Apparently the boredom that results when being stuck in a cast, can fight off writer's block. Let me know if you like it, and thank you for reading.
"When one door closes, another opens; but we often look so long and so regretfully upon the closed door that we do not see the one which has opened for us." – Alexander Graham Bell
He missed his chance. Once being a man who had no problems with fast decision making, he had waited too long. And now it was too late. A live behind bars it would be now, he thought as he was handed his prisoner's garb and walked along a narrow, grey aisle.
The bars were closed and he found himself alone in a cell. It seemed like traitors didn't get a cell mate. He wondered where he had been brought; he hadn't seen a sign of the prison yet. And on his gown was nothing that indicated his location or the name of this facility. The only thing he did know was that this wasn't the fridge. After it had fallen, S.H.I.E.L.D. seemed to use this place to lock up their enemies. Well, the one's they were able to recapture.
He sighed as he sat down on the small bed. He wondered if he'd ever be able to fall asleep here, it felt uncomfortable and he was way too big to fully stretch himself out. He never thought he'd say that but he already missed the bed in his bunk. It hadn't been big either, but he could at least move around without worrying to fall out.
Besides his bunk didn't look as depressing as this cell. Although he hadn't had much personal things to store away, he had used the shelf to place a few pictures there. Garret and him on the day when he finished his training, the first time he had been on a beach by the sea. He also had stored his books and a Gameboy that he had hid from everyone else on the bus there. No one needed to know that he secretly enjoyed playing Pokémon. That was a hobby the real Grant Ward liked, not something the grumpy and stern Agent Ward of S.H.I.E.L.D did.
Yes, he missed the possibility of deciding on what to put in his shelves. Or how to dress. Here it was simple. He could choose between mint green and grey. That was the color of his gown. Mint green trousers, grey shirt and what a surprise a mint green hoodie. Variation was not common here, it seemed.
The white of his socks was the only thing not in these colors. Even the walls had the same shade of green. It looked like he lived in a surgery and he wondered if he would ever get used to it.
He knew very well that he deserved to be here. But to think about all the things he had done, was much more painful than to philosophize about the colors he would be seeing a lot in the next few months. Or years. Or till his very end.
Nobody had said anything when locking him away. Nobody had told him how long he could expect to be here. Or what he should expect while being here. Nothing. Not a single word was spoken.
Maybe that was the punishment. To be left in the dark. The same thing he had done with his former teammates.
It was suiting, but he doubted that this was the work of Coulson. This smelled more like May. She knew he didn't care about physical torture. He didn't like it, but he could handle it. So she seemed to have thought about something else. Maybe she had noticed that he struggled to stay in silence every time they slept together. He didn't want to talk about feelings, god no, but about the current mission, or even the weather. She had always just looked at him while getting dressed again, without saying a word. Never been a chatty one.
He wasn't either, but he liked the company of talkative people.
Fitz and Skye had always been….
No. Don't go there. Not going to happen, he thought as he brushed off his thoughts. Where was I? Ah, right, the green walls.
Maybe he would be allowed to hang up a few posters. But probably not. These walls were perhaps part of his punishment too. And much to his disgrace, it seemed to work.
If there was nothing else to think about, the topic you don't want to think about the most becomes harder and harder to ignore. He could feel his regret, deep down, hidden beneath his vacuous face. But what was yet to be revealed, was hard to push down.
What was worse?
Thinking about it or trying not to think about it? He knew that the latter was hard, but the former appeared to be harder. He would have to face his feelings and that was something he and the fake Ward had in common. They both weren't great at that.
So it was the walls. The surgically, mint green walls. Or as he liked to call it:
The color of madness.
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