The church tour was a drawn out torture. Ward was acting so strange. He wore a dumb novelty hat and big oversized glasses, and kept stopping to take so many photos and selfies. He permanently had an arm draped over Fitz, acting as though they were a couple sighting seeing, not a kidnapper threatening his captive with a hidden gun.
Ward managed to maneuver them away from the tour group, steering Fitz to the hidden power box, found in a tiny room - a closet really - just outside the gallery.
The sequencer device was the brain centre for all the intensive security measures that protected the gallery. Fitz debated setting it off. He'd have a better chance of escape or alerting Coulson and his team. But a part of him wanted to believe Ward, wanted to give him a chance.
"You certain it was stolen from the Holocaust victims?" he asked Ward, who was crowding close enough to feel his body heat.
"Yes! Now disable it, we've only got seven minutes!" urged Ward.
Fitz removed the console's casing and stared at the mass of blinking lights and wires. "I know this….it's um…" With Ward's close proximity and the short timeframe, Fitz felt even more self conscious. He was supposed to be good at this. The Brains was his role.
"What if I just cut this wire, and short it," said Ward, reaching around Fitz with a blade in his hand.
Fitz slapped Ward's hand away. "Don't be daft! It's obviously the baseline automatic recloser,"he said, tugging out the correct wire. The flashing lights went dead.
Ward grinned at him. A genuine whole-face-lit-up smile.
"Oh, you did that on purpose! You b-"
"Five minutes left," said Ward, checking his watch. "Move!"
The rest of the heist went without a hitch. Caravaggio in hand, they headed back to their hotel, picking up takeout on the way back. Ward even let Fitz pick which cuisine.
"I know what you're doing," said Fitz when they were back at their room. "Being nice to me in the hope I'll get St-Stockholder's Syndrome."
"You mean Stockholm," supplied Ward, in between another mouthful of pad thai.
"Whatever! You want me to help you steal more shit so you can bloody fence it!"
Ward arched his brow. "If you believe that, then why did you help today?"
"I don't know, maybe it had something to do with the gun at my side?" Fitz sighed. "Or I'm a real idiot and giving you a chance?"
Ward avoided eye contact, seeming to take sudden interest in his takeaway box but Fitz spotted the corners of his mouth twitching.
"Well, I'm not 'fencing' the painting. It's a kind of tribute."
"Tribute for what? Ugh, why don't you just tell me what's going on? You're not a spy any more. You don't have anyone left to answer to."
Ward's jaw set to stone. That was obviously the wrong thing to say. "Go rest up, Fitz. I've got work to do," he said, turning on the laptop and promptly ignoring Fitz.
Fitz ran a hand through his thick hair. He didn't know what to say. Despite everything that had happened, he felt sorry for the guy.
