Summary: After S.H.I.E.L.D. is reinstated and Skye & Grant are settled in DC, Thomas seeks out Skye for a talk—which goes to a completely different direction than what he planned. Set in the Haylie/Ada/Ellie Verse.

A/N: Consider this as a companion/sister piece to After Visiting Hours. This is my first time writing Thomas, and I think my version of him differs from the fandom's general reading of him. My Thomas is not fun and energetic and ready to embrace his brother; my Thomas is insecure and full of doubt and almost unwilling to be confronted with reality, with the other side of the story. But that's what made him really interesting to write for me, and I hope you'll enjoy my rendition of him too. On another note, I wrote most of this fic while translating Brit Bennett's amazing novel, The Mothers, and her style might rubbed off on me; sorry for that.
Disclaimer: [Insert funny text here that tells you I don't own Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.]
Rating: T
Word Count: 3695

Turning Tables

He had watched the Triskelion fall. He had watched as the helicarrier crashed into the main building, raining fire, from the safety of his living room hundreds of miles away, his hand half-twitching for his phone, half-wanting to call, just to make sure that…

Then, two years later, he had watched—from a pub drinking beer with his friends—as they announced that S.H.I.E.L.D. would be reinstated, restored to its former glory. A myriad of feelings swirled in his chest, all muted by the alcohol, but still there. He hadn't stopped to examine them, just ordered another round.

It had taken them less than a year after that to rebuild the headquarters on Roosevelt Island (there was even an opening ceremony, with the president even cutting a freaking ribbon; he saw it on the news), and now the building stood proud, jutting out of the D.C. skyline, refusing to be missed, to be forgotten for even a minute.

And yet it took Thomas over a month to pull himself together and come.

The entrance hall of the Triskelion was grand, opulent, and imposing, built in stark black, white, and chrome, with people in suits passing by him with brisk steps; the doorstep of a well-oiled machine. The general public couldn't exactly just waltz in here, but he had his connections, so getting a way in wasn't that hard (the one time he was glad for the family prestige). He had a permission to be there; a right to be there. It didn't mean his heart didn't want to jump out of his chest as he approached the receptionist's desk with clammy hands.

The woman behind the desk was young, somewhat soft but professional, like everyone else around him, but had a quality to her that put Thomas on edge; he was half-sure she could end him with a swipe of her hand, if the situation so demanded. "Welcome to the Triskelion, how may I help you?" she asked him in the most helpful, almost cheerful receptionist voice, but Thomas didn't miss the way her eyes subtly, suspiciously, ran down his body; she was looking for hidden weapons, probably.

Thomas swallowed, his hands clenching and unclenching involuntarily. "I'm looking for Agent Ward. Skye—Skye Ward?"

The woman barely missed a beat. "Is Agent Ward expecting you?"

He forced a breath down his throat. "No, but… could, could you just tell her it's Thomas? Please."

The receptionist gave him another suspicious look, her helpful mannerism faltering (maybe she was contemplating calling security), then turned to the computer in front of her, typed in something, then waited, eerily still. Twenty-three seconds later (not that he was counting) she turned towards him again, smile back in place. "Agent Ward will be down in a couple of minutes. Please, take a seat while you wait," she said, gesturing towards a couch and a couple of chairs in the corner. Thomas nodded in thanks, then, without saying anything else, turned around and made his way to the waiting area, letting out a long breath.

He was flying completely blind here, to be honest, and he was genuinely surprised he got her to agree to see him so easily (or that he found her at all, really). It wasn't like they knew each other in the strictest sense of the word, he thought as he sat down on one of the chairs. They had only met once—if one could call that a meeting—, at his grandmother's funeral; she had been quiet and somber, clutching his brother's hand all through the service as they stayed at the back of the room, her gently rounding belly barely hidden by her dress (he had contemplated during and after the funeral how far along she could have been? Four, five months? He thought he ought to have asked. He thought he ought to have at least introduced himself). They hadn't spoken a word. Hell, he only knew her name from Gramzy's will—she had referred to her as "Grant's wife, Skye" when she bequeathed some family jewelry and a fur coat to her, making Anna, Christian's wife, simmer with barely concealed rage. (The will also mentioned an "unborn daughter," which everyone in the family tried to ignore, despite what they'd seen at the funeral.) Of course, Thomas took all of this with a pinch of salt—he might not have been completely clear on what his brother was doing for a living, but he knew as much that he was a spy, so a part of him had suspected (part of him had wanted to believe) that no such persons as "Grant's wife, Skye" and "unborn daughter" existed, that the woman was just some fellow spy, and it was just an elaborate plot to confuse and misguide the family (to what end, he refused to contemplate).

On the other hand, if it that were the case, Agent Skye Ward wouldn't have been on her way to meet him.

(Another part of him—he couldn't help it—couldn't shake off the thought that in another world this could have been an ordinary, everyday thing, him picking up his sister-in-law at her workplace to have lunch, to good-naturedly trash-talk his brother and gush about his niece.)

She arrived just before waiting would had become uncomfortable (before his thoughts could had made him bolt), and he recognized her right away—not only because he'd seen her before, but because she stuck out like a sore thumb, in a way: she wore ankle boots, jeans, and a leather jacket over her button down in the sea of pantsuits. And yet, she still belonged somehow—maybe it was the way she moved, with grace and confidence, like she knew all the secrets this place held (and like she could have ended him with a swipe of her hand).

And yet she smiled when she saw him.

"Hi, Thomas!" she greeted him just in the moment as he stood from the couch. "Is it okay if I call you that?" (There was a moment of faltering; she stepped almost too close, almost as if she wanted to hug him, but then changed her mind; then her right arm twitched, as if she wanted to extend it for a handshake, then decided against it in the end, but that was it—a fleeting moment. Everything else after that spoke of nothing but ease.)

"Thomas's fine," was all he said as he stuck his hands into his pockets awkwardly; now that he was there and she was there, he had no idea what to do or what to say. "Skye?" he asked, although there was no point.

"Yeah," she let it hang there for a moment, drawing it out, maybe to gain some time; maybe to assess the situation. She searched for his gaze, reading him. "You hungry? Because I know I am. And there's this place just around the corner…"

He shrugged, still not completely trusting his voice. "I could eat."

The corner of her mouth twitched; her eyes twinkled. "Then let's go; they can spare me for an hour or so." With that, she started walking towards the exit, and Thomas followed her.

She chit-chatted throughout the short walk—of everyday, unimportant things, like the weather and what John Oliver had to say about something that week and a burrito place she knew in LA—, and Thomas listened, not really speaking, not really daring to really look at her. It wasn't until they arrived at the small café and sat down, facing each other—Skye still speaking, although he had a feeling that she was only doing that to do something, to make herself, or rather him, feel like there was nothing extraordinary about their meeting—that he actually took a real close look at her.

She was pretty, no doubt about that; he had observed that back at the funeral, too. Long, silky hair, nice figure, soft, distinctly oriental features. But there was an edge about her—he wasn't sure how he could tell, he just could—like there was one about most female members of Thomas's family. His mother had it. His sister had it. His sister-in-law had it. His grandmother, may she rest in peace, had it. It was the mark of a woman who'd walk through fire to get what she wanted. But there was a softness about her, too, almost like innocence, and most likely kindness, in the way her eyes sparkled and the way the corner of her mouth tilted upwards. She radiated warmth, but with a hint of danger.

(He also, consciously-unconsciously, was looking for something else, a nervous tremor in her hand, a bruise peeking out from under her collar, but he found nothing.)

She chatted, evidently not even expecting him to really take part in the conversation—or maybe even listen—until the waiter came to take their orders; when he left, she kept silent, looking at him with a hint of a smile, waiting and blinking slowly, almost as if she knew she had the upper hand and she enjoyed it.

"So…" she started when the silence started to draw uncomfortably long, absent-mindedly picking up three packets of sugar from the holder in the middle of the table and start shuffling them around.

"So…" Thomas cleared his throat, worrying the hem of his sweater under the table. "So… you and Grant?"

Her smile widened, almost imperceptibly; her hands stilled above the sugar packets as she looked into his eyes.

"Yeah, me and Grant. For a good while. But you've must have known that. We saw each other at Gramzy's funeral, and now you knew how to seek me out."

(It really irked him for some reason, her calling Gramzy Gramzy. It was a family thing. A grandchild thing. Not even Anna called her that. It felt wrong, like an intrusion. She hadn't even known her.)

"I know, I just… I mean… I wanted…" He was babbling. He was babbling, and he hated it, because it made him feel weak and vulnerable, and he was supposed to have the upper hand here. The moral high ground. He was supposed to be strong and straightforward. He was a Ward, for God's sake.

So he decided to act like it.

He exhaled, let go of his sweater, balled his hand into fist in his lap, then leaned forward and just said what he came to say.

"Look, I just wanted to check on you. I know what my brother is like, what he is capable of—the apple doesn't fall from the tree, so they say, and I've lived with him, I know what it's like, and you are… you, and you have a kid, and I know how it goes, how people can get trapped in these kinds of relationships, so I just wanted say—I just wanted say, if you need a way out, any help you need, I'm here, he doesn't even need to know we've met—"

"Stop right now," she interrupted him with a deadly finality in her voice. Her whole body language changed—she was leaning forward, her shoulders tense, her eyes narrowed. Thomas swallowed, leaning back in his seat, which, he'd just realized, vibrated slightly, as if the metro was passing under them—only he didn't remember any metro lines lying nearby. "Stop right now, because I swear, if you utter one more word insinuating that my husband is hurting me or our baby, I'll end you, right here."

She looked him dead in the eye, unflinching, for a long moment, then, as if she sensed the waiter approaching, she suddenly relaxed her body, and already had an easy smile on her face as their food was placed in front of them. (Thomas was sure he wasn't as successful at hiding his tension as she was, but the waiter was either too professional or too unobservant to notice it.) Once he was gone, Skye let out a sigh, picked up her fork and started picking at her salad.

"Look," she said after a long pause, in a softer voice, not looking at him "I grew up in the system. Mostly. And I'm only telling you this so you know that I'm familiar with the circle of abuse. The abused becoming the abuser. When you are hurt so much, you can do nothing, but pass this hurt on. But your brother? He broke that circle." She lifted her gaze and finally looked at him. "And you don't know him, not really. You might have known a version of him a long time ago, but even then, he wasn't himself, not his true self, and, anyway, he left that behind a long time ago. It wasn't easy and I saw his struggle—his guilt and pain—, but he did it.

"What I mean is… well, I guess what I mean is I can't really fault you for saying what you have just said, at least not rationally. But I want you to understand that the image of Grant you have in your memory does not truly reflect reality. He was… under bad influence as a kid, he was under that from a long time, but it's over now, so he can finally be who he was meant to be. And that person is…" She chuckled softly, her eyes fluttering closed for a moment, while her lips pulled into a genuine, radiant smile. "Your brother is a good man, Thomas."

He scoffed. He surprised even himself, but he scoffed.

In his mind, it seemed so easy. He imagined he'd come here to meet a woman, maybe timid, maybe defiant, but a woman who would ultimately admit to being terrorized by his brother as well, and would let him help her, get her and her child away, would be grateful for his help, and this outcome would have left him satisfied, because it would have reaffirmed his idea of Grant, that he was a monster, cruel and evil. It would have been so clean-cut—him as the hero, his brother as the villain.

He didn't think he was ready for this image to change.

"But… how can you be so sure?" He felt like grasping at straws. "Look, our mother and father… they could be real charmers too, making people trust them, and then behind closed doors…"

She laughed. "You honestly think I haven't seen him 'behind closed doors'? That I don't know he has demons? I know all of them, helped him defeat some." Her eyes narrowed slightly. "I'm not clutching an image, refusing to see what's behind it. I know your brother inside and out, warts and smiles and everything in-between."

"But you have to consider, you have a child—"

"To whom he has been an amazing father from the very beginning," she interrupted him. She took a bite of her food, turning her gaze away from him. "And who, you know, has a name. One you should really learn to use, her being your niece and everything."

"And what…" he swallowed. He was slipping, he knew that, but he couldn't stop. "And what's her name?"

Skye looked at him from under her lashes. "Haylie. Haylie Grace Ward. Grant originally wanted her to have my surname. I insisted on Ward."

"Haylie…" Thomas tasted the name; it was sweet. He wanted to ask more, about why they had fought about the name, about why they named her Haylie—it wasn't a family name, maybe it was from Skye's side…?—, about… he didn't know. He just wanted to ask, but couldn't find the words. "Haylie…"

Skye suddenly dropped her fork and reached for her jeans pocket. "Maybe you should see this." She pulled out her cellphone, unlocked the screen, tapped away on it for a couple of seconds, then pushed the device in front of him. Thomas, despite himself, leaned closer for a better look.

It was a video; one of those proud mommies took to share on Facebook and then bask in the likes. It showed Grant, topless, doing pushups, biceps bulging—and a dark-haired baby lying on her back between his hands. Both of them were grinning widely. Whenever he lowered himself to the ground, the baby giggled and squealed, trying to catch his hair, nose, ears, anything she could reach. Grant chuckled, too, giving kisses and blowing raspberries at every pushup. It was sickeningly sweet.

"They do that a lot," Skye said after a couple of seconds spent in silence only broken by the sounds of the video; he didn't look up from the screen, but listened. "I mean, not just this. We bought this active baby-sport-whatever—it's a baby carriage you can go jogging with. He likes to take Haylie in the mornings. The women in the neighborhood are going nuts. But he just loves spending time with her, no matter if it's cuddling or changing diapers. I told you he was an amazing dad."

The video ended, and Thomas, almost without thinking, clicked on replay, this time focusing on the smaller details—the two small, pearly white teeth peeking out from the baby's mouth, the teal bow in her hair, the spark in his brother's eyes, the soft laughter coming from the background, most likely from Skye…

"She's older now," Skye continued, as if she was reading his thoughts. "I took this back in December, I guess."

"How old is she?" Thomas heard himself asking.

He didn't look up, but he was sure Skye smirked at him. "Sixteen months. You know, before I had a kid, I had always thought this month-thing was nonsense, but now I see… it actually has its merits. But yeah… she's sixteen months old. She's running now. And talking—she's not saying that many words yet, but she's always chattering away. And she loves ponies—not like the real kind, but these colorful ones that have manes like cotton candy. But her favorite toy is that stuffed monkey one of our friends get her when she was born."

The video ended again and this time Thomas locked the screen and pushed the phone back towards her, looking up just as she said, "And you could know her."

"What?" He thought he'd misheard things.

"I said you could know her," she repeated, pocketing her phone. "Haylie. You're her uncle, after all. And since I don't have any siblings and as far as I'm concerned Christian is not allowed a hundred feet within my daughter…" (He could tell she half-meant it as a joke, but even she knew it was forced.) "…you to should have a chance to know each other. To be a family."

Thomas picked up his coffee with trembling hands and took a sip, just to do something and avoid looking into her eyes or saying something.

"And he misses you too," she added; she bit into her lower lip. "Before you say anything," she continued in a soft voice, "I know, you've made an adamant case of your reservations and grievances. I get that. But I want you to understand, really understand that Grant's not the person you think you knew as a child. And anyway…" She looked out of the window, her gaze pensive, something far away reflecting in her eyes. "…sometimes the best we can do is to let go of the past, so we can find something precious in the present."

Thomas let his hands fall under the table once again, clutching the material of his pants. "I-I don't…" (It was too much. It wasn't what he came for, not even close.)

Skye turned to him again, her gaze finding his, looking into his eyes unflinching. "He loves you, you know. Misses you. All he has ever wanted was to protect you and now he'd do anything to make things right with you."

There was such a raw honesty in her voice, in the set of her face, that what she said felt like a punch to the gut. Thomas exhaled and let his shoulders fall forward, his eyes fixed on the tabletop.

"I don't know. I don't know if I'm ready—to see him. To go through with… anything." Not ready to shatter an image so ingrained into him it felt like the cornerstone of his existence.

When he lifted his head, Skye was smiling softly at him. "Not knowing is enough. For now. And it's not like you have a deadline to meet. Look…" She pulled a pen from some inner pocket of her jacket, grabbed a napkin and scribbled down something on it. "Here's my personal number," she said, sliding the napkin towards him, "and that under it is Grant's. Call when you know what you want to do. Or just want to talk."

She took three quick bites of her salad—about half of it was still there—, wrapped her pastry into a napkin, then pulled some bills from her wallet and put them on the table. Thomas just watched her, too stunned to say anything.

"If it means anything," she said, standing up and pulling on her jacket, "I wouldn't exactly mind calling you family. Goodbye, Thomas." And with that she turned around and walked out of the café.

Thomas watched her go through the window until her figure disappeared into the distance. He felt paralyzed, uneasy—he should have at least paid for her meal; he should have at least said goodbye.

He shook his head, as if to clear his mind, then took a deep breath. This was… a lot to digest. A lot to think over. This was… not what he had expected. He was looking forward to some kind of relief, and instead felt like as if another, heavier, burden had been placed on his shoulders.

His eyes wandered to the napkin at the center of the table; he picked it up gingerly, feeling the paper under his fingertips, his gaze following the slants and curls of Skye's letters and digits. He closed his eyes for a moment, let out a long breath, then folded the napkin into half and slipped it into his pocket.

One step at the time.