Of Stubborn Robots

Grant Ward refused to be sick – it didn't mean, of course, that he never got sick; just that he stubbornly refused to acknowledge being sick. What would have been the point, anyway? He usually had work to be done (and no bad guy postponed his plans of world dominance because the agent on his tails had a cold), and it wasn't as if he had anybody to take care of him. So, if he did get sick, usually he just gritted his teeth, powered his way through it, and continued doing his job.

So when he woke with a pounding headache, aching throat, and slightly shivering, cancelling his morning workout with Skye was the furthest thing from his mind. Even if he wasn't standing so surely on his own two feet as usually.

Skye, of course, noticed that something was amiss right away – he could see it in her eyes when, for the first time ever since they had started training, he descended the stairs to the cargo bay after her –, but he forestalled her concerned comments, and compensated his momentary vulnerability with curt orders: warm-up, stretch, ten minutes at the bag. And it worked, for a while – she did what she'd been told without a single complaint, even though he could see that she kept a careful eye on him –, until she managed to hit the bag in such an angle while they were practicing kicks that it threw him momentarily off balance (on any other day, it wouldn't have even fazed him). Now, that got her stop, lower her hands and look at him with a rather worried look in her eyes.

"Are you sure you are alright? Shouldn't we take a break?" she said quickly, taking a step towards him. "Don't you wanna sit down for a bit?"

"I'm okay," he waved her concerns away stubbornly, massaging the bridge of his nose with his free hand, because damn, that headache was just getting worse. "I'm fine. Let's…" He cleared his throat. "Let's do some push-ups."

But Skye didn't let go of it so easily. Taking advantage of the second when he closed his eyes to battle his sudden dizziness, she stepped right up to him, and pressed the back of her hand first against the side of his neck, then to his forehead (her cool skin felt nice).

"Oh my God," she breathed, taking his face into both of her hands, "you are burning up."

"I'm fine, I told you…" he protested, but his words sounded weak even to him.

"No, you are not," she said, then the next moment turned towards the lab. "Simmons!" With his eyes still closed, he could imagine Jemma raising her head from the microscope and turning towards them. "Ward has a fever."

"I don't…"

"Would you just shut up?"

And he did. He honestly had neither the strength nor the willpower to argue with her in that moment, so he simply let her take his hand and lead him into the lab (his body wrecked by coughs on the short walk there).

His hypothetical fever might have started getting the best of him, because from then on he was only half-aware of what was happening – he noted, in an oddly detached way, that he was led to chair in the lab and made to sit down, after which a thermometer was pressed into his ear ("102,5 degrees." He heard Simmons tsk), then somebody pushed a swab into his mouth ("Just to find out what do you have exactly."), followed by some pills and bottle of water pushed into his hands.

"Take these," Simmons instructed, "then off to bed with you."

Grant took the pills – an order was order, and it kind of made sense –, but then weakly shook his head.

"No, I'm okay, really, just give me a minute."

"Just cut it out already!" That was Skye again, sounding somehow increasingly annoyed. "Why are you being so damn stubborn?" He actually cringed at that, which, at least, made Skye take the volume down a bit. She knelt down in front of him too look into his eyes. "Now really, please, go back to bed! For you own good? Just rest for a bit. I'll tell Coulson that you are out of commission for today – I'll even ask May to finish my training with me if that makes you feel better. Please?"

He took a deep breath (which wasn't exactly painless), then nodded, giving in.

"Alright," he said, standing up, "but I'll ask May about it."


Sleeping felt like the best… and the worst thing at the same time. On one hand, his body was extremely grateful for the rest, for not having to move around, and the warm blanket over his body. On the other hand… Although the pills Simmons gave him did make him drowsy, he just couldn't fall peacefully asleep. He tossed and turned, shivering, then sweating, his head pounding, his body wrecked with coughing fits. And when he did manage to fall asleep – which felt like an eternity later –, his dreams were terrifying and completely incoherent.

Still, he managed to sleep soundly enough that he didn't wake with a start when somebody entered his bunk – no, he only noticed the intruder when she placed a wet washcloth on his forehead.

He opened his eyes slowly, his mind still sluggish, trying to reconnect with reality, then, after blinking a few times, he tried to sit up, giving a painful grunt.

Gentle hands pushed him back to the bed.

"Hey, don't get up, okay? Just stay," Skye chided softly, her voice barely above whisper. "It's okay."

He blinked again, her face slowly coming into focus. She was kneeling next to his bed with a half concerned-half amused expression on her face and a wet washcloth in her hand, which she used to wipe his forehead and neck. The cool touch of the damp material felt heavenly; he let his eyelids drop at the sensation.

"Your fever went down a bit," he heard Skye say, "but it's still pretty high. But Simmons says you'll live." (He could almost see the upward tilt of the corners of her mouth.) "She sent some other pills, but basically she said you have to sleep it off – but you'll be back on your feet in a couple of days, and then you can continue frowning and bossing me around."

He groaned – mostly at that he'd be out of commission for a couple of days, partially because he didn't want her to think that he was "bossing her around."

"Don't get so grumpy cat about it," she continued, dipping the cloth into the water bowl once again, wringing it out, then placing it on his forehead. "Even Coulson says that your priority now is to get out of this," she said, adjusting his blanket.

With some effort, he opened his eyes once again and looked at her (it might have been the fever talking, but she looked especially beautiful to him in that moment).

"Thank you," he croaked, his throat achy, dry. "You don't have to do this, and…"

"But I want to," she cut in, taking his hand and pressing a quick, impulsive kiss to his wrist. "Really. And I can't have my S.O. dying of common cold because of stubbornness, so…" She shrugged. "You are welcome. But I gotta go now – May is quizzing me on some S.H.I.E.L.D. precedents in an hour, and I still have to leaf through that stuff. I put your pills and water on the nightstand. Holler if you need me. Or, you know, cough or something." And with that, she was gone.

He let his eyelids drop again, while a small, barely-there smile found its way to his lips.

This time he slept so much easier.


His fever broke by the next morning, headache gone by the evening, coughing under control in two days – thanks to, in no small part, he was sure, Skye's diligent care –, and he was back to the cargo bay on the fourth morning, still not exactly one-hundred percent, but well enough to work with Skye on her punches.

That's it, until she sneezed.

Both of them froze for a moment, staring at each other.

"Go to Simmons, then back to your bunk," he said, pointing at the lab, his tone not giving room for argument.

And, for once, Skye obeyed without so much as a snide comment.