You are not the you you were.
Do you believe that?
Maybe you do. Maybe you recognise the differences between the person reading these words and the person who sat down in front of a computer one day and decided to explore.
Or maybe you don't.
Either way, they're still there.
You say 'yes' where you used to say 'no' before. Your thoughts follow new paths. You are quieter, noisier, wiser, sadder, a hundred little differences that add up into someone whose sum is the whole of different parts.
And if the parts are different, so is the person.
So, yes.
You are not the you you were.
But maybe the parts just look different, maybe they've been painted over so the wold sees something new while underneath it's just you, trying on different colours, seeing which one the world likes best.
Maybe it's like a mask. And everyday, when you go to work-school-life you slip it on and become the person everyone sees. And you are not the mask, but the mask is of your own making.
But - you know the problem with these types of masks?
They tend to stick.
…
They are outside the Bus med pod, Fitz leaning on the wall and Simmons standing in the corridor, almost hunched over herself. The news on the screens has added to the jumble in Fitz's mind and he is finding it increasingly hard to pull words out of the mess.
"Simmons?"
"Yes, Fitz?"
He hates asking this, but he has to make sure, has to make sense out of a world that's suddenly been thrown off-kilter. "D' you, um, have any idea why you left?"
"No." Her voice is small, unsure.
She's too quiet, too shaken by what she saw. She can't be taking so much guilt on herself, not when it's weighing down on him.
"Maybe it was my fault," he offers.
"Oh, no Fitz – I'm sure it wasn't –"
"I was probably a right old grouch." He ploughs on. "I mean, maybe a bit more than usual, if I wasn't getting better as fast as I wanted. And I must've been worrying you no end. It would've been hell for th' both of us. And I know how much getting... um, getting leverage on Hydra must've meant to you afterwards. I don't blame you for going."
He flinches at the stormy expression that's overtaken her face.
"Oh, don't tell me you think I left because you were mean!? Because, really Fitz – that's ridiculous. Do you really think I would have left you for as little as that? I know how much these things take time. Maybe I slowed down your recovery by going. Maybe I made it worse. Who knows – I can't remember! "
Her mouth twists as she finishes and she glares at the floor for a few seconds.
"I didn't mean that," he says, fumbling, trying not to meet her eyes. Instead he examines his bad hand. It's odd. His muscles are used to its tremors, automatically adjusting to make it steadier, but he can't remember it ever being so shaky. Even his walk is slightly different, something he only noticed when Simmons had to slow down to stay at his side – his steps are shorter now.
She raises her gaze to his and looks at him, asking what did you mean then? and how could I do something like this?
"Maybe you're just… ah, judging yourself too harshly."
She gives a short huff at that, somewhere between a laugh and a sob.
He knows it's the closest either of them is going to get to the former in the foreseeable future.
…
Ward almost thinks that this could be a good day.
Because Skye is here.
Smiling at him.
There's no trace of a wound on her, no clue that only days ago she was fighting for her life in a S.H.I.E.L.D hospital, her chances of surviving dwindling with each passing hour.
The GH-325 worked.
(It'll work on Garrett too then, Ward thinks. And he'll be able to get away from these people, this little team that seems intent on finding their way beneath his armour. He'll keep an eye on her from a distance then, where she's far from the poison that he brings into people's lives.)
Remembering the handcuffs, he keeps sitting.
But he can't stop himself from drawing in a breath.
"Skye."
"Hey, robot." She drawls. "Long time no see." She grins, but there's something tight about it, something different about the more wary stance that her body naturally relaxes into. Her hair is shorter and flicks of it frame her face, making her look older.
She nearly died, Ward reminds himself, dismissing the differences.
It would change anyone.
"You're up to walking now?"
She frowns. "Why wouldn't I be?"
He sits back, understanding. "Simmons finally let you out."
Her eyebrows shoot up her forehead. "Ookay. I'm filing that for later. Do you remember why you're in here?"
He tenses. This is what it all hinges on. Either his cover has been blown or it hasn't. If it's gone, he'll have to get past Skye and down to the cargo bay to get out. If it hasn't – there's an unexpected variable at play that somehow accounts for him being locked up.
Unlikely, yes. And luck has never been on Ward's side before.
But he still hopes.
He thought May would come if anyone had to interrogate him. She's the one with field experience at it.
(Or maybe they realise that he won't – can't – hurt Skye and sent her in to throw him off.)
"I don't have a clue." He answers.
She nods, biting her lip. "What's the last thing you remember?"
The line of questioning is confusing him – this is no way to get Hydra intel from a suspected traitor – but he plays along.
"I was at the punching bag outside the lab."
"That doesn't help, Ward. You're there every day. Give me a major event."
"You woke up yesterday."
"Woke up? From what?"
"From… getting shot."
"You're kidding me."
Ward frowns, muted panic running through him. She doesn't remember. Has she forgotten because of the GH-325? Is this a side effect?
"You don't remember?"
"No. None of us do." She answers distractedly. "Where was I shot?"
Ward gestures as best as he can with the handcuffs at his own abdomen. "What do you mean no one remembers?"
"There's an 084 on board that caused us to lose a few months' worth of memories each." She tells him the date, fingering the hem of her shirt as if considering lifting it up the see the freshly sewn-over wounds.
"Months," he breathes. He believes it because it's her and because it accounts for the differences he noticed in her – the differences he can feel himself. There's a scar on his foot that rubs with every movement and a dull ache in his ribs along with a small line of pain – a stitched up wound probably. He had registered them before, but brushed them off as unimportant.
"So why am I here?"
She shrugs, smiling softly. "Dunno. But I thought I'd check up on you. You look like you've been in a cell for a while."
He gives her a small smile in return, struggling to remain nonchalant. "Why do you say that?"
"Have you seen your face?" She retorts, before changing tack. "Who shot me?"
He tries to process the information as he opens his mouth to say, "Ian Qu-"
The door bursts open.
May reaches inside, her gun – not an icer – trained on Ward, pulling Skye out as the younger girl indignantly protests. She steps in and shuts the door behind her, never bringing the weapon down.
Time's up, he thinks, noting the anger in her eyes. They've found out.
No more games.
No more pretending.
Ward returns May's glare levelly, putting his hands into position and rubbing the joint in his thumb.