Summary: A look inside Grant Ward's head. Chapter One - post 1x05 "Girl in a Flower Dress"
A/N: I think that Ward's confession to Skye that "his brother used to beat the crap out of him" was just another Level One overshare and Level Seven (or Eight, or Ten) truth is a little bit more complicated. Just a theory...
Warning: WIP. I know where I'm going with this, but I'm not entirely sure I'll be able to get there. I promise I'll try my best to battle RL for the sake of fanfiction. :)
I hope you'll enjoy. :)
The Box, the Squirrel and Lessons in Flying
Being friendly was not one of Grant Ward's virtues. In fact he couldn't remember when he'd last been friendly with anyone; he'd neither needed nor wanted to. That night in Hong-Kong, though, he felt like he could identify with Coulson's anguish over the death of the pyrokinetic. With the sense of failure of the mission. He'd been there, in a way, so long ago he could barely remember.
"Sir, you can't save a person from themselves," he offered as means of support, empathy maybe.
He was wrong. What was he thinking, trying to reassure the more experienced agent? His superior was smarter than that.
"Yes you can," he replied. "If you get to them early enough."
He meant Skye and, well, Grant hoped, for Coulson's sake, that the man was right.
He knew better though. What was it supposed to mean "early enough" after all? How early was enough? Coulson was wrong and fate was determined. It was the only truth, especially where those with special abilities were concerned.
Of course Grant didn't think about it all that much. He shrugged at Coulson's remark, went back to the Bus, unpacked his gear, punched some bag, unwound with May. Refused to babysit Skye in Coulson's office. She was Coulson's responsibility after all, even though deep inside Grant was already beginning to feel protective of her too. He didn't want to feel that, didn't need this burden all over again.
Later, as he gaped at the vaulted ceiling of his bunk and his eyes were slowly drifting shut, in that brief space between reality and the realm of dreams, a voice, all too familiar, whispered in his ear, "Poor, stupid Grantey, what do you think you're doing? Do you think you can change me? Help me? I am who I am, Grantey. I am what I am. And you can't save me from that."
It wasn't a nightmare.
Grant Ward didn't do nightmares.
But the memory was disturbing enough so he didn't fall asleep again that night. In the shadows he let himself remember that once, at the beginning of it all, before his life had gone to hell and his big brother had almost killed them all, Grant had wanted to help him. In his childish way he'd tried to understand, prevent bad things from happening, but he'd been scared and that had only made things worse.
In the morning he carefully packed that memory up, locked it in a mental equivalent of a box clearly labeled "don't touch" and put in on a shelf in the deep, dark corner of his brain, where he kept all the memories of his family.
Then, everything was fine again. For a few days.
t.b.c.