In the Back of the Drawer
A/N: To the fabulous people of the AoS fandom – Hi there! I am so happy we finally meet face to face. I have been observing your work for some time, and I am glad I can finally take part in it, and I hope you'll enjoy what I got to add to the fandom. To the amazing people who know me from other fandoms, and have somehow stumbled upon this story – I am alive, well, and kicking (I know some of you have been worried about me). Sorry for having been absent for this long, but I have been kinda busy (university + work + a blog a I now run with my friends – sorry, it's in Hungarian), and I have been battling with a severe case of writer's block – but it seems like I am finally getting over it, and there is no better evidence to that than the fact that this story started out in my head as a couple hundred words long drabble.
Rating: T
Word Count: 3210
Disclaimer: [Insert funny text here that tells you I don't own Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.]
The first few days at the Playground are good – there's so much to do, not much time is left for thinking about what happened and wondering about what ifs (that is a dangerous territory, reserved for the time between her head hitting the pillow late into the night and her eyes closing as sleep envelops her; she is incredibly grateful that it only means a couple of seconds nowadays). While the others are patching up the Bus, packing up on supplies, caring for Fitz, taking inventory and pondering on their future prospects, she is polishing the security system – she always finds something to improve, even after going through it a dozen times –, looking into the lives of possible new recruits and researching that alien writing she still knows frustratingly little about. Generally, she is left alone with her laptop, and she is okay with that – she is not really in the mood of having company, anyway. She just wants to forget – or at least banish the painful memories to the back of her mind at least for the time being.
It's hard, though, when the past comes back to punch you in the face.
It happens on the third day. She is in her new room, sitting cross-legged on her bed (It's harder, older than one she has on the Bus, but she just can't bear sleeping there anymore, fifteen steps away from where he used to sleep), clicking away on her laptop, adding another layer to the firewall of the base's main system (it's completely unnecessary, actually, but she is having a little down time, and currently feels like if she stops working she'll break down), when she detects a sudden, unexpected movement behind the lid of her laptop. She looks up, startled, and finds herself face to face with a gift bag – a generic, cheery, colorful, convenience store gift bag.
Eyes fixed on the bag, she leans a little bit back, because she doesn't understand. It's not just that the bag just appeared – she has seen stranger things –, but that there are no reason for it to appear. It's not Christmas. Or Easter. Or Diwali. Or whatever. Nor a time for any celebration whatsoever.
"I found it among his stuff" May says from where she stands a mere step away from Skye's bed. Skye knows that it should bother her that May came into her room without her noticing, she knows that she should be more aware of her surroundings, but she just can't find enough will to care. Not now. Maybe tomorrow. And anyway, she has an excuse for it, might May mention it. "It's addressed to you. It's nothing dangerous, so I thought you should have it."
It takes her a few moments to understand May's words – the bag came from him. From Ward. Because that's what May have been doing today, going through the traitor's belongings, making an inventory, looking for something, anything, that would lead them to HYDRA. And yet it seems like she found nothing but this disturbingly cheery bag, maybe hidden in the back of his drawer, behind the socks and the meticulously folded T-shirts. And it was, apparently, meant for her.
"Thanks" she says, her voice barely more than a whisper, because she just can't trust it, because she fears if she says more, her voice will break just like she is broken.
But May understands. She just nods, her face emotionless as ever, but yet so expressive, almost sympathetic. She turns around and leaves, the door clicking softly behind her, leaving Skye alone to let her face her demons on her own.
For a few moments, she turns her attention back to the screen. She doesn't want to care about the bag. She wants it to be gone, to be erased from existence. She wants it not to have been bought by that man she once trusted so thoroughly, so blindly, but wishing for things like that is stupid. Because the bag is there, in its three-dimensional, solid, tangible form, and it demands to be cared about.
She gives up after about ten seconds.
She sighs – more like sobs –, closes the lid of the laptop, puts it away, maybe with a little bit more strength than necessary, and reaches for the bag.
The paper is thick and smooth under her fingers, not that cheap she first thought it to be, and is decorated with vibrant, but tasteful rose and salmon and lavender pink flowers. It's almost like it was chosen with care. Almost. (She doesn't want to go there.) She reaches into the bag, and finds three objects inside: something bigger wrapped up in tissue paper, something in a little tulle drawstring bag, and an off-white envelope.
She reaches for the tissue paper first. She unwraps it slowly, careful not to rip the paper. She doesn't know why she is being so careful – she should be tearing it up into little pieces, working out her rage (is that even there?) on it, now that she can't unleash it on the person who so heedfully wrapped the gift in it. She should be raging – and yet, her fingers tremble, and not from anger.
Her breath hitches and her hand flies to her mouth when the paper finally falls away, revealing a shawl underneath. It's silky and beautiful, light purple in color with white patterns and white fringes on two ends. But it's not that it is gorgeous that makes her heart pound painfully and her eyes water – it's that she remembers this shawl.
It was the day before their mission in Italy, a day before she got shot. When they had a location, they went there, she and May and Ward, to scout the area, so they wouldn't stumble into anything unexpected the next day. She thought it was useless to bring her along, because May and Ward would be more than enough to map out the station, but Ward insisted she came – he said it was a training exercise, and that he wanted to see what she would see. She was a little annoyed, but she went along, following him, like the good little rookie she was, reporting back what she saw, what could cause a problem and what was in their favor. And Ward seemed to be happy with what she observed, because he smiled at her, actually smiled at her, and told her to have a break while he discussed the situation with May, just don't wander off too far.
And the town they were at was a real charming, little tourist trap, with narrow, winding roads and street vendors selling interesting little knick-knacks, like miniature Colosseums and Leaning Towers, and aprons with Michelangelo's David printed on them. She obeyed her S.O., got herself some ice cream – gelato –, and started browsing the stalls, keeping close to the station. That's where Ward found her fifteen minutes later, eyeing a shawl – the shawl she holds in her hands now –, a smudge of strawberry gelato on the tip of her nose. The corner of his mouth twitched when he saw her. He reached out, wiped the gelato from her nose with his thumb, and told her it was time to go.
(She won't deny it: later that night, the buzz of excitement of the upcoming mission making it hard to fall asleep, she wondered whether he would have taken a lick from her ice cream if she offered it to him, and if he did, whether she would have tasted the strawberries on his lips and tongue if she kissed him afterwards.)
He must have gone back to that vendor and bought the shawl. Most likely still before their mission – after it her team was too busy getting her to Zurich –, the evening of that very day. Thinking about it now, she distinctly remembers him being absent for a while a couple of hours after they got back to the Bus. She didn't think too much about it back then, but now, assuming – knowing – that he went back there, just to buy her this shawl… She won't lie: it touches her.
She wipes her stubborn tears away and puts the shawl aside, carefully, almost lovingly caressing it with her fingers as she does so, then moves onto the drawstring bag. It's tiny, tiny enough to fit into her palm, and because of the transparency of the tulle, it is no secret what it holds, but her heartbeat still quickens a little as she undoes the neat little bow and loosens the mouth of the bag.
There's a bracelet inside – purple, sparkly beads on a neatly knotted, black string. She remembers this one as well.
It happened not long after their encounter with the Chitauri virus. They were still shaken from Jemma's near-death experience, and they were having a down time – no duties, no missions for days, nothing to take their minds off their recent trauma. Surprisingly, it was Jemma's idea to get away from the base they were staying at for a few hours – she said she needed some new clothes, and that she really could use a girl's day out. Skye, of course, didn't need to be convinced.
The plan was to go alone, just the two of them, because even Fitz could survive without her for a couple of hours, Jemma said. Of course, it wasn't how it went.
Just as she and Jemma were walking to the unmarked S.H.I.E.L.D. car they got permission to use, Ward caught up to them, stating – not asking – that he was coming with them, and that she shouldn't even think about taking the wheel, because he was driving. She stuck her tongue at him when he turned away – she was still sure he saw it –, and called shotgun.
She didn't ask Ward why he was coming – she was sure he would give some non-answer answer, or some pretty white lie about needing something himself, when she was sure – at least that time she was sure – that it was his stupid heroism, his stupid need to protect them what made him come along.
Her assumption seemed to be true, because when they reached their destination, a moderately sized mall about an hour from the base, he didn't seem to let them out of his sight. He didn't exactly keep close, he wasn't smothering or bothering them, but he was always there in her peripheral vision, always ready, no doubt, to defend them if needed.
She played with the thought of trying to distract him – she pulled of some sexy, slinky dresses from the racks, dresses she would normally never wear, and almost walked to him with them, asking him what he thought of them, whether she would look good in them? But in the end, she just put the dresses back – even she didn't know why. Maybe because she was afraid he would just frown at her childishness. Maybe because she was afraid he would actually react some way, that she would see a spark of lust, a spark of desire in his eyes, what she sometimes saw when he touched her arms, her waist, the small of her back to correct her stance during training.
Maybe she was afraid she couldn't keep it a game. Maybe she was afraid it would hurt if she didn't see that spark.
She saw this bracelet that day, at a stand in the middle of the mall's corridor, and she just gave it a fleeting glance and a tiny smile, because it was nice, but she didn't really need it, and anyway, Jemma was already dragging to the next shop, chatting about something she only understood the half of.
She didn't think he had noticed it. Apparently, he had. Apparently, he had noticed a lot more about her than she thought.
(Thinking about it now, he was rather nice that day. He let her fiddle with the radio and took her bags up to her bunk when they got back to the Bus. She thanked him and almost kissed his cheek, but she was still kinda in the doghouse and was afraid she would fry his circuits.)
She loosens the ties of the bracelet and slips it on her wrist now. After pulling the strings and tightening it, it fits just right, like it was made for her. (She tries not to imagine him helping the bracelet on her, his fingers skimming over the thin skin of the inside of her wrist, but her mind betrays her and a shiver runs through her.)
She reaches for the last remaining item, the envelope – it's unsealed, the lid simply folded back, almost inviting anyone and everyone to read what's inside. Whatever it is, she almost sure May read it – she didn't see her name anywhere else, and May said it was addressed to her, so it must be the letter where Ward made it clear the package was meant for her. She tells herself that it – that May read whatever is in the envelope – doesn't bother her. (She feels violated.)
Her traitorous fingers tremble as she reaches into the envelope, pulling out the card inside.
She almost lets out a teary laugh when she sees it, but all she is capable of a weak chuckle turning into a sob.
It's a birthday card – a stupid, silly birthday card with a grumpy looking, party-hat wearing English Bulldog on it, surrounded by a cake and balloons and presents. It's so un-Ward-like and so typical of him at the same time that it almost hurts. Inside, there are only five words, scribbled in neat, sharply angled handwriting.
Skye, it starts, her name glaring at her from the top of the page, the S and the tail of the y carefully looped, not written in haste, but with deliberation, as if the writer wanted it to count (because it counted, because it wasn't a post-it on her bunk door, reminding her not to be late from training). Happy birthday, it says underneath it, which is ridiculous, because even she has no idea when she was actually born, and she never even talked about birthdays and such with him, so how could he know? Why would he even bother? (She learns later, much later, at a point in the future she now wouldn't believe will ever come, that he researched her, and came across the very same redacted report she had found when she was looking for her parents, and on it he saw the date when she was taken to the orphanage– 29th April –, and was waiting for that day to wish her a happy birthday, or at least something like that. It's just that HYDRA decided to come out of the shadows before that and so he never got around doing it.)
And then the signature: Love, Grant. The L a little wobbly, not as disciplined as the other letters, as if he wasn't sure he was supposed to write that, as if he wasn't sure it was a good idea. But the G of the Grant is confident once again, as if he got over his fears, as if he was suddenly sure that yes, that was what he wanted to tell her.
That he wanted her to know that he loved her.
Something inside her snaps.
She attacks the card, tearing it up into pieces, littering her bed and the floor with them, then rips of the bracelet from her wrist, tossing it on to the corner – it bounces back from the wall (she worries for a second, only for a second, that she just ruined it), then sends the shawl after it. And then she starts crying in an earnest.
Because it is just so damn unfair, and how can that bastard think that he can do this to her? How can he think that he can go on and seduce her with rare smiles reserved only for her, make her crazy with fleeting glances and soft touches, and make her fall in love with him (oh, my God) with wayward compliments and acts of stupid heroism, and opening up to her like he hadn't opened up to anyone before? And then how can he go on and betray her, leave her for a psychotic maniac who is nothing but a puppet master to him, yanking his strings? And then, when she is almost sure she has finally learned how to hate him, loath him for everything he has done, present her with something like this?
She cries for what it seem like hours. It's not a pretty sight, not like when the delicate heroine cries in the movies. Her eyes are puffed and her cheeks are angry red, her hair is mess from when she tangles her fingers into the tresses, the same fingers that dig into her palms, almost drawing blood, and her breath hitches, and there is a point when she almost thinks that she is going to suffocate, because there is an awful weight pressing down on her chest, and she just can't breathe.
It's better afterwards. She feels almost relieved, and a lot more clear-headed. She feels like she can thinks straight again.
She tidies up her room – throws out the used tissues and puts everything back into its place that she knocked over during her fit. She washes her face, but avoids her reflection. Then she deals with what came in the gift bag.
The bracelet is surprisingly unharmed; she puts it back into the little tulle pouch, ties a bow on the strings, and tosses it into the cheery paper bag. The shawl is next – one of the threads got snatched into something and got pulled, disrupting the pattern slightly. She shrugs – perfection is annoying, anyway. She folds it and places it next to the bracelet.
The card is beyond repair – it's in tiny scraps, and although maybe she could tape it back together, the rips would just remind her of the heartbreak, so she just throws it away. Except for the piece that says Love, Grant – that one she hides in her copy of How I Live Now. It's kind of ironic, she thinks, but she goes with it. (And she can't help but remember that when everything was alright and they spent most of their days above the clouds, he picked that book for her, like Garrett had used to pick books for him, but he said he thought she would like that one, and she actually liked it, and that day they stayed up late into the night talking about that damn book and war and survival techniques, and the next morning he didn't complain when she was late from training.)
She throws all away that have to be thrown away, and then hides the cheery paper bag in the back of her drawer, behind her unpaired socks and crumpled up T-shirts. During the day, she tries to forget that it is there, but when night comes, she finds strange solace in knowing that the shawl and bracelet and the scrap of paper with Love, Grant etched on it exists.
(She doesn't know it yet, but the day will come when she will be proud and happy to wear his gifts.)
Thank you for reading, I hope enjoyed it!
How I Live Now is a YA novel by Meg Rosoff. It tells the story of Daisy, a somewhat problematic American teenager who is sent to the English countryside to live with her aunt and cousins. But when her aunt is abroad for a peace conference, WWIII breaks out, and the children get first stranded in their country home, then they get separated and subjected to the horrors civilians have to endure during the time of war. It's a very good, very shocking book (really, an educational piece on why you shouldn't start wars), and it also has been adapted into a movie – there are many differences between the two stories, but this is the rare case when both are excellent.