Fire is a complex thing.

It can create and it can destroy.

It is beautiful and terrible.

For the ancient cavemen, fire meant life.

For Grant Ward, fire meant death.

The world was burning.

That is what it felt like.

He was trapped under a pillar of burning rubble, unable to move, barely able to see. All there was to see was fire.

It wasn't as shocking as it could have been. After all, this was his plan. Kill Whitehall, burn the base to the ground. He had planned it in the year he had spent undercover in Hydra, deciding that Whitehall had to be brought down before the rest succumbed to the flames. The fire had been the hard part. Wiring the building to explode, but not completely, so that the fire would simply eat at the walls and suffocate the building from the inside. No way for anyone to escape. It was ruthless, he knew, but if it kept his old team safe, well, Hydra would have to go the hard way. The plan, for the most part, had gone all right.

He just hadn't expected to be inside when the place lit up like a match. Now he was trapped, under a pile of burning rubble. Oddly enough, he wasn't afraid. The fire seemed farther away now. He looked up, holding up his already burned arms, weak from hours of tugging at the rubble until he gave up. His legs were no doubt burned beyond repair, even if he could escape, he doubted he could walk. He hadn't been far from the door either. Two more hallways and he would have made it.

But he had taken his time, made sure Whitehall was dead, before using his body as the catalyst to set the fire. The gasoline burned too hot, spread too quickly. By the time the whole place exploded he was still; on the stairs. He had only just stated running towards the exit when the ceiling fell on top of him.

He couldn't move an inch. He could barely breathe, but he didn't want to close his eyes. He was afraid of what he would see. His mother, calling him a failure. His father, drunk, laughing at his weakness. His older brother smirking. Garrett, just standing over him. These were his only thoughts. Thirty-one years on this planet, and all he had to show was a pile of nightmares and a string of hells.

The smoke was getting thicker. He couldn't hear the screams of people anymore. They were all gone. It was fitting then, that he, who had started the fire, would also perish by its flames. He deserved it. I killed an innocent man, he had once said. Hydra wasn't innocent though.

Through the pain, he smiled. He closed his eyes, saw those brown eyes. It was her, at the end of the world, it would always be her.

The last thing he saw in the darkness.

The last thing he felt was a tug on one of his legs, then everything went dark.

Then he woke up.

…

Beeping was the first thing he heard when he woke up. He didn't open his eyes, but was aware he was conscious. This in itself shocked him. How had he lived through that? The air was cool, but, he supposed, any air would feel cool when your last moments were spent burning to death. Not dead, he reminded himself. The next thing he felt was the fact he was not breathing. Not on his own, he thought. He could feel the tube down his throat, the uncomfortable rise and fall of his chest without being in control of it.

He pulled at the tube, but his hand was swatted away. When opened his eyes, finally, the room was dark. Standing over him, holding the hand that had pulled on the tube, was a rather large and unfamiliar man. When their eyes met, the man placed his hand down and walked out of the room.

A second later, the familiar form of Simmons entered his small room. His heart rate, which had sped up at the notice of the man, slowed again in seeing a familiar face. She removed the tube, cautioning him not to talk.

"Your throat was damaged by all the smoke, I'm afraid," she says, sounding sorry.

He raises his eyebrows as if to ask, what other damage?

"Well, thankfully, your internal organs weren't damaged, but you do have a nasty cut on your leg, as well and third degree burns on your legs and second degree burns on your arms and chest. Those probably will not heal fully and will scar."

"But you lived," she says, after a pause, "And that's a miracle."

He tries to smile, then closes his eyes. It doesn't fell much like a miracle to him.

…

The next time he wakes up, Skye is there.

He closes his eyes again.

The next time, it's the woman from the bus, Bobbi, he thinks, sitting there reading a book. She looks up and smiles at him. He closes his eyes.

They never leave him. Sometimes, in the dark of the night, one of them will doze off for a few seconds. He'll try to sit up in bed, carefully moving the covers off of his legs. Their an nasty sight, still covered in bandages but the ooze and reek and he's glad that every time Simmons comes to change them she hits the morphine button that send him to sleep.

His arms aren't much better, but it's been two weeks. And Simmons had removed the bandages on them. He can see the scars clearly, even in the dim light of the med wing, where the emergency lights outside never shut off. Thin white lines and dark ridges trace up his arms and down to his hands. He tries to clench a fist. It hurts. He sighs and winces, and the person, Trip tonight, jerks awake in the chair. He lies back down and closes his eyes.

He hasn't seen Skye since the first time when he woke up. Sometimes, he thinks he sees her standing outside the window, staring in. He doesn't have the heart to ask why she isn't in the rotation of people at his bedside. He doesn't have the heart to ask why any of them are doing this.

A week later, Simmons takes the bandages on his legs off. He tries to thank her, but as he opens his mouth she looks at him sternly, as if to say that he shouldn't be talking. Instead, he lies down and tries to ignore the raw and open feeling of his legs. He avoids looking at them.

That night though, while May pretends to sleep in the chair, he throws the covers off. His legs are an ugly mess of red skin mew skin lightly stretched over it. You're a monster, Skye had once said. Well, now it really was true. He was glad she never came. She shouldn't have to see him like this, or at all. She deserved better. Simmons had said to try not to touch his skin. He wants to tear it all up. May shifts deliberately in the chair, and he closes his eyes and tries to sleep.

…

The next few weeks are much of the same. He'll wake up to one of the team sitting beside him most of the time. Sometime a note will be placed on his hand stating their all on a mission. He learns a lot in the next weeks, although he stays still and silent.

The big guy, Mack, he had said, talks about the reformation of S.H.I.E.L.D.

Fitz and Simmons talk about the new lab, how everyone's doing, and tell him that he is forgiven.

May never says anything, only sits there, reading, but somehow, provides the most comfort.

Coulson will babble on about the new base.

Bobbi, who has somehow decided that they are friends, will talk and rant about how annoying Lance is, and Lance will do the same.

It doesn't bother him as much as it used to, being silent. He finds he rather likes listening.

…

A week later, Simmons says he should try to speak. He looks up at her, unsure if she means right now, or to the next person who occupies the chair, but as she leaves, he manages three words.

"Simmons," and it comes out as nothing more than a high pitched whisper, "I'm sorry."

She turns then, laying a hand briefly on his shoulder as tears fill her eyes. "Thank you," she says. He almost smiles.

For the next week, people make small talk with him, and his voice slowly goes from high pitched whisper back to a scratchy whisper, though it is still rough and may stay like that forever.

He's also more aware of Skye's presence, as Simmons had lowered his intake of morphine, which now simply flows slowly from a bag instead in large spaced out doses. Skye always stands just out of view, sometimes half in view of the window and she just stares. At his scars, he thinks. At how monstrous he looks, she must be afraid. It doesn't make him want to be any better.

…

It's been over two months since he's woken up there, at the Playground, Coulson had said, Simmons says he should start walking again. He holds her arm, and walks carefully across the room. Miraculously, nothing in his legs had been broken, only severely burned. They walk across the room several times before he lies back down in bed. She says its progress, he smiles. In the background, he can see Skye peeking out from behind the door.

"She's scared of me, isn't she?" he asks when he's back in bed and she's arranging test tubes in the drawer near the wall.

Simmons follows his gaze to where Skye is back in the shadows.

"No…," but Simmons doesn't really know how to answer the question, which only reaffirms what he thinks.

"She was in here every day, when you were asleep. Had to drag her out to eat and work. It was awful." This does not make him feel better.

"How long was I out?"

"Two weeks," she answers.

"She probably thinks I'm a monster," he says and he holds his breath waiting for her to confirm his thoughts. Instead, the glass she's holding crashes to the floor.

She turns to him, fire in her eyes.

"Don't ever say that," she says angrily, and then breathes, and takes a step back. "That's what she was afraid of," Simmons continues, "She was afraid you would think that."

"Then why is she avoiding me?" he asks, still afraid of the answer.

"You'd have to ask her yourself."

"Funny, seeing as you've confined me to this room."

"Actually, you can go. Coulson will be here in few minutes to take you to your new room." She walks out the door smirking.

Coulson comes through the door a minute later.

Ten minutes later, he is sitting on his new bed.

…

The walls are bare concrete, but the room is at least bigger than the bunks on the bus. He has a bed, a nightstand and a dresser. He's only been back for a month, and despite everyone seeming fine around him, he's not sure he should be walking around. His legs are still raw, though they are healing, Simmons had said. The scars on his arms seem more prominent in the stark lighting of his new room.

Later that night, Coulson calls a meeting, for all of them, although he notices right away the absence of Skye. He tries to separate himself from the group, but Bobbi comes over and stands next to him, and then Lance comes and stands next to her. He tries to give her a look, but she only smiles and pats his shoulder gently.

Coulson goes over their schedule, with no new missions at the moment. Most of them depart after, mumbling about inventory and Fitzsimmons talking over each other about some new invention. He watches them all leave, almost wishing to be back in his hospital so one of them would have to talk to him. He doesn't know how to act around all this freedom he has been given.

He goes back to his bunk. Bobbi barges through the door ten minutes later, a giant pile of macaroni and cheese in her hands. She sits on his bed, kicking off her shoes and shoving the bowl in his lap. She demands he eat. He looks at her. She raises her eyebrows as if challenging him. He eats.

Simmons had said he should get back into routine, although he doesn't really know how. All he can think of is Skye in the shadows. He can't make things go back to normal with Skye avoiding him. He doesn't want to scare her anymore.

He tries to make himself scarce in the next weeks. It doesn't always work. He wakes up in the early morning, always leaving the cargo hold when he hears May and Skye coming down to train. Sometimes though, he'll pass her as she and May enter the cargo hold. He'll always switch so that she's on the far side of him. He can always feel her eyes on his back as he walks away. He never stays in the same room with Skye for too long and makes sure to always cover up his scars when they're on missions. Even when it is over eighty degrees where they're going, he always makes sure to dress in his same black long-sleeved shirt. For a few months, this seems to work. He avoids, she stares.

Until the day she corners him in the cargo hold.

…

It's early in the morning and he's at the punching bag when he hears her footsteps approach. He moves to unwrap his hands and head up stairs but her voice stops him.

"Don't," she says quietly, "you've been avoiding me."

He doesn't turn at first. He doesn't want to see the disgust in her eyes when she looks at him. Avoiding her had been taxing enough, but it is worth it if he didn't have to face her words.

"Ward," she says it quietly, almost like prayer.

He turns to look at her. She looks stronger than before, but he still can't help but feel as though she's afraid, especially because his arms, chest and legs are showing.

"Skye." It's the first time he's said her name in over a year. Somehow, even with his mangled larynx, her name comes out smooth and whole.

"You've been avoiding me," she says again, and her voice sounds scared.

"Why?" she asks.

He turns back to the punching bag, closing his eyes. He does not want to do this now. He knew it would have to happen eventually, but he still does not want to stand here when she confirms that thinks he is a monster.

"Ward," her voice is stronger now. She won't take silence for an answer.

"I didn't want to scare you," he says still staring at the punching bag.

"Scare me?" She sounds confused "Why would you scare me?"

"Because of my scars," he looks down, "Because I'm a monster."

"A monster?" she sounds almost defiant.

"That's what you called me."

"Because you had killed people! Because I didn't understand at the time what you had gone through, you are not a monster!" Her words are angry, but almost sad.

"And the scars-"she cuts him off.

"Your scars," she says, sounding almost defeated "Ward, look at me."

He looks up.

"Do you think I'm beautiful?" she asks.

"Yes," the word rolls off his tongue before he can even think about it, like a natural reaction.

She pulls her shirt off. He looks away.

"Look at me," she repeats.

He looks at her face, carefully avoiding his eyes moving downward. She takes a step forward. He has the urge to run because she shouldn't, she shouldn't be bearing herself for him to see, she shouldn't be there. But she keeps stepping forward, and he can't take his eyes off of hers.

She places her hand on her shoulder.

"Hydra agent in Afghanistan," she says, motioning to the scar of a stab wound. "Rio Grande," she points to a bullet scar on the other shoulder. "Sixth foster father," she points to a thin line below her ribcage. "Miles," she continues to take steps forward, holding up her arm to show two parallel lines on the side of her right wrist. "France," she says pointing to a healed gash caused by a bullet graze that runs across her left leg.

"Ian Quinn," she says finally, laying her hand across her abdomen where the bullet and surgery scars still remained despite the healing drug that saved her life.

"Do you still think I'm beautiful?"

"Yes," he breathes, carefully laying his arm across hers.

She looks up at him.

"Peru," she says, laying her hand on the scar left by the bullet graze on his side. "Centipede," she motions to the scar on his shoulder. "You brother," she traces the lines on his back. "Garrett," she traces the almost imperceptible scar on his cheek.

"Mike Peterson, Me," she places her hand on the circular scar just above his heart.

She places her hands lightly over the scars on his wrists.

"You," she whispers, and her voice cracks.

"They're all battle scars," she says softly, looking up with teary eyes placing her hand back on the scar on his chest. "Even the burns, they show you fought, you survived." He takes his hand off her stomach, laying it over the one on his chest.

"I think you're beautiful too," she whispers.

He curls his hand around hers and brings her hand up to kiss it.

"Skye," he says, voice still a scratchy whisper.

She looks up at him with big bright eyes.

"Do you think we could maybe, get a drink?" he whispers.

She leans into his chest bringing her other hand to curl around his.

"I'd like that." She says.

He smiles.