...
It's dark and too quiet. Slowly, his eyes adjust to his surroundings, and Lincoln bolts up abruptly when the memory hits him.
Clutching his ear as the pain shoots through it mercilessly, he sways and has to use his free hand to steady himself against his cot.
Ward got the bug out, though. No more funny noises, no more grating tickly, itchy tiny legs scraping away inside his ear. Instead, that feeling got replaced by this pulsing warm pain that is giving him a pounding headache and apparently messes with his sense of equilibrium.
He's lucky he is even still alive. Did Ward really plunge that piece of plastic down his ear? Lincoln shivers involuntarily, then slowly moves to get up.
He closes his eyes. Holding onto the wall, he waits for the wooziness to recede, for his blood to flow back into his head. He breathes heavily, for the first time realizing the complete absence of sound on his right side.
His hearing, it's gone. It shouldn't surprise him, not after what Ward did, but it shocks him nonetheless, and for a moment he worries that he'll lose his balance after all.
Then his gaze falls on his cell mate, who seems to have fallen asleep on his own cot, just a few feet away.
"Ward." His voice is nothing but a harsh whisper, his throat sore from all the screaming he did earlier. He grimaces, then tries again. "Ward."
Maybe he should let the man sleep, but something tells him it's better to check up on him, make sure he's alright too, and then… thank him.
Slowly, steadying himself against the wall, he makes his way over until he reaches the other man's cot, where he can't help but let himself slide down with his back against the wall, until he is sitting right beside Ward's bedstead, a mere few inches from the man's troubled looking face.
Lincoln feels nauseous. Heaving gulps of air into his lungs, he tries to gain control back over his body, tries not to vomit, but it's not easy. Saliva is pooling in his mouth and he briefly estimates how far it is to the toilet or the sink, before he makes a mad dash for it, and - just in time - the poor contents of his stomach make their way into the shiny metal toilet bowl.
"Crap." It happens again, twice, three times, more, until he is covered in cold sweat, his throat raw, his stomach in painful knots from the strain, his ear bleeding down his neck and onto his shirt in a red line, but he doesn't even care.
When he looks down, the blood has already mixed with that from the stitches he must have ripped in his side. His fingers flutter over his scrub shirt, but strangely, when he lifts it, he notices there is no new pain.
Finally, he manages to let himself fall back against the wall, using his arms to keep himself up as best as he can even though he wants to allow himself to collapse, wants to feel the cool tile against his burning hot ear.
The bug, or probably rather Ward's operation, must have taken a bigger toll on him than he first thought. There won't be any hiding this from their captors, and he doesn't even dare think what they'll do when they find him in this state - minus the bug.
Will they do it again? Plant another one of those things in him? This time in his other ear?
He is shaking violently now, not sure whether it's because of that prospect or the damage done to him, but he has to focus.
If Ward did this to him, chances are, the man did it to himself as well. No way did their captors just use a bug on one of them.
The doctor in Lincoln comes through, and he hauls himself up and over to the sink, briefly cleaning himself up as best as he can before making his way back to his companion. He needs to check on the man. What if he's not sleeping but unconscious? What could he have damaged by operating on himself? If Lincoln's own state is anything to go by, it could be bad. Really bad.
…
…
Fitz feels lost when he makes it out of the Framework. He lost himself in there in ways he never deemed possible, and learning to live with that knowledge, with what he is capable of - he, Leopold Fitz - it seems impossible.
He shot Agnes. And while everything else he did could be explained away as the writing of a program, as just code, Agnes cannot. She was a person, and he killed her, or what was left of her.
With a gasp, he wakes up from another nightmare, only to find himself alone in his room, unable to calm back down.
What does it mean when he suddenly understands all that has befallen Grant Ward, the big brother he never had, the man who betrayed his trust, betrayed them all, tortured Bobbi and Simmons, and is responsible for his brain damage (which, ironically, he overcame better than he'll probably ever overcome this.)
He makes his way over to the lab, working on putting things back together, repairing what has been damaged in the attacks, because it's easier to focus on material damage than his own. This, he can fix. It might take time, but the lab will be as good as new.
He, on the other hand...
"Fitz?"
Her small voice at the door alerts him to the fact that he is not alone anymore, and he flinches away almost involuntarily when she steps closer and closer until she's made it all the way over to him.
"Are you…"
"Alright?"
She looks at him so full of pain and sympathy that he wants to cry out, but can't. Oh gosh, he hurt this woman, and he never wanted anything bad to happen to her ever again.
"Jemma."
"I know," she says, as if she really does, and knowing her, that is probably the case, and he feels himself crumple under her caring gaze, he can't hold it together any more, it's all too much.
"I'm no better than Ward," he chokes out, feeling Jemma's arms come around him in a warm embrace that he doesn't deserve but doesn't have the strength to fight either, because, god, if it doesn't feel good. And nothing has felt good in a long long time.
"That's not true."
"But it is! See, what if his life had taken a different turn. With my dad in the picture, I…" His voice falters, he can't bring himself to say it, but as always, Jemma already knows.
"You're not a monster, Leo." She sighs, and he breathes her in. "For what it's worth, I do believe that Ward wasn't always… evil, either."
He looks up at her then, shaking his head, still unsure, still confused and broken and so very sorry for everything, and he needs to know.
"But. Jemma. What would you do - what would you have done if Aida had given Framework-Ward a… a body, just like herself. How would you have treated him, knowing what he did, what he did to you! Knowing that there's our version of him, too?"
She tightens her grip on him momentarily, then let go to look at him. He's not sure he is ready for her reply, but he has to hear it. He has to.
…
…
Ward is confused. There's a storm of images in his head, interspersed with the dull beat of pain, and he vaguely remembers what he did to himself, what they did to him that forced him to go to such lengths, but it doesn't even make sense.
There's the dog again, that poor animal he still cares for. And Garrett. His brothers, his parents. The nightmare of his childhood days. Somewhere, something went wrong.
He tries to wake himself up, but can't. It's like a lucid dream, he knows these are memories, that he's asleep. He remembers the aliens, his cell. Hell, he remembers being Hive and then… simply not anymore. Even the guy that is trying to shake him awake now is there, in his mind, but something is dragging him down, his body feeling exhausted from all the strain and he feels ready to just give up.
Once, he was a good kid. Then he screwed that up. He lived for power, for getting what he wanted, his selfishness, his love for himself overpowering everything else, even his love for Thomas, or Skye, or his friends.
He betrayed them all, even poor harmless Fitz, who he had seen as a surrogate for Thomas maybe, or just for a family member, and now he can't understand anymore why he did what he did, and why it happened the way it did.
They had given him second chances. At times, he had let a flicker of something good peek through again, like with Kara, but then…
The dark impulses had always been stronger.
Now these aliens, or maybe even Hive, or death, something, something took all that away, the bad in him, and left him with a guilt he can't quite comprehend or even deal with.
He is a bad man, but he doesn't want to be anymore. If he gets a chance to leave this godforsaken place behind, would he even get another chance?
How far is too far for redemption? Grant has no idea, all he knows is that… it hurts.
…
"Shit."
Lincoln hurries to check Ward's vital signs, but the man isn't breathing, his heart managing a last beat before giving out, and on top of everything that just happened, Lincoln suddenly finds himself in a position where he has to try and save Grant Ward's life.
"Come on, you son of a bitch," he hisses as he begins CPR, almost too weak and exhausted to manage, but he has to, because no one else can do it for him. "And I'm not gonna let you freaking die on me! You're not leaving! You're not getting away this easily." He chokes the words out with every push downward on the man's chest, but there's no reaction, nothing.
Lincoln breathes his own stale breath into Ward's lungs, briefly feeling sorry for the lingering vomit smell probably passing over to the other man as he presses his lips against Ward's, but there's worse things, even here, and death is certainly one of them.
He can't do this alone. He can't survive this place alone, can't be alone.
"Come on, Ward!"
It doesn't even quite register with him how panicked he has become, how desperate. He never knew or cared much for Grant Ward, rather the opposite, the man is - or was - an evil bastard and what he did to Daisy, how he fooled and betrayed her, makes him angry to say the least, but Lincoln needs this man, he needs who he is now, post Hive, post alien abduction, and Ward simply has to live.
"Fuck!"
He almost vomits again, so exhausted that his entire body is shaking and he can't continue resuscitating Ward, at least not in the old-fashioned way, so he quickly checks whether he has enough strength to generate any electricity, and, finding that he does, he tries a different route.
Ward's body comes up to meet his hands as sparks light up between them, but nothing else happens, until Lincoln tries it again, and again. Holding his hands inches away from Grant Ward's chest, static crackles, bluish flashes wandering from his hands down into the man's body until electrical burns form on the skin, until Lincoln's arms and hands and fingers shake so bad he can't control it anymore, until he breaks down in a lump on the floor, heaving and cold and so horribly nauseous, and Ward suddenly takes a gasping breath and yells, "That freaking hurts! Jesus Christ. Stop!"
...
Grant opens his eyes to see a somewhat flustered and relieved looking Lincoln stare back at him, breathing a little too harshly, shaking so violently like a naked man in a snow storm and frankly…
"Wow. You look like shit."
Campbell scoffs, a small crackle in his hands dying down, and Ward's eyes narrow when he sees it.
"Did you just shock me?"
"Your freaking heart stopped. So yeah."
"Huh." Grant moves, trying to sit up, but his companion shakes his head and pushes him back down. Role reversal. Grant smiles in amusement before he understands what the kid just said.
His heart stopped.
"Stopped? As in, heart attack?"
Lincoln shrugs, letting himself sink against the wall right next to Grant, his entire body shaking, and in a strange urge Grant manages to grab his blanket and throws it over to him, the kid's eyes flickering with surprise when he does (or maybe even gratitude, the whole situation is certainly a bit bizarre).
"I don't know. Could be. The stress and strain… you did a better job with your ear than with mine though, at least." Campbell grins humorlessly, causing Grant to chuckle.
"I'm not a surgeon," he allows apologetically, "but it was either that or you frying your own brain."
"I know." The admittance comes quickly, and Ward can appreciate that. There's no need for any lies down here. Definitely not about having the wish to off oneself. "Thanks," Lincoln mutters, "for saving my life…"
"Likewise."
The two men exchange a glance and suddenly both start chuckling, until Grant winces in pain from where his chest is sore, and he lifts his shirt gingerly to check. Kid left a mark on his skin. This was not a small little shock…
"How long, you think?" the kid suddenly asks a little cryptically and Grant frowns at him briefly before he explains further, "They've gotta be onto us. Pretty sure they are monitoring us somehow, at least our vital signs and…"
"And I just died. Again," Grant states a bit sourly, nodding. "Probably not much longer now, then."
"Which means we gotta get out. Fight, if we have to. Do something. I mean, we can't hide, but I…" Lincoln's voice grows so quiet Grant isn't sure he can even hear him correctly anymore. "I can't do this again. I'd honestly rather die trying to escape."
Understandable. Yeah, Grant can get behind that, too. He has nothing left to lose. This is his third or fourth or fifth chance, his second (third, if you count Hive..) life after certain death and while he cherishes life, he is no longer afraid enough of dying to let these aliens do whatever the hell they want with him.
"Okay," he therefore agrees. "Got a plan?"
Lincoln gives him a look, then grimaces.
Forget that they're both in pretty dang bad shape. Forget that Grant just got shocked back to life and that Lincoln can barely stand up straight. Forget that they have no clue where they are and what they're even up against, forget all that, because they'll still be ready when the aliens come.
Even without a plan.
They simply have to be.
