun and be standoffish, especially when it's the first time in weeks that he's seen someone other than the scientist who comes down to conduct daily inspections on the forcefield.
"I'm not here to get information from you."
He'd never entertained the thought of Simmons being anything other than lively and sympathetic, even to scum like him, but there's no trace of a single positive connotation on her face. She's looking straight at him with hard eyes, eyes that betray nothing, and it's a gaze he knows well, one he's worn ever since the day Agent Phil Coulson approached him about joining a new team.
Grant cocks his head to the side, appraising. "You're trying to cover something up. Are you afraid?"
She scoffs, then, and the action feels wrong coming from her. It's too obnoxious for someone whom he's come to automatically associate with unprecedented kindness. "Of you? Don't flatter yourself."
He barely restrains from allowing the surprise he feels at her new demeanor display itself on his face. Suddenly, it's easier to look her directly in the eye; her attitude has his defenses coming up, and intimidation comes easy to him where sincerity doesn't. Grant doesn't give his regression any mind, just rifles through his memories until he finds the one he was searching for, where her eyes are wide with fear and her mouth is open, pleading for their lives.
"Wouldn't be the first time," he reminds, and even though the way she stiffens feels like a blow to his stomach, he doesn't allow his expression to veer off from the maniacal one he wears. She stands her ground, raising her chin slightly, and he would've never been able to detect its quiver if he hadn't been looking for it. Her lying has vastly improved, but she still has some work to do.
He smirks, then. "Wow, Simmons; whatever act you were putting on lasted more than half a minute. Kudos."
She groans, turning away from him and running her fingers through her hair in frustration. When she turns back to him, it's clear she's done masking her emotions. There's an angry flush in her cheeks, and wisps of her hair are hanging in front of her forehead, and her face is so open.
He can't help but be relieved, because this is how he remembers her, how he always wants to remember her; chastising Fitz to quit suggesting monkeys in the lab, and insisting that Coulson tests Skye's blood in an effort to save more lives, and wading in the ocean, happiness and gratitude in the way she clings to his neck.
So genuine.
So Simmons.
"I hate you," she quavers, and he stops short, forcefully taken from the safety of his reverie when he sees tears begin to build in her eyes. "I hate you so much."
He swallows tightly and lets his eyes trail over her, filing away the image of her hand balled in a fist, the way her lip is trembling with the effort to contain her sob. He's had hate directed at him by those he's betrayed, of course; it was in the sharpness of Skye's usually-soft gaze, in the resilience with which May assaulted him, unwilling to let him walk away unscathed. So yes, he's familiar with the emotion she claims to feel, but looking at her, he also knows she can't possibly mean it.
Where there should be a raging fire behind Simmons' eyes, there only lies anguish.
He curses under his breath, bowing his head to hide the way his jaw clenches. "No, you don't."
"Yes, I do."
He considers the notion that she might, that his betrayal pushed some of her softness away and left an empty shell in its place. Somehow, the idea of Simmons regarding him with the same contempt that everyone else does sends a sharp pain to the center of his chest.
Briefly, his mind travels back to the first time she patched him up, after Reyes and her men infiltrated the Bus and a bullet grazed his side as a result of the fallout.
Her hands are shaking.
She notices him staring at her weak attempts to twist the cap off the antibacterial ointment and offers a smile. Simmons has a lovely smile, he decides; the kind that men gladly go to war for, with the grace and beauty that sends regimes tumbling to the ground. "Adrenal crash," she explains dismissively. "It'll wear off in a bit, not to worry. Oh! I forgot the gauze."
She walks to the other side of the lab to retrieve it, and he unabashedly watches her, his eyebrows furrowing when he notices her shoulders trembling beneath her blouse. She returns with two pieces of gauze, one wet and one dry, and sets the dry one next to his hip before dabbing the damp one against the area around his injury, wiping the dried blood from his skin with care.
"Hey," he says, in a tone he knows will both console her and get him one step closer to earning her trust. After his initial review of his new team members, he'd come to the conclusion that FitzSimmons─and Skye, the sole unseen variable in Garrett's planwould definitely be the easiest to fool, so it doesn't surprise him how quickly she deflates before him, expelling a breath that hits his clavicle, soft and warm. Her eyes meet his, and he ignores the sliver of remorse that lodges itself in his throat.
Hurting good people is a risk he knew he'd have to take in order to save Garrett's life, and he can't afford to back out now, not when he's fought alongside them and made a show of devoting himself to their protection. So he meets Simmons' glistening eyes, fixes his expression to convey sympathy, and wraps his fingers gently around her wrist.
"You okay?"
She shakes her head, pushing a stray tendril of hair behind her ear. "I apologize; it's just...I'm not particularly accustomed to this. Days in the lab were far less...busy. The only time I had to put my medical training to use was when it came to fetching Fitz a bandage each time he nicked his thumb making himself a sandwich, and now, you're here because you got shot─"
"Grazed."
"─and it was very heroic and action-packed and nothing at all like what I'm trained for, and I don't think I'm as equipped to handle this as I initially believed."
"Simmons," he says calmly, running his thumb over the skin where her pulse point lies and letting it rest there, waiting until the frantic thumping slows. She doesn't pay the contact any attention, but she doesn't pull away either, instead looking at him searchingly. "You did great today, okay? Frankly, and I'll deny this if asked, you and Fitz are quite the assets in situations like these."
Her eyebrows kink up, hopeful. "Yeah?"
"Yeah," he assures, releasing her and gesturing to his side. "Now, if you wouldn't mind speeding this up, we could go watch the 0-8-4 get launched to The Sandbox with the rest of the team."
"Oh, that sounds fantastic!"
At that, she elatedly gets back to work on his injuries, going on about telling Fitz to get drinks and how the silver lining to field work is the unwinding that can take place afterwards. There's a blatant shift in the air due to how much more Simmons is talking, obviously more comfortable around him, and Grant recognizes that it means he's several steps closer to earning her implicit trust.
He smiles each time she looks up at him, and the more she perks up, the sicker he feels.
There's no way that someone like her can have enough darkness inside her to know true hate, not even where he's concerned.
There's no way.
"I believe you want to. I believe I'd deserve it if you did. But you don't."
"I don't bloody care what you believe. The fact of the matter is that I do."
Before he can argue, she elaborates. "Granted, I may not hate you for being Hydra, or for trying to kill me, or for earning my friendship and trust with lies. I don't even hate you for making me feel like I'm indebted to you for saving my life multiple times." The part of his mind that's been moulded by Garrett for fourteen years registers that he could use that to his advantage, could manipulate Simmons one last time to ensure his escape, but he clenches his fists, willing the thought away. "But I hate you for what you did to him."
He doesn't need to ask who she's alluding to, and at the mention of her best friend, Grant finds the animosity that he was looking for, and the sight cuts at him.
Simmons doesn't hate him, not entirely...but enough.
"You're being awfully blunt for someone that didn't pass their field test and is currently alone with an unhinged former specialist."
It's an empty threat and he knows it; even if he could somehow get through the invisible wall that separates them, Simmons helped design it, and he doubts there aren't some mechanisms implanted in it that can kill him with a couple of simple swipes of her fingers on the control pad she holds in her hand.
"How could you? Even after we discovered where your allegiances truly lay, he vouched for you!" He feels bile rise in his throat and swallows it down, forcing the image of Fitz's wide, pleading eyes away as he takes a seat on the edge of his bed. "Fitz never accepted that you were truly the deceitful vermin you turned out to be; he was so sure Garrett had been controlling you, so sure that the heinous acts you'd committed weren't of your own volition. All he did was try to get through to you, and you proved him wrong when you sent us tumbling into the depths of the ocean and he came out of it with brain damage."
"But he's alive," he bites out. Taking a shaky breath, he repeats, "he's alive."
He's alive, and breathing, and maybe he lost some of the brilliance he retained, but he's okay. He's recuperating, at least somewhat, and he has Simmons and Skye and May and Coulson. That's what matters, right?
That's what has to matter.
"Don't you dare say that as if that excuses what you did!" She looks down to the control pad, and Grant knows that the fleeting thought to disband the forcefield, if only to punch him in the face, crossed her mind. Simmons shakes her head, stepping further away from him with a grimace. "Do you even feel the slightest remorse?"
He does. He's got the scars to prove it.
Grant stuffs his hands in his pockets, careful to shield his forearms from her; it's futile, really, considering she's the one who came down and bandaged his wrists after he cut them and placed butterfly bandages on his head after he cracked it open.
He remembers the care with which she handled his self-inflicted injuries, unchanged even after he betrayed her team, but he also remembers the seconds after she'd assured May she'd be okay alone with him, where she just stared at him, the tools to save him resting in her hands along with the hesitance to do so.
He understands why.
The first time Coulson came down for a visit, he'd informed him of what Fitz was suffering through because of his actions, that he was forgetful and unable to operate as he once did, and it's been seared at the forefront of his brain every second of every day since.
Simmons stands by his feet, looking down at him warily, and even delirious, he can see the internal battle she's currently fighting.
He's glad they sent her; maybe she'll let him die. Clearly, a part of her wants him to. She could say it was an accident, that it was too late and he'd lost too much blood; no one would question her for it. Hell, he'd be okay with her getting a scalpel from her equipment kit and slicing an artery herself if that's what she'd prefer.
Anything to end it.
She bites her lip, and he knows sympathy that he doesn't deserve is wriggling its way into her conscience. He wants to shake his head, tell her she'd be right to let the reluctance win, but things are really fuzzy and he's starting to lose grip on how to make his body listen to his brain.
Sighing, she kneels down beside him, paying no mind as his blood begins to seep into her pants.
"That'll stain," he comments, surprised to see that the corner of her mouth quirks up slightly.
Before he has a chance to let his own mouth do the same, her lip-quirk is gone, replaced with a taut line that doesn't make her look nearly as pretty as she does when she's smiling. He closes his eyes when he feels her carefully wrap her hands around his forearm and set it atop her thigh, hearing her exhale sharply through her nose.
"How bad is it?"
It takes a while before she answers, but when she does, it's what he expected to hear. "You'll live."
"So, not what I was aiming for, then." He tries to close his hand around hers, but all he really achieves is a flutter of fingers against skin, and she freezes beneath his touch. Rather than remove his hand, he just pats his fingers against her skin once, twice. She knows he won't hurt her; otherwise, she wouldn't have told May to leave them. "Just let me bleed out; it's okay," he chokes out, rolling his head away from her. "You don't have to save me."
She doesn't look up from what she's doing, but he can tell his words affected her by the way her hands press the gauze slightly more firmly against his wrist.
She winces, removing her hands and drawing out a long breath. "Yes, I do."
Obviously wanting nothing less than to stretch out the time she has to spend with him, Simmons makes quick work of cleaning his arms, moving on to bandaging them in only a few minutes. The pressure of the cotton against his wound feels somewhat nice beneath the sting, and it allows him to regain a fraction of strength, enough to blearily open his eyes.
Simmons' eyebrows are furrowed in concentration, her nose scrunched up in that way he always secretly─like, Hydra-within-S.H.I.E.L.D. secretly─thought was adorable. The blouse she's wearing is sheer, and his eyes skim along her arms, lean and slightly defined in a way he doesn't remember them being. Lowering his gaze, he can see a gun sticking out from the waistband of her jeans, and he wonders about that. It's obvious they didn't give her an ICER because they're not taking any chances with him─they need him alive for his knowledge of how Hydra operates, yes, but not at the expense of harming one of their own.
Giving her a weapon she doesn't know how to use is a sure way to do just that.
They're training her, he realizes. Frankly, it's about damn time.
"Would you kill me?"
Her hands still, and she looks down at him with wide eyes. He stares back blatantly, half hoping she'll say she wouldn't while half needing her to say she'd pull the trigger in a heartbeat. Her tongue darts out to wet her lips, and she reaches behind her to pull her blouse over the gun, concealing it once more.
"If I had to."
"Do you want to?" he speculates, and it sounds like an offer, even to his own ears.
"No."
The single word is spoken with certainty, and he can't help but be equal parts relieved and disappointed.
"You should," he advises. His inquiry visibly upset her; he can tell by how she's frowning and wrapping the gauze around his left forearm at a rate that's too fast for any professional to be comfortable with. "Simmons─"
Releasing him, she clutches at her thighs. "Stop it. Please, just stop."
Every instinct he has is yelling at him to continue, to keep goading and questioning until she places the barrel of the gun against the space between his eyes. Even now, he seeks the thrill, the satisfaction that comes from knowing people's buttons and all the ways to push them to his liking.
But no, he's done enough damage to Simmons' persona to span across several lifetimes, and he refuses to hurt her again. Then, he wonders if that's wishful thinking on his part; that him dying─whether at her hand or someone else'swould hurt her.
Against his better judgment, he likes to think it would.
"Fine," he murmurs, "But you'll regret it."
"Maybe."
He grins. "Always so honest."
"Would it matter if I did?"
The question is one she clearly wasn't expecting, because she stares at him blankly for a second, thrown completely off-guard. After a moment, she tears her eyes away from his, clearing her throat and pulling at her cardigan.
"No," she responds decisively, looking at him once more. "No, it wouldn't."
He nods in understanding, not bothering to conceal the disappointment he feels at words he was expecting.
Willingly sending someone to their death tends to put a bit of strain on relationships, after all.
Deciding he's put it off long enough, he takes the niggling thought in the recesses of his mind to the forefront and asks, "why now? You've had several months to come down here and share your woes with the loathsome traitor, so why wait this long?"
There's a pause, and she sighs, more weary than exasperated. "Because after today, I'll never be seeing you again."
She doesn't smile, or give any indication that she's happy about that, and he can't help but be grateful that Simmons isn't one to stoop beneath what she believes to be appropriate. He's just lucky that what she considers appropriate is a hell of a lot nicer than what other people do.
However, does her explanation mean that she's leaving S.H.I.E.L.D. and the team and Fitz? Or does it mean she simply won't come down to see him again?
He stands, stalking toward her slowly. "Just me? Or the team?"
"Oh, no; I fully intend on coming back to them."
"So...what? You figured you owed me a goodbye?"
She raises a perfect eyebrow, unapologetic. "I don't owe you anything."
True, but Grant's eyes narrow in suspicion nonetheless. There's something she isn't saying, and it's written in how she can't hold his gaze anymore, in the way her fingers haven't stopped drumming against the back of the control pad since he asked if she really was abandoning the team.
Outside of his headspace, Simmons nods once to herself and clears her throat, and the finality of her actions has him backpedaling, tossing his curiosity out the window in favor of buying him more time. He's shaking his head, approaching the barrier that separates them more and more until he hears a faint thrum, warning him that he's too close. Unwillingly, he steps back.
This can't be all he gets from her.
It can't be.
Admittedly, it's more than he hoped for and a hell of a lot more than he deserves, but seeing her again, with her delicate hands and brilliant mind...it's made him want. He wants to see her, even if she's just yelling at him and cursing his existence to Hades. He wants to tell her he likes her haircut and ask about what she's working on and give her tips on how to take down men three times her size without breaking a sweat.
"Jemma," he calls, referring to her by her first name for the first and possibly last time, if what she's saying is true. There's something indecipherable lurking in her features as she glances up, expectant. He wrings his hands together nervously and smiles at her. "For what it's worth, I'm glad you're alright."
For a second, her face softens, and she's looking at him in a way that's so familiar it physically makes his heart clench. Regret and hope begin battling it out inside him in an attempt to see which emotion can be felt more strongly, but she catches herself quickly, forcing her face to return to a mask once more.
"I'm afraid I can't say the same for you."
There's the slightest hitch in her voice, and before he can gauge other factors of her expression to determine whether it was because she was lying, her fingers are swiping deftly across the control pad's surface, and she's gone behind a wall of white.
He closes his eyes resignedly, choosing to lean against the wall rather than sulk comfortably in a bed.
If asked, he wouldn't be able to give a definitive answer for how long he sat there, rubbing his thumbs over scars that remind him of darkness and water and an extraordinary woman who he'd once promised didn't have to worry about falling because he'd be there to catch her.
It may as well have been forever.