The plane took off, the hum of the engines a steadying force against the adrenaline racing through Ward's hands.
Hand was pacing, and Garrett was staring arrogantly back, a smirk on his face, because, of course, he already knew that his weapon was waiting, poised to strike.
Ward thought of his team briefly.
May, the warrior. She'd had his back for months, and a part of him had craved her friendship after he saw her fight for the team. Fight for Coulson.
Coulson, the guide. Ward winced at the memories—the way Coulson had pushed him to spend time with Skye as if he had known how she was becoming his saving grace. How Coulson had been the only one to give words to the shame he had felt after Lorelei.
And Fitzsimmons. Ward tried to remember when it had changed; when they were no longer "the scientist" and "the tech" to him; when he had remembered which one was Fitz and which one was Simmons. Was it when Fitz, that idiot kid, tried to jump out of a plane because he couldn't bear to live without the girl who was his light? When Simmons had patched them up, time and time again? When she had fought for Skye's life?
And Skye.
The variable who was never supposed to be part of the team. The girl with no last name. The rookie who had baffled him and surprised him with her compassion and compromised him when she looked at him with those fierce brown eyes that had seen too much of the world and still managed to hope.
Skye, breaking into a secure office because she wanted to celebrate his birthday. Skye, outsmarting both Hydra and S.H.I.E.L.D. at every turn and making every second of his mission more difficult in the best possible way. Skye, telling him his life was worth it…
Skye.
Ward looked up to see Garrett watching him intently, almost as if he knew what Ward was thinking, and Ward forced his thoughts away from his team.
He remembered the hell he lived in, remembered the rescue. Remembered waking up to find that Garrett had carried him out of a burning wreck under heavy gunfire; remembered watching Garrett nearly die because he had saved Ward.
Some debts go deeper, no matter the price.
So Ward steadied himself in Garrett's eyes and forgot everything else, as he always did. Forgot the darkness of the well, forgot his own inabilities and weaknesses, forgot the false words of hope his team had fed him for several months.
He thought of orders and mentors and the price of being rescued, and it steeled him as he reached out to take the gun that Victoria Hand offered.
But he wasn't thinking, wasn't thinking anything at all, as his finger pulled the trigger.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
And afterwards, when Garrett's eyes met his, it almost felt like old times. It almost felt good not to feel, to step over the bodies of the past and keep on going, never looking back. It certainly felt like relief to be controlled again, to be able to control what he did and felt.
No variables, just John Garrett, an arsenal of weapons, and the freeing knowledge that there were some choices that destroyed you.
Some choices that meant no going back.