The Girl from the Bus
Chapter Six

The music piece accompanying this chapter is Bear McCreary – Prelude to War (youtube com (slash) watch?v=SlcUwUwjLrs )

Melinda drove him back home after the incident. She didn't say a word during the drive. Silence was heavy and uncomfortable but what was Grant supposed to say? And, more importantly, how? He was glad she knew him well enough not to ask, but the unspoken questions still hung in the air.

Grant didn't sleep most of the night and when he did fall asleep, he dreamt about an entirely different cellar. He woke up with the worst kind of scream – unreleased, deep in his throat.

He took extra long to get to Melinda's the next morning and when he finally arrived, he found the ensemble playing in front of a small, skinny blond man. Skye sat at the piano and only joined here and there, not yet familiar with the composition. Grant had feared yesterday that his indisposition repelled her, turned her against this group and the whole concept, so he took her presence at Melinda's house with great relief. He watched and listened from the outside, waiting for them to finish. Once they did, he entered without knocking.

The conversation died out when they saw him. He waved his hand in a timid hello and while the rest remained strangely quiet, Melinda shook her head.

"Excuse me," she said to the blond man and came toward Grant. "We need to talk." She gently took his elbow and led him into the kitchen and with each step he realized with more and more clarity, that his yesterday's indisposition did actually repel someone. "I am really sorry, Grant." Melinda begun in a low voice when they were in private. The rest of the team remained near the piano, on the other side of the recliner and the open kitchen counter. They discussed something among themselves, Antoine waving his arms, Jemma pouting and Leo with his arms crossed over his chest. Skye glanced in Grant's direction but quickly averted her eyes. Only the blond stranger looked at him openly and with a strange, out-of-place, encouraging smile.

Grant really didn't want to hear Melinda's words, he tried for as long as he could to ignore the message. "This reception is really important to me," she was explaining. "It's a big day for Phil and I want it to be perfect, I can't let anything... I can't even have a small glitch and this... Grant, I really like you a lot and I value your talent. I recognize that you had a big part in creating 'Sky'... and, oh my god, do you know that she can hear herself in it? She really does." Melinda blinked her eyes rapidly several times. "You are the co-author I won't deny you that. But after what happened to you yesterday... I know you told me at the beginning that you weren't well and I ignored it. Now I can't. I can't let something like this happen at Phil's reception. Do you understand?"

Grand had put his violin case on the kitchen counter and pulled his writing pad but now he stared at its empty surface and he didn't know how to answer. His problem wasn't inability to talk, to produce sound with his throat. No, it was his outright inability to communicate.

What was he supposed to say? That it wouldn't happen? He couldn't, in good conscience, guarantee that. Yes, he knew exactly what caused yesterday's attack. It wasn't the crowd, it wasn't Melinda's touch. True, people made him anxious, physical contact was uncomfortable but it would take much more of it to cross his endurance threshold. No, it was the smell. The atmosphere of the cellar brought on buried memories, triggered a brief flashback and that triggered a panic attack.

It was not going to happen in a different setting. But how was he supposed to make Melinda believe him? Right there, Grant's entire dream fell into pieces.

"I really wish we could do it together." Melinda put her hand on his forearm, in a gesture meant to be consoling. "But I can't take the risk. Another time, maybe?"

It was a veiled way of saying it would never happen.

"I don't think this is fair," Antoine said quietly from behind Melinda's back.

Grant looked up, startled, and saw they were all here: Leo, Jemma and even Skye stood on the other side of the counter. The stranger approached Melinda, whispered something into her ear – he wasn't taller than her – squeezed her arm, added, "I'll give you a call," then said, "Good luck!" to all of them and quietly left the house.

"That was Steve Rogers, Phil Coulson's agent," Antoine informed Grant. "I think he took liking to you." He smirked at Melinda.

"We talked about this," she countered.

"And it is ultimately your decision. But we disagree with it, as does Steve and we will attempt to change it. Assuming, of course," he looked at Grant, "that you still want to be a part of this project. You showed up today, so it's safe to bet that you do."

Grant nodded.

"We figured you know what happened yesterday," Leo cut in, his eyes earnest and hopeful. "Right, Grant? Something triggered it and I'm sure you know what. If you do, you only need to avoid that trigger." If it only was that simple. "Maybe, if you explain it to us, we'd help you through the performance. To assure that no disaster would ruin it." He stared at Melinda.

"You practiced with us, you helped create this piece and you taught me so much. I can't imagine playing it without you," added Jemma, also looking at Melinda.

Grant was stunned. He didn't remember teaching Jemma anything, she had already been genius. And what Leo said, if he told them, explained how his brain worked, they would have his back. Wasn't that what he had thought himself a moment ago? He hadn't believed it made any sense but now, when they said it, it somehow sounded like it was possible.

He had let things happen to him for far too long. For half his life he'd let things pass him by, opportunities, chances, people who might give a damn. Not anymore. He was going to take matters into his own hands now, even if it meant fighting, even if it meant baring his soul, taking a risk, opening himself to more hurt. And it wasn't because of performance that might gain him points in the professional sense. It wasn't even for the sake of music itself. No, it was because of them, those people, Melinda included, because she hasn't spoken now, only looked at him expectantly, her eyes speaking louder than her voice, that if he only said one word – in a figurative sense – she would believe him. She would believe in him. They meant too much to give up on, Grant knew it now.

"Oh, and can I say one thing now?" Skye lifted her hand like a schoolgirl. "Because I'm new here, so maybe I don't have a say, but they told me... things. And, well, I kind of couldn't not-see you yesterday. But... It doesn't matter. What I wanted to say is that, if it's easier for you, you may sign. I mean, I know sign. ASL. I had a deaf friend back at the orphanage, so I kind of learned." She paused. Pursed her lips. Then blurted. "If you want." She didn't lower her eyes, even though he could say she felt somewhat embarrassed.

Grant nodded and touched his lips in a "thank you" sign.

Then, without really thinking it through, he added another sign, a couple of sweeps of his palms and fingers that held half of his life. He didn't know if she would understand – it wasn't exactly a sign one would use in a chit-chat among teenager friends. He hoped that she would know it though and at the same time he hoped that she wouldn't. If she wouldn't, the danger of revealing everything about his past would be averted.

If she did, opening the door to his future, would be possible.

"Wait, kidnapped?" Skye whispered. "Do you mean you were kidnapped?"

Grant was fourteen when it happened. He was a quiet fourteen years old boy, overshadowed and envious of his quarterback older brother, in charge of taking care of younger brother and sister, deemed a prodigy violinist. He'd rather play football or at least baseball at the time, like all other boys, but his parents wouldn't let him – he might break a finger and then what?

He was coming back from his violin practice that day. He could recall to this day what the teacher had said then – "Forget everything I taught you so far. Forget that you have to play in tune. You've learned that already, now, you need to forget that this is the most important thing. You need to climb to the next level. And in it, what is true is that you may sometimes miss notes and still have a masterpiece. You may hit wrong notes and still shot right through people's hearts. Because what matters in music, is the emotion, is what you make them feel with it. If you listen to the best performances in the world, they do not amaze you with technique. It is how they make you cry and laugh and hope and grow, that truly matters." Grant was a little angry that he had spent eight years playing exercises over and over and over. He had always wanted to do this instead – to play what he felt in his gut.

He walked home muttering to himself and promising hell to his teacher, when that car pulled up.

"Hey, kiddo?" asked a man inside. "I am your father's friend, I'm just going to see your old man. You wanna hop in? I'll give you a lift."

Grant hadn't recognized this man but then, his father had so many colleagues. Besides, he still had quite a distance to his house. He didn't think twice before getting into a car with a stranger.

He only realized after fifteen minutes of fun conversation, that they weren't going to his house, but through a completely unfamiliar neighborhood. At first he started calmly asking about it but when the man didn't give a straight answer, he got scared. When he started to argue, the man punched him in the side of his head and knocked him down.

Next five years were still something he wouldn't divulge. Grant only told Skye, and through her the others, about things that reminded him of that time, smells, sounds, certain ways John – that was the man's name – would grab him. People, crowded places, were an issue for many years after he'd returned because out there, where he had been kept, he had been sometimes alone for days at a time and beside that, John had been his only human contact. Music, playing violin when John hadn't been with him, had kept him sane.

It kept him sane after he'd returned too. That's why performing, playing, even for full auditorium, even with seventy something people of the Orchestra, was never a problem. That's why he could almost guarantee that once they'd start playing, they'd be safe, he wouldn't flip out. Almost, because that was the thing about anxiety – one had no control over the symptoms.

"I still think it's worth the risk," Antoine spoke when Skye finished talking and they stayed silent for about half a minute, that felt like ten years for Grant. Antoine, what was unusual for him, wasn't grinning.

Melinda stood up and walked to the window overlooking slope of the meadow.

"Try to look at it this way," Antoine followed her. "Does he play well?"

"Yes."

"Of course. Does he know the piece?"

"Like no one else."

"There you go. Do you really need anything else to make up your mind?"

t.b.c.