The Girl from the Bus
Chapter Four

The music piece accompanying this chapter is Fryderyk Chopin - Valse brillante No. 1 in A flat major, Op. 34 (youtube com (slash) watch?v=wV3oUQnZ30M )

Three minutes before the appointed time Melinda requested Antoine to accompany her. Grant sat on the couch and tried not to feel useless.

Fitzsimmons didn't knock until Melinda and Antoine finished playing. Grant knew that he had come in already, because he saw someone trying to peek through the window. He could swear it was a girl though, not a guy.

And when Melinda went to open the door, indeed a girly voice welcomed her.

"That was so beautiful, Miss May," the person who spoke those words had a distinct British accent. "You are Miss May, aren't you? It is such a pleasure to meet you. It was a beautiful piece, wasn't it? Say something Fitz, don't just stand there."

"Yes it was, ma'am." A male voice replied. Ward stood up and faced the entrance but he couldn't see the guests, because Melinda still stood in the open door, sort of gaping. The male voice added after a brief awkward pause. "We didn't knock before, because we didn't want to interrupt."

"Interrupt, yes," the girl cut in seamlessly. "We were so enchanted. This melody reaches inside the heart and is so warm and friendly, almost like a person. I don't think I've ever heard it before. And I hope you don't mind our gushing."

"She tends to get emotional like this."

"Like you don't, Fitz. He had tears in his eyes, I swear. May we come in?"

"Oh!" Melinda jumped. "Of course. I'm sorry, but... Who are you?"

The twosome entered and Grant could finally see they were a pair of kids basically, probably still in the Conservatory and each of them carried a large cello case.

"Fitz," said the girl, pointing at her friend and smiling genuinely.

"Simmons," added the boy, pointing at the girl, with a lot more serious face. "We play cellos."

"I thought you were one person," Melinda blurted.

Antoine started to laugh.

"No, no, sorry, don't mind me," he choked out when they all turned to glare at him, Simmons offended, Fitz stunned and Melinda exasperated. "Sorry." He pulled himself together and added in a steadier tone, "We were expecting one person, a man, named Fitzsimmons." He shrugged and stifled another bout of laughter, in an attempt to treat the situation with due seriousness.

"That's all your fault Fitz," the girl sighed with barely contained anger, her eyes large and dark in a pale face.

"Like, how?" Fitz spread his arms, offended.

"Had I called, there would not be such misunderstanding. I told you I should have called."

"And what would it change? They would simply think Fitzsimmons was a girl, that's what would change!"

"No, it wouldn't! Because I would have explained everything properly, like you obviously didn't have time to do!"

"It wouldn't even cross your mind to explain anything! Why do you think it hadn't crossed mine? I'm not a total moron like you seem to think, thank you very much for your support and understanding."

By the fifth sentence they were both yelling and gesticulating and facing each other from barely a few inches apart, and acting like the rest of the world did not exist or was at least very irrelevant. Grant, to his surprise, felt more bemused with this exchange, than upset. Melinda watched them with risen eyebrows and was obviously looking for an opening to speak up. Didn't seem about to happen, as Fitz and Simmons were talking over each other; one didn't even finish the sentence when the other started.

"I know you!" Antoine finally shouted over their bickering.

Both of them fell silent and glared at him, indignant that he dared to interrupt them.

"I know them," Antoine repeated, looking at Melinda. "They're those child prodigies from England, everyone at the Boston Conservatory is crazy about."

"Excuse me." The boy glared at him with venom. "I am Scottish."

"And I am English. From Brighton." The girl extended her hand for Antoine to take. "My name is Jemma."

"What are you doing, Simmons?" Fitz whispered theatrically as Jemma and Antoine shook hands.

"He's Leo," she added with a sneer.

"It's a pleasure." Antoine looked deep into her eyes with all his undeniable gallantry and charm, then turned to Melinda, still holding Jemma's hand. "They are great! I've heard them play a few years ago, when they first came to Boston. You wouldn't believe. They're young but they have the range like the best of them. Why don't you play violins, guys?"

"We do. We can play any string instrument. We just prefer the lower sound," Leo Fitz grumped.

"I don't understand why people think that violin is better?" Jemma pursed her lips and burned Antoine with a stare. "You play violin, I presume?" Antoine nodded, abashed. "Of course."

"Miss May, meanwhile, is famous for playing bass." Leo backed his friend's case. "And I am certain she would say that her instrument is the best. What about you?" He looked at Grant.

Everyone turned to him and silence fell where there should have been a response. Antoine took a step back, exposing Grant for those newcomers to glare and Melinda inhaled sharply.

"Oh, this is Grant, Grant Ward," she said. "I'm sorry I didn't introduce you all properly."

"Yeah," Antoine cut in seamlessly. "He plays violin, actually and I'm sure he would have told you violin is the best instrument of all, but, unfortunately, he can't speak."

Grant closed his eyes, feeling anger bubble up inside him. He 'didn't' speak, not 'couldn't'. He could. He would, if... If he could. The anger bubbled and died out, replaced by resignation. It was a matter of semantics, really, and not important enough that he would correct Antoine. Besides, even if he wanted to, Jemma Simmons effectively prevented him from doing it.

"I'm so sorry," she said coming up to him with furrowed brow and added louder and with a very precise articulation. "You can hear though, can you not?"

Grant felt his eyebrows go all the way up to his hairline as he blinked at her a couple of times before he regained his composure enough to point at the instrument he left lying on the couch.

At exactly the same moment Leo spoke with righteous indignation, "Simmons, for crying out loud, they just said he plays violin. Of course the man can hear, don't be daft."

Such passionate demonstration of support from a complete stranger surprised Grant so much, he temporarily lost control of his facial expressions. He felt his lips spread into a wide smile and his body shake in silent laughter.

Jemma turned an intense shade of pink.

"Oh, of course. Silly me," she muttered, bowed her head, put a strand of hair behind her ear. She was so adorable, Grant couldn't help but feel sympathy for her discomfort.

He took her arm, gently and waited until she looked up, her eyes bright and shy. He waved his arms and shook his head in a don't worry sign, even though he didn't think she'd understand and then fingerspelled ok.

"O... kay?" she mouthed and smiled, abashed, and he actually chuckled.

"Okay, then." Melinda interrupted awkward silence. "Since we have introductions out of the way, how about we listen to the two of you play. Have you prepared anything?"

With everyone focused on the audition, Grant took a step back and wondered what had just happened.

Because something had happened. Something had changed and he felt that nothing would ever be the same again. He had smiled, he had laughed, he had felt connected to another human being. As brief as the moment was, for him it was huge. It felt like the glass surrounding him – protecting him – cracked and he couldn't think about the way to fix it.

This whole job, playing with Melinda, it was supposed to be about music, about evolving as an artist and suddenly it became about something else entirely. It became about who was friendly and nice and who was joking and Grant watched Melinda and Antoine exchange witty comments and he understood why he'd felt so uneasy for the last couple of days. Why Antoine made him feel so uneasy. He didn't fit in and he never would.

He couldn't remember a time he had wanted to fit in.

But now he did.

He told himself that he didn't care about this composition, about the whole idea of playing at a reception for a friend, to celebrate his success. It had nothing to do with him. He was in it only because he wanted to learn new things, he wanted to compose. Music had always been the thing that helped him survive. And Melinda paid for it, that was a reason too. She didn't pay much and, well, there wasn't any success in it, really, not for him, them, and not for Phil Coulson, not yet. It was not like he won an award, he simply wrote a book. And Melinda thought it was worth celebrating. The simple fact that her friend once again did something that used to be easy for him.

The truth was, this time it wasn't easy, from what she had told them, so actually, writing alone was kind of a success. Melinda's friend managed to face his weakness, overcome some obstacles and come out on top. And she'd supported him all the way through.

Suddenly Grant wished he'd had that. A friend who would stick up for him, believe in him, have his back when... The truth was that he had burned all his bridges, even those with his closest family. He had been the one to blame for having no one now.

And he hadn't even realized how much he'd needed that, until that brief innocent joke with total strangers.

His skin felt too tight. Like something inside him trembled and shook, something primeval. He needed space, space and air and silence. Fitz and Simmons prepped their cellos next to the piano and they discussed what they would play with Melinda and Antoine. Grant turned and went to the kitchen, he hoped - unnoticed. Maybe a glass of water would help.

He hoped he didn't run, he hoped he didn't look like he was desperate, he didn't want to draw attention to himself. Their voices still carried, but quieter from a distance. He took the glass and poured himself cold water. But he didn't want to drink, took a small sip instead. It wasn't freezing, it wasn't enough to shock him out of this haze. He was still shaking inside.

"What's wrong?" A hand landed on his shoulder and he spun, slamming his back against the handle of the fridge. "Sorry." Melinda lifted both palms and took a step back. "Just wanted to check if you were okay?"

Grant wiped his face as if it would help. Then he nodded with too much urgency to really seem okay. Melinda didn't buy it and, helpless, he showed her he was empty handed, he left his writing pad next to his violin, didn't think he'd need it and now he couldn't tell her what, or if anything, was wrong. She understood, nodded and left and he should have felt relieved but instead he only felt more desperate. He needed her here. He needed someone, something to take the edge off or else he was going to burst.

She returned. And she brought his writing pad.

Holding it in his hand, Grant didn't know what to do with it for a long while. His heart hammered in his chest and words just wouldn't form. He didn't know. He couldn't explain why, what happened, without remembering what was at the root of it all. Without disclosing what made him like this.

He couldn't.

It's too much, he wrote finally, because she waited and he needed to say something.

In the background Fitz and Simmons begun to play 'Sky' – the accompaniment, with Antoine leading on his violin. They sounded like one, in perfect harmony, never missing a note, never striking the wrong phrase.

They are good, Grant wrote. Melinda didn't see it, turned away, enchanted and Grant watched her for a moment, hand at her chest, eyes blinking too fast. He erased the message. She noticed his movement then, glanced at the pad, grabbed his wrist but it was empty already. She looked up, brow furrowed. She wanted to know what he said.

You have your quartet right here, Grant told her instead. Violin and two cellos + your double bass. Is what you wanted.

She shook her head, pursed her lips but he had made his decision already. He couldn't do this. He brushed right past her, back to the music room. Antoine grinned at him from above his chinrest and Grant nodded, attempted a smile and gave Fitz and Simmons a thumb-up. Then he quickly put his violin back in its case and left before anyone could stop him.

t.b.c.