So this chapter is long and really...twisting. Grant goes through a lot of emotional shifts in this. A lot of them. People also appear to be mad in places and then not be mad without a lot of explanation for why. That's literally because this is Grant's POV and at more than one time in this chapter, he talks aloud to himself. He doesn't realize he's doing it and the others aren't telling him because it's a source of information to them. If you have questions about why people do what they do, then please ask. I tried to make this as clear as I could, but Grant's head is still really screwed up right now and I wanted to keep that kind of confusion present. It will clarify starting in the next chapter, when he starts to get his feet under him. But for this chapter, his thoughts are still a little messy and disjointed.

Also, there is discussion in here of the pod. It's kind of unclear what Grant's actual motivations were in dropping the pod in this, largely because Grant himself isn't 100% sure why he did it and says as much. Please, watch how things are said in this. I do everything with intent and the way things are said is as important as what is said.

Enjoy guys, and I'm sorry this took so long to finish.


-Present Day, Stark Tower-

His eyes flew open as Grant forced himself awake, the sharp laugh of the Hydra scientist who'd taken such pleasure in his pain still echoing through his mind. He never moved a muscle though, Garrett's training holding him still. It was one of many things Grant was grateful Garrett had taught him, particularly when he felt someone shift beside him.

Turning carefully, Grant found his face inches from Skye's. Apparently, she had stayed like she'd said she would. It was surprising how peaceful she looked as she slept/ After everything that she'd seen, that had happened to her, he would have expected her to sleep as fitfully as he did. But instead, she appeared dead asleep, untroubled and uninterrupted.

Not like him. Not like his nightmares of mad scientists where he was dragged fighting into their lab. Dreams where he was cut apart, pokes and prodded, and injected with mysterious substances. Were he was little more than an experiment whose only value was in his genetics.

Anger flashed through Grant like a fire; immediately he sat up and maneuvered himself from the bed, away from Skye. She hadn't actually done anything except rescue him from the prison (which was a very good thing), but it didn't stop him from resenting her in that moment. She had been the one to tell him the truth about his family. She was the one who'd torn his world apart. Yet there she lay, asleep like she didn't have a care in the world; and in that moment, he rested her for her peace. Peace he didn't have and probably never would. She'd forced him to face a reality he didn't want to and she got to walk away unharmed.

He loved her normally, look to her for light in his life. She was the first person he'd met in a long time who hadn't looked at him like he was a tool or a weapon. When she'd looked at him, she'd seen a human. It endeared her to him.

But right that moment, he hated her. He hated the fact that she had turned his world on its head. He hated the fact that she'd stripped away the little normalcy in his life.

He needed to be as far away from her as possible. Not permanently, but while he got his temper under control, he needed to stay away from her. If he didn't get away, he might snap at her. Might say something he'd regret. He needed to get away; needed to breathe without Skye's worried gaze following him everywhere.

Creeping from the room, Grant found himself in a hall with a multitude of doors leading to who knew where. He vaguely recalled Skye leading him down from an elevator before, but he couldn't begin to guess where it was. He'd been too tired, to disoriented, to figure out where he was in that moment. He'd trusted Skye to get him to safety, and now he kind of wished he hadn't. At least if he'd come down on his own, he'd know where he was going.

He didn't need to know, though. He was an ex-SHIELD agent, and a good one at that. Escaping a building he didn't know the layout of was one of his classes at the academy. Literally, it had been an entire class.

Closing his eyes, Grant took a deep breath before turning to the left and starting down the hall. At least this wasn't an enemy base- he didn't have to worry about being shot if he was caught here. Well, okay, Hill might actually shoot him and May likely wouldn't pull her punches, but no one else seemed interested in murdering him. Hill and May weren't people to take lightly, but at least he could avoid them. They were only two people and he'd done it before.

Following the hall's various twists and turns, Grant tried to calm his anger. He didn't want to snap at Skye- she was possibly his only true advocate right now. Well, okay, maybe Steve too, but that was probably more through obligation than actual care. Skye had broken him out of prison because she didn't like what was being done to him. She'd put herself in harm's way for him. Being mad at her for telling him the truth everyone else had been hiding was just stupid.

"You know, walking around here without paying attention is kinda a bad idea." Grant nearly fell into fight mode as a female voice suddenly cut through the area. As much as he despised it, his time in prison had caused his already existing paranoia to skyrocket. Spinning, he found a dark-haired woman in thick framed black glasses standing in the hall. Her hair was everywhere and she looked like she'd slept in a wind tunnel. The clothes she was wearing- a sweatshirt and wrinkled jeans- suggested she'd maybe done just that.

"I don't mean someone is gonna attack you or anything," continued the woman in the weird, rambling way of her. She almost reminded him of Skye, but more mentally disorganized. "I mean stuff happens around here. Like Tony falling out of the ceiling or Steve's parkour stuff."

"Steve's parkour stuff," repeated Grant in disbelief, momentarily becoming distracted by the image of Captain America attempting to do something better associated with trespassing than wholesome moral values.

"Stuff because he kinda miscalculated and we lost a wall," explained the woman with a shrug, blowing a strand of hair out of her face. "I mean, he tried, but…"

"You don't let him practice inside anymore," surmised Grant, shaking his head a little. The idea that Steve did parkour was…weird. It seemed too modern for the man.

"Basically," confirmed the brunette, stretching her arms above her head with a yawn. It shoved her rather…ample chest directly out in front of her. The weird part for Grant was that it didn't seem the least bit appealing to him. Yeah, they were nice and it wasn't like he didn't notice them (he was a guy after all), but they just didn't seem interesting. Maybe he was still exhausted.

"We kicked him and Thor into the gym that has the reinforced walls," continued the woman with much pause, dropping her arms back to her sides. "I'm kinda questioning the structural integrity of the walls at this point, but hey, not my problem. Tony's the one who has to fix it if they break."

"Tony Stark," stated Grant, needing to clarify that they were talking about the same person he thought they were.

"Yep," confirmed the woman, popping the 'p' a little. Tilting her head down the hallway, she began walking in the same direction he had been a minute ago. "C'mon dude, let's get you some coffee. You still look like the walking dead."

"Still?" asked Grant, a little confused. He hadn't seen this woman among the others, yet she seemed to know who he was. Without thought, he fell into step with her- at least she seemed to know her way around. The kitchen or breakroom wouldn't be a bad place to go, either. He was starving and there might be something worth eating there.

"Yep! I watched the footage from your powwow after I woke up," she explained with a grin as they rounded the corner and came face to face with the elusive elevator. The doors opened before they'd finished approaching, causing Grant to falter for a moment in case someone stepped out. The woman didn't pause though, waving a bit at the ceiling as she stepped onto the lift. "Thanks Jarvis."

"Of course, Miss Lewis," replied the same omnipresent voice from when Grant first woke up. He didn't jump this time, though it did send a shutter down his spine. For all Fitz, Simmons, and Skye had teased him about his lack of skill with technology, some of it he actually did understand- and it scared him. "Good to see you up and about, Mr. Grant."

"Uh, thanks?" asked Grant uncertainly, his eyes darting around the ceiling as he tried to find a place to look as he spoke to the disembodied voice that was Jarvis.

"Don't bother trying to find a place to look when you're talking with Jarvis," advised 'Miss Lewis' as she half tugged him into the elevator. The doors snapped shut almost immediately once they were both inside, the elevator beginning to rise without prompting. "Most people do the whole 'stare at the ceiling' thing, but he's literally the building. Think that weird smart home thing from that movie when we were kids. You know, the one where the family got locked inside their own house by the AI controlling it?"

"I don't think I saw that one," muttered Grant, his brow furrowing as he tried to remember a movie even remotely like the one she was describing. Then again, maybe he had seen it- Maynard had thought it was funny to show him movies that would scare him. "If I did, I'm pretty sure I suppressed the memory."

She shrug-hummed a little, shoving her hands into the pocket on the front of her sweatshirt. "Yeah, I can see that." Pausing, she turned fully towards him and offered one of her hands suddenly. "I'm Darcy, by the way. Think I forgot to mention that."

"Yeah, you did," confirmed Grant, though he tentatively took her hand and shook it all the same.

"Right," laughed Darcy, like it was normal for her to forget to introduce herself. She dropped his hand then, shoving it back with its twin into her sweatshirt pocket. "Sorry, haven't been awake long. It happens."

Grant nodded slowly, considering if he wanted to try to comment or not when the door suddenly opened. Darcy was out immediately, heading into the large room he recalled from the discussion last night. He followed quickly behind her as she began maneuvering along the edge, turning through a small door into the kitchen. Or at least what he'd assumed was the kitchen last night when Barton had come out with glasses. For all he knew, Stark had built a bar room into the place.

The scent of coffee wafted around the room as he stepped inside, reinforcing the idea that it was, in fact, a kitchen. Well, if someone could call the massive space a kitchen. It was large enough that it looked like three kitchens compressed into one. He was still staring around the room in awe when he felt something warm press into his hand. Blinking, he glanced down to find a coffee cup being forced into his hands by Darcy, her lips tilted into a knowing smile.

"Pretty big, right?" she asked, sipping at her own coffee as she took up a spot leaning on the island that split the room roughly in half. "I asked Stark why his kitchen was so big when I moved in. All he said was that he liked to throw parties." She shrugged a little, apparently not believing the story. "Personally, I think the whole freaking tower is to compensate for something, but hey, I don't really wanna find out if I'm right, either. Some things I don't need to know."

Grant didn't even let his mind process what Darcy was saying- he didn't need a mental image of Stark's junk in his head, no matter how inaccurate (or possibly accurate) it was. Instead, he focused his attention on the woman in front of him. He didn't like people as a rule, and Darcy wasn't an exception. Except she was already more of an exception than most because she was like Skye. That didn't mean he wanted to be in her company of course, but it did mean she was more tolerable than someone like Stark would be. At least he had a rough idea of what to expect from her.

"So, how you feeling?" asked Darcy, leveling a serious and worried look at him. It was a startling change from the carefree woman he'd been speaking with before. "Based on what Skye said, it sounds like you've been through hell."

"Alright," stated Grant, even though it was a lie. He felt like he was falling apart still, like his world couldn't be righted again without some serious help. Everything was like some twisted dream he couldn't escape and it was driving him crazy.

"Bullshit," stated Darcy, shaking her head and setting her cup aside. "After the crap you've been through, you've got to feel like hell." Thinning her lips a little, she passed a look over him before releasing a heavy sigh. "Skye said you were stubborn and close-lipped. Guess it was the drugs that still had you talking last night. Can't imagine whatever they gave you was good for you."

"Don't think it matters anyway," muttered Grant, his eyes falling to his coffee. "I'm some kind of self-healing experiment."

"It's hard to say what the serum did to you," remarked Darcy, her fingers drumming slightly on the counter. "I did some digging into the old files on Erskine's experiment. Military kept copies of everything he did, but most of it was encoded gibberish to them. Can't say it was much better for me, but I did manage to pull some stuff on Steve, too." Fishing into her sweatshirt pocket for a moment, she suddenly pulled a flash drive from seemingly nowhere and offered it to Grant. "Mostly I focused on the medical stuff, not the personal. Figured you could ask him about that rather than read it in some dry suit's writing."

"Suit?" repeated Grant, an eyebrow raising even as he took the drive. The term raised a red flag for him- it was generally what anarchists and activist groups opposing government policy used. He'd been trained to watch for it when dealing with people. Folding his fingers around the drive, he allowed his training to take over. The woman knew computers, or at least he was assuming she did if she was handing him medical files on Steve on a flash drive. She was friends with Skye and used derogatory language when discussing government officials…. "You're Rising Tide."

"Bingo," confirmed Darcy, smirking even as she picked up her cup. "It's how I met Skye, actually. She's legacy. Legendary in some circles. It's why we still let her on the message boards, even though we all know she's joined the dark side."

"How did a Rising Tide hacker end up living at Stark Tower?" asked Grant, somewhat floored by the idea. Did Hill know? Or anyone else for that matter? Were they aware there was an agent of an enemy hacker organization in their midst?

"I came in as Jane's assistant, but I think Stark offered me a job around the fifth short of Tequila last night," stated Darcy with a shrug. "Don't remember if I took it or not. Might have called him a corporate puppet and said no."

Grant wasn't proud of the fact he choked on his coffee, but that wasn't the usual reaction people had to Tony Stark offering them a job. "What?"

Darcy just shrugged, checked her clock before somehow downing her coffee in nearly one go. "What can I say? I like Jane." Spinning, she easily placed her cup in the sink and headed for the door before Grant could fully catch up on what was happening. "Sorry to drink and run, but I've got a meeting with a mainframe and some covert files. Catch ya later. Steve's in the gym, Jarvis can tell you where it is. Also, there's a laptop in the living room you can use. Password is 'Still not calling him Santa' with spaces, no capitals."

"Wait, what?" asked Grant as Darcy disappeared through the door. What the hell did that even mean? Not calling who Santa? Did the laptop have a Christmas theme on it or something?

His question never received an answer either. Instead, it was met by a silence that indicated Darcy had somehow disappeared into the building and abandoned him in the kitchen. Great. Well, at least he had coffee.

Garrett had forcefully weaned him from the stuff when he got hooked on it at the Academy, but now he wondered if he'd ever been truly dependent on it or if he'd just been mildly impacted. At least it tasted good- that was what he'd really missed when it gave it up. The warmth and taste had somehow always managed to sooth him. He suspected it had something to do with the woods. Garrett had brought him coffee sometimes and it had chased off the cold. Even now, the warm liquid helped warm him.

"Y-you aren't s-supposed to- to um, to walk- to walk around alone."

Grant blinked a little, his eyes sweeping across the room to meet Fitz's eyes. He hadn't realized he had zoned out until the man had spoken. That wasn't exactly healthy- he needed to remain aware of his surroundings.

"Where- where is uh- Skye, where is Skye," demanded Fitz, watching Grant wearily as he hovered in the doorway. "Or Steve."

"Skye's sleeping," replied Grant, his voice rough when it fell from his lips. Tight. He probably should be concerned by that, but he was more perturbed by what was a very pronounced stutter from Fitz. The engineer was always a bit twitchy, but he hadn't stuttered like that. A quick once over added to his concern- notable tremors in his hands and heavy bags under his eyes. Fitz looked terrible- nothing like the man Grant remembered him to be. He'd noticed it during the meeting, but seeing it now, it was more apparent that Fitz wasn't well.

"And Steve?" pressed Fitz, the tremors increasing somewhat. Without much thought, Grant grabbed a chair and pulled it out, spinning it towards Fitz. The engineer looked at the seat like it might bite him and shuffled a bit further against the doorframe instead.

"Fitz, you look like you're about to fall over," stated Grant, though he released the seat and stepped back. He could recognize fear when he saw it- and why wouldn't Fitz be afraid of him? He'd dropped the man out of a pod in a plane. Never mind it saved Fitz and Simmons both from certain death or that it saved their friend from having to murder them when he was being blatantly manipulated. Grant might have been willing to go along with what Garrett did, but he didn't like the idea of using someone's kid to make them do something. He did have morals, even if they were a little shady at times.

"I'm f-fine," insisted Fitz, the stutter increasing momentarily. He watched as the engineer tried to straighten up and make himself more intimidating. It didn't work, but the way Fitz looked at he stood there made him want to back down for the engineer's sake. "Wh-where is Steve?"

"Darcy said he was in the gym," stated Grant quietly, leaning against the counter slowly. "She didn't mention that I needed a supervisor."

Fitz's fingers twitched at his side half a moment before tightened them into a fist and let out several stuttered curses. "She must have seen me coming."

It was immediately obvious to Grant what Fitz was talking about- Darcy had left the scientist to guard him so she could attend to other business. Or go goof off. Not that Grant was going to complain- it would give him a chance to speak with Fitz, maybe even apologize. At minimum, maybe he could find out what was going on with the man.

"I-I'm going to kill her," muttered Fitz, his lips twisting into a scowl. His stutter seemed to be getting worse the more upset he got, which further bothered Grant. This wasn't like when Fitz got flustered; this was a full-blown stutter. The engineer definitely hadn't had one of those before. "I do-don't like you."

"I noticed," assured Grant, pressing his lips into a thin line. "I swear though Fitz, I'm not going to hurt you."

"You dr-dropped me and, uh, me and…and Simmons! You dropped us from a- a, uh, a plane!" Grant had the good grace to wince at Fitz's statement. Even bouncing off the surface of the water in that pod couldn't have been fun, after all. The anger that flashed through the engineer's eyes following his words was worse in some ways though. "Y-you almost killed us."

"And I'm sorry about that," stated Grant, his voice growing momentarily frustrated. Why couldn't Fitz just understand that it was a tactical choice? He and Simmons were alive and a few nightmares from falling out of a plane were better than being dead. "But my choices were: drop the pod and take the risk you might get hurt to get you off the plane, throw open the door and shoot you both in the head like Garrett wanted me to, or let Deathlok shoot you both in the head in order to ensure Garrett kept his son alive and safe. I didn't have a lot of choices and we were literally in the air, so there weren't exactly a lot of viable exits that didn't involve parachutes anyway. Besides, the pod had a flotation failsafe and contained a distress signal. I just had to hope someone found you."

For a moment, Fitz just stared at him like he was some kind of idiot. Then, the engineer did the opposite of what Grant expected him to- he took the chair that Grant had pulled out for him earlier. Still, even sitting, Fitz remained silent for a long moment following Grant's declaration. It was starting to make him nervous when Fitz finally bothered to speak up. "The p-pod didn't float."

Grant's brain came to a rather abrupt halt at that declaration. Wait, what? But it was supposed to float. It's literally a safety device. That couldn't be right. "What do you mean-"

"It didn't f-float," repeated Fitz, his voice tensing as anger began to leak into his tone. "The p-pod sank to the, uh, the bottom of the- the ocean instead. My brain, it was, um, it was deprived of- of ox- of oxy- of oxygen." The last bit of the statement was made in frustration, clearly driven by his inability to state things clearly. "It b-broke me."

Grant felt his stomach jerk. Hard. The pod sank? But he'd checked, it was supposed to float. It doubled as an emergency pod- that's how medical pods worked. That didn't make any sense.

"No, I checked," insisted Grant, his hands gripping the counter tight. He could feel the blood draining from his face. Had he been wrong? Did the pod not float? "I checked the specs when they loaded it on the plane with Skye. The pod was supposed to float. I made sure it did, for her safety."

Slowly, Fitz shook his head, leveling eyes that were becoming more sad than scared by the minute. "It mal- it malfun- it didn't work right. Nothing," Fitz didn't even bother trying to say the word, just made a shaky motion Grant figured was supposed to mean either explosion or expansion. "We sank."

Bile turned in Grant's stomach. Of course, when he dropped the pod, he knew there was a chance they could get hurt. Knew it was possible no one would come for them. It had been a slim risk though- he'd figured Coulson or someone was monitoring the distress lines that wasn't Hydra. Plus, they'd been close to the coast. A boat or someone was bound to spot them. He hadn't even considered the idea that the pod might sink. That he might have killed the scientists as surely as if he'd shot them both in the head. He felt sick.

"W- G-Grant?" called Fitz, the scientist suddenly standing very close to him. It took him half a second to realize the man was actually gripping his arm, helping to hold him up. He'd broken Fitz, and the man was helping to hold him up. "Maybe y-you should sit."

Sitting, that might be good. He felt kind of like he might have just been punched in the gut. He wasn't actually sure why he felt like he might have been punched in the gut, but he did all the same. The possibility that they could be hurt when he ejected the pod had existed, but it was a calculated risk. Maybe it was how badly he'd miscalculated that was bothering him so much? Or the way they'd been hurt? It didn't really make sense to him, but he supposed either could be a reason.

He felt Fitz push him slightly, and nearly lashed out at the man. It was only his training, the part of it that gave him so much control over his body, that stopped him from causing Fitz any more harm. He felt the muscles in his arms tense in restraint and, almost immediately, Fitz released him and scurried backwards. The fear he saw when he met the scientist's eyes again actually hurt, for some reason. Fitz should be afraid of him- he could snap the man in two. That was probably more literal than Grant wanted to think about if the stuff with the serum was true and it had taken hold. God, if that was true…

Anger flared in his chest again at the thought of the lie his life had been, and this time he wasn't able to stop himself from grabbing the nearest object and smashing it rather brutally against the counter. Of course, that object had to be his coffee cup. The delicate container shattered easily, the handle snapping in two in his grasp.

Pain radiated through his hand as porcelain shards embedded themselves in his skin. The scent of blood closely followed and, when he lifted his hand from the counter, he could see the red substance leaking from his skin very clearly. Multiple cuts littered the edge of his palm and his knuckles, the glint from the embedded porcelain catching in the light of the kitchen. He couldn't take his eyes off it, the pain wrestling with the anger. Everything rolled through his head, from the doctor's at the prison to dropping the pod to his time in the woods. How much of his life was him and how much was due to some mad scientist using him as a plaything? How much of his life had actually been in his control? Yeah, he'd made the decision to go with Garrett, but if he hadn't been with the Wards, then maybe he wouldn't have landed in Juvie in the first place. If he hadn't been stolen from the USSR, then maybe he'd be somewhere else. Somewhere better. Something better than some jacked up science experiment gone wrong. Maybe then he wouldn't have been in that prison. Maybe then he wouldn't have been dragged out of his cell, repeatedly drugged, cut into, and treated like a rare creature rather than a living person.

Cursing vaguely caught his attention, though he didn't look up from his damaged hand. His brain felt foggy as he battled with his rage, trying to force that particular monster back into its hole. He'd never deny he was an angry man- that would be futile. Normally though, his anger was something he could control. Garrett had given him that power. The man had taught him how to control his emotions, particularly his rage. But right then, he couldn't seem to summon that training to hand. It felt buried somewhere, out of reach.

"Ward!" The sound of someone shouting his last name (or what he'd always assumed was his last name) cut through the fog better than it should have. His mind snapped immediately to attention, the soldier in him forcing everything else back to focus on whatever the crisis at hand was. It took him half a second to realize the shout was May's harsh snap and that there were suddenly more people in the room than there had been a second ago. How the hell had he missed that?

Blinking, he looked up to find the female specialist staring at him from a few feet away, eying him as if she suspected he might attack at any moment. Trip stood immediately behind her, the same weary look on his face. There was a third person too, the tall man with the shaved head that he hadn't recognized earlier. He was further back though, standing near the door where Grant suspected Fitz probably was.

"Ward, look at me." Immediately, Grant's eyes moved to May, her commanding tone doing more to keep his brain focused than anything he could have done. "I need you to say something, anything to tell me you're here with us."

"Uh, what?" asked Grant, his brain not completely understanding what she meant. Here with them? How could he be anywhere else? What did that even mean? "What does that even mean?"

"It means you flashed back on us, man," stated Trip, moving a little closer. That was the point at which Grant noticed blood dripping down Trip's arm. Why was Trip bleeding? He knew why he was bleeding, but why was Trip?

"Flashed- what?" repeated Grant, still not completely understanding what the hell was happening.

"Y-you re-retrea- uh," stuttered Fitz, his head popping up around May's other side, though he remained very far back and well out of reach.

"You disappeared somewhere in your head," spoke up the bald man as he suddenly stepped around Trip and approached. May tensed as he did, but the other man ignored her and came to a stop immediately in front of Grant.

"Mack-" started May, only for the man, apparently named Mack, to wave her off.

"Relax, he's back with us," stated Mack, nodding downward at Grant's hand as he refocused on him. "Though I will feel better once you drop the coffee cup turned knife in your hand."

Blinking, Grant glanced down to where Mack had nodded and immediately understood what he meant. There was a rather large, jagged shard of porcelain gripped tightly in his hand. Blood dripped from the tip of the shard, some possibly from Trip and some definitely from his own hand; he could feel where the sharp edges were cutting into his skin.

Dropping the makeshift weapon immediately, Grant watched it clatter to the floor and shatter further. The sound seemed to echo in the dead quiet of the room. Idly, he wondered if it was symbolic of his sanity, which seemed to be rapidly fracturing like the cup had.

"That's better," stated Mack, a faint smile in his tone. When Grant looked back up, he found the man offering him a somewhat crooked little smile, relief clear on his features. "Think you'd be okay with someone looking at your hands? They're bleeding pretty good."

Slowly, Grant nodded, glancing down at both of his hands. Blood was pooling in the palm of one hand and leaking from a variety of cuts on the other. Several had already clotted, the ones that didn't contain bits of coffee cup he was guessing, and he knew they'd be healed in a day or two, tops.

"I need a verbal response there, Grant," insisted Mack, his voice weary but firm. "After what just happened, I need you to keep talking."

"What did happen?" asked Grant, his fingers flexing a bit. Mack motioned for Grant to give him one of his hands, which Grant did without protest, offering the hand with the least damage for inspection.

"Can't say for sure, but I'm pretty sure you either had a flashback or a dissociative moment," explained Mack as he careful examined Grant's hand, cuts along his knuckles and fingers. "Fitz said you were talking, then got really quiet and suddenly smashed a cup. He shouted for help and the three of us," Mack paused in his examination to indicate himself, May, and Trip, "responded. Trip tried to approach you and help, but the second he touched you, you grabbed that piece of cup and stabbed him with it." Releasing Grant's palm, he motioned for the other hand. Grant wearily offered it to Mack, fingers twitching as the clotting blood began to pull at his skin. "You remember any of that?"

"I remember smashing the cup in anger," stated Grant slowly, his brow furrowing some. Mostly that was what he remembered- the anger and confusion over the last few minutes. "Someone cursed, I think?"

"That would have been Trip when you stabbed him," informed Mack, releasing Grant's other hand and standing. He headed around the counter and began pulling open drawers, stopping a moment later as he pulled two towels from what Grant assumed was a drawer and stepped back around the island. He offered one to Grant and the other to Trip, though May took the cloth and passed it to the other specialist. Grant took the towel he was offered and pressed it to his palm, wincing as he felt something dig further into his skin. Probably more porcelain. "We need to get you both to medical-"

"No!" snapped Grant, his fingers curling automatically tighter around the towel. His heartrate shot up at the word, flashes from his earlier dream and memories from the prison shooting to the forefront of his mind. "No medical."

"Your hand is bleeding pretty-" started Mack, but Grant firmly shook his head, effectively cutting the man off.

"I'm not going to medical," repeated Grant, his voice rising a bit as fear and panic began to creep in. The urge to flee was rapidly increasing, as was the need to fight if necessary to get away.

"Maybe med-medical isn't the best idea," pipped up Fitz suddenly, his voice a little stronger than before. Grant wondered if it was the presence of more people than just them that was helping. "The people at the other, uh, place. The prison. They did med-er medical, uh, medical-"

"Medical experiments on him, right," muttered Mack, nodding his head as if Fitz had actually finished his own sentence. The look of understanding that crossed Mack's face was at odds with the frustration clearly present there as well. "Well, Trip can go to medical then and we'll get someone to come up here and help Grant."

"Simmons can just come up and help us both," assured Trip as he moved around May to sit down on the other side of Grant. May twitched as he did, shooting Trip a look that said she thought he was crazy. The other specialist ignored her though, offering Grant a weary smirk as he pressed the towel to his bleeding arm. "I don't really like medical anyway. Always smells sterile and weird, like chemicals."

"Trip, you trained as a medic," reminded May, her shoulders tensing when Grant shifted a little to try to take some of the pressure of the towel off his palm.

"Yeah, and then I became a specialist," pointed out Trip with a shrug. "I like the job, just not the ambiance."

"E-excuse me," spoke up Fitz from somewhere near the door into the room. It prompted nearly every head in the space to turn to the engineer, to Grant's great relief. He wasn't exactly enjoying this high level of attention. "Should I, um, get Simmons?"

Mack nodded, leaning on the counter beside Grant and stretching out his legs a little. "It'd be helpful if you could, Turbo. She likes you better than me, she'll probably come up immediately if you ask her to."

Fitz nodded jerkily before half spinning out of the room in a manner that looked more like fleeing than a calm retrieval of a doctor. As soon as the scientist was gone, Mack and Trip visibly relaxed, though May remained on high alert. Still, no one actually said another word until they heard the elevator doors swish open and closed in the room over. As soon as that happened, Mack straightened and headed for the back counter.

"So, who wants coffee?" questioned Mack, pulling open a cabinet and fishing a bag off the shelf. "This might be our one chance to actually drink something that doesn't go down like sludge."

"Are you serious?" asked May, her voice rising a bit with her irritation. Her fists tightened where they were crossed over her arms, her whole body tense as she stared at Mack. "We have two men bleeding in the middle of the kitchen and you're going to make coffee."

"What? They aren't gonna bleed out," dismissed Mack mildly and he threw out a filter literally overflowing with grounds and popped a new one into the machine. "Not immediately at least. Right Trip?"

"I probably do need stitches just to keep the gash closed and so does Grant," agreed Trip with a shrug, like the whole thing wasn't a big deal, "but we aren't gonna die right this second. Pretty sure it'll probably be clotted up by the time Simmons gets up here." Meeting May's eyes, Trip offered her a soft smile. "Relax, I'm okay, he's okay, we're all okay. We just need a few bandages and something to hold the skin closed."

"You're bleeding in the kitchen because of him," pointed out May, her voice and body further tightening in displeasure.

"And you threw me across the gym last week because I tapped you on the shoulder while you were training," reminded Trip pointedly. His eyes spoke volumes: 'you've done it, too; you should understand this'. It shocked Grant- no one stood up for him like that. Ever.

The click of a cup being set beside him startled Grant from his thoughts, causing him to jump a little. He didn't lash out this time though, his body simply tensing in lieu of actually striking.

Mack shot him an apologetic look, turning the cup around so he would be able to grip the handle. "Sorry man, didn't mean to startle you."

"It's alright," muttered Grant, shifting a little uneasily as he reached out and carefully picked up the cup with his less damaged hand to take a sip.

"Did you at least give him a glass he can't break?" asked May, the irritation in her voice apparent. "We don't need him causing more damage if he zones out again."

"He's a grown ass man, May," stated Mack with just a touch of irritation. Leaning on the counter, he leveled a look at May that would probably scare most people. "Pretty sure he can handle a coffee cup. Besides, Steve can break any of them, so I'm gonna go out on a limb and assume that Grant isn't much different."

Grant didn't respond to that- he didn't want to confirm what Mack had said was true. Which, well, it was. He'd broken plastic cups when mad, he'd dented metal ones once or twice when he was still a teenager, and there was an incident with a glass beer bottle he didn't talk about. It didn't happen if he wasn't made though, and the little TV he'd watched as a kid combined with his father taught him angry men broke things. It hadn't seemed weird that he could do the same when mad. He'd even learned to touch only the upper edge of a glass when angry or hold it with only his fingers in order to decrease the chance it would happen. The whole super-soldier thing kind of made him question that though. He'd never accidentally broken a glass, but was that just because he'd been born with the serum? Would he have been more likely to if he'd gotten that power when older? It was something he should talk to Steve about.

"Yo, Grant, you still with us?" Mack's easy voice broke through Grant's thoughts, drawing his focus back, once more, to the kitchen. The other man was staring at him expectantly, clearly waiting for an answer of some kind. When Grant didn't offer one though, Mack tapped the counter a little. "Verbal responses, man. Kinda need them right now."

"Right," muttered Grant, firmly shaking his head in an attempt to pull himself back into the conversation. Had someone asked him something? Given the expectant looks everyone was shooting him, he suspected the answer was yes. "What was the question?"

"I asked what you and Fitz were talking about," explained Trip, shrugging a little. "Just curious what set you off like that."

Grant's shoulders stiffened at the thought, though he was careful to call on his training quickly this time. Trip was taking the whole 'being stabbed' thing pretty well, but Simmons wouldn't. Plus, he might actually hurt Simmons if he stabbed her. Forcing his shoulders to relax, he tried to do the same to his voice. It didn't really work. "We were discussing the pod."

"Turbo was actually discussing the pod?" asked Mack in surprise, exchanging a look with Trip that said that wasn't normal.

Grant nodded, gulping a little as the nausea and anger began to eat at him again. He needed to stay with them mentally, though; he might hurt someone if he didn't. "Sort of. No one told me it sank. I thought they were shaken up, but okay."

Trip and Mack both winced slightly while May's eyebrow twitched in a way that said she was mad. None of them could blame him, of course. No one had told him what happened and he wasn't a mind reader. Simmons had seemed fine; it was just Fitz that struck him as off. Now, he knew why.

"Turbo got hurt worse than Simmons," confirmed Mack, his lips thinning as he levelled a look at Grant. "I gotta ask though, why did you do that?"

Grant felt irritation rise in his chest, not anger but growing in that direction. It was very hard to remember none of them were there and neither Fitz nor Simmons had understood why he did drop the pod. Apparently, they hadn't seen Deathlok coming. "Because it was either drop the pod, shoot them myself, or let Deathlok do it for me. Two options resulted in immediate death and one they could survive. The pod was supposed to float."

"Why didn't you turn and shoot Deathlok?" asked Mack, invoking a disturbed and startled noise from Trip. "Wouldn't that have worked?"

"The man is half-cyborg," reminded Ward quietly, tapping his fingers slightly against his coffee. "If I had shot him, I would have had to shoot to kill and that was assuming I could hit something that would take him down. If I'd missed, he would have just killed me and then them. Dropping the pod took the responsibility out of both of our hands and gave them a chance to survive."

"Took the responsibility out of both of our hands," repeated Mack, nodding a little. "You didn't want him to have to shoot them."

Grant had the decency to look away, ashamed. "I didn't know all of Garrett's plan, but I knew he was holding people hostage to use against other people. It was a tactic he taught me. I- I thought maybe I was the same thing, that maybe that was why he'd left me in the woods. Try to force my pare- uh, the Wards, to do something." Looking down, he carefully spun his cup slightly, trying to distract himself from how much he'd betrayed the team. "When Garrett was on the plane following Skye's shooting, he told me they had Deathlok." Glancing at them, he felt the need to add: "And I didn't know he was going to have her shot, for the record. He didn't tell me that part. I was pissed with him for that."

"Think that's why he did the whole heart-stop thing on you?" asked Trip curiously, removing the towel to check his wound. "'Cause you got mad at him?"

"He did that because we needed Skye to talk," explained Grant, wincing at the memory. "Garrett swears he knew she wouldn't let me die, and I don't think she would have, but…"

"It's a shitty thing to do to you," filled in Trip, nodding with a thin-lipped look. "Garrett could be a selfish bastard like that."

"He saved my life," stated Grant quietly, his fingers tightening a little against the cup's rim, though he forced them to loosen before he caused any damage. "I owed him everything. If he needed to stop my heart temporarily to save his own life, then that's fine. He told me that Skye needed to talk and he was sending Deathlok as back-up. It would have just been me and Deathlok on the plane; I could have stopped him if necessary."

"So you would have fought him for Skye, but not Fitz and Simmons," surmised Mack, the look in his eyes darkening somewhat. "That's kinda a douchebag thing to do."

"No," corrected Grant, shaking his head slowly. "It was just Deathlok, myself, and Skye on the plane. I was prepared to try to take down Deathlok if I needed to. With Fitz and Simmons, it was Garrett and a lot of Hydra people, plus Deathlok and we were in the air. We weren't airborne with Skye. There were places to flee, ways out that weren't options with Simmons and Fitz. I just needed to knock him out, not kill him. He wouldn't have been prepared."

"He was ready to kill with Fitz and Simmons though, because Garrett ordered it," stated Trip, his lips twisting into a grimace as he pressed the towel harder against his arm. "Grant's right. Hate to say it, but Garrett was my SO. He was a SOB more often than not, but you didn't realize he was unless you thought about it. Did everything saying it would make you stronger."

"From a tactical standpoint, Wa- he's right anyway," added May, stepping a little closer to him even as she glared at him. "An opponent like Deathlok on the Bus, with no backup or alternative escape plans and a large number of enemies, getting Fitz and Simmons off the plane was the best thing he could do."

"No, the best thing would have been not taking us on the plane to begin with," interrupted Simmons, her voice nearly vibrating with anger as she stepped through the door. Fitz wasn't with her though, nor was anyone else. As soon as she stepped into view, Grant could see the anger glinting in her eyes as well, her reluctance to be there clear. "But I suppose you'll claim coercion with that, as well."

"Simmons," warned Trip, his voice clearly expressing his belief that she was stepping well out of line, "that's not something we're discussing here."

"Why do you keep defending him anyway?" demanded Simmons as she crossed the room to Trip and dropped a medical bag on the counter. "You've been doing that since we retrieved him."

"Because Garrett was my SO, too," reminded Trip, his calm tone edged with tension. "The man was a bastard sometimes- you can't argue with that one either, Grant." Trip was quick to cut him off from objecting to his characterization of Garrett, leveling a finger at Grant. "Even you have to admit he was a bastard sometimes. Stopping your heart to drag information out of Skye is a pretty douchebag move."

Okay, Grant couldn't really argue with that. That had been pretty bad and even he hadn't been able to fully accept Garrett's shit excuse. Nodding slowly, he had to concede that point to Trip. "Sometimes."

Nodding, apparently satisfied by the answer, Trip let his focus fall on Simmons as she pushed his hand from his arm and began to examine his wound. Her fingers danced over the skin skillfully, gentle in a way Grant would almost guarantee she wouldn't be with him.

"I can't believe you stabbed him," muttered Simmons as she released Trip's arm to fish some cotton and a bottle from her bag. Her words reignited Grant's earlier guilt on the matter. He didn't even remember stabbing Trip; it hadn't been intentional. "The man defends you from everyone, and you stab him. I suppose that's your behavioral pattern though- betray those who try to help yo-"

"Enough Simmons," snapped Trip, to Grant's great relief. "It was an accident. Now I'm pretty sure I need stitches to hold my arm shut and I know Grant needs 'em. So stitch me up so one of us can stitch him up."

"He scared Fitz," muttered Simmons, glaring at Grant as she dumped what looked like antiseptic on the cotton and pulled it across Trip's wound. The man hissed slightly, but otherwise showed no signs of discomfort.

"He scared us all, mostly 'cause he was flashing back and we didn't know how to bring him back," countered Trip, offering Grant a sympathetic look. "Lots of us do it and the risk we could hurt someone while we're like that is high."

"He attacked you for no good-" started Simmons, clearly ready to tear into Grant again. Except this time, it was May that cut her off.

"Enough Simmons," ordered May, nodding at Trip. "Stitch Trip up so he can help Grant, or you can."

"You're going to start defending him now, too?" asked Simmons, a bit appalled as she again reached for her bag and extracted a needle and thread. "The man tried to kill us."

"The man tried to save you," corrected Trip, meeting Grant's eyes over Simmons' head. "Personally, I believe him. If he wanted you two dead, you'd have been dead."

Simmons opened her mouth, clearly ready to argue again, but a look from Trip cut her off. With a glare at Grant, she began the diligent work of stitching Trip up, though apparently it wasn't particularly comfortable. The silence that followed immediately was beyond uncomfortable, too. It made Grant want to go hide in a hole. Maybe that would be the best course of action- he could stitch himself up. Picking out the fragments from the cup would be a pain, but he could do it. He just needed the suture.

"Trip, can you hand me a suture?" asked Grant, carefully lifting the towel away to look at the gash on his hand. As he'd predicted, it was barely leaking blood at this point. The only thing a suture would do was ensure it remained shut while it healed. He could do without one too, but he'd probably break the gash open again if he did that.

"Dude, you can't sew up your own hand," stated Trip, shaking his head a little. "Just wait for Simmons to finish and I'll do it for you."

"I'd rather just do it," stated Grant as he stood and maneuvered to the sink to wash the dried blood from his hands in an attempt to evaluate the damage he'd managed to do to himself. "Actually, I need tweezers. I'll just go back to the room Skye took me to and get some."

"You will do no such thing," stated Simmons with a huff. The anger was still present in her tone, but it was fading more towards irritation than actual anger at this point. "I'm almost done with Trip, then I will deal with you."

"I can fish porcelain out of my skin myself," assured Grant, noting that the shallower injuries were already beginning to heal. They'd be little more than red marks by tomorrow. Unless he was shot or severely injured, that tended to be how it went. Little injuries just didn't stick. Unfortunately, he could see the fragments of the cup he'd inadvertently driven into his skin and if he didn't get them out fast enough the wounds might close over them. He didn't regenerate in front of people's eyes or anything like that, but he would have to break the clots and possibly skin to remove the fragments if he didn't do it now. Simmons wasn't likely to do a good job either just out of spite, and he didn't want to ask Trip for help after he'd stabbed the man. He could do this himself, he just needed the tools. "I took care of myself for years, I can do it now."

"I will handle it," repeated Simmons through clenched teeth. "Trip will insist on helping you if I don't, and I don't need him pulling his stitches out if you move or jerk."

"I'm not going to bleed to death if I pop one of these stitches," remarked Trip, his tone dry and just a touch edged by irritation. Simmons let out a disbelieving noise in response, but didn't actually say anything.

Grant wanted to argue, he really did, but it wouldn't actually do any good. He'd be better off just to walk out and handle this himself; it would save Simmons the task of having to help him, which she clearly didn't want to do, and would keep Trip from potentially being injured again trying to help him. Besides, he was pretty sure he could just ask Jarvis for directions back to his room, so it wasn't like he was going to get lost and bleed to death somewhere in the building. He probably didn't honestly need stitches anyway; the doctors had been injecting him with something while he was in their care that had boosted the whole 'rapid healing' thing beyond what it had already been. It was a big part of why he wanted to get the porcelain out now, rather than waiting.

Carefully wiping his hands on the towel from before, Grant tried to step around the counter and head for the door. Mack's extended arm stopped him though, blocking his way out. The larger man didn't try to intimidate him, he just leveled a knowing look at Grant and shook his head.

"Let Simmons help you," stated Mack, nodding back at the stool Grant had been perched on before. "You've been doing this on your own for a long time and I'm sure you were fine, but this isn't about you not being able to take care of yourself. This is about letting other people help you."

Letting other people help him? What was Mack getting at? He'd let plenty of people help him throughout his life. That was a big part of the reason he was even stuck in his current situation. He'd only stopped letting people help him when he joined S.H.I.E.L.D. because it became his job to help everyone else. "What?"

"You've gone through some rough stuff the past few months," explained Mack, his lips thinning. "And I can't imagine yesterday was anything less than earth-shattering for you. I know your type- you always go at it alone. May does the same thing and so does Bobbi. But you aren't going to get better if you don't let other people help you out when you need it. So let Simmons help you. Don't disappear into the vents or your own little hiding spot to lick your wounds. It won't help."

Again, Grant wanted to argue. Simmons was pissed with him, why should he let her help him? She didn't want to help him and asking her to would be placing a burden on her. Besides, he'd been taking care of himself for decades and that hadn't changed. He did better on his own than with others; where did Mack get off trying to argue that with him?

"I'm not talking physical here," stated Mack, apparently somehow reading Grant's mind. It made him extremely uneasy. "I'm talking about the mental damage; that, you need to talk out. I don't know to who you're comfortable talking with, but you need to talk this out with someone."

"What does that have to do with bandaging my hand?" asked Grant, his head beginning to throb as he tried to follow Mack's explanation. What did his hand have to do with talking things out with someone?

"The hand is about helping Simmons, not you," corrected Mack, stepping aside in such a way that Grant had to either move the man out of the way or retake his seat on the stool. Somehow, he suspected moving the man wouldn't work out well for him. If he had to guess, May probably had some kind of tranquilizer on her. Then again, a properly placed hit and he'd go down without any drugs in his system. "You hurt her and Fitz. She's pissed, you're pissed, all three of you are mad about the same thing for different reasons. Her fixing up your hand will start to repair that. You broke their trust, so you have to be the one to start rebuilding it by trusting her and Fitz first."

"Are you quite done?" broke in Simmons, her irritation clear. Grant glanced over just as she gave them both an annoyed once over, her foot nearly tapping. It was the Simmons he knew from before, albeit a lot angrier at him. "I have other things to do today."

"Yeah, we're good," agreed Mack, motioning for Grant to return to the stool he'd previously occupied.

Grant didn't argue with the larger man, just reluctantly retook his seat. Docility wasn't his thing and he should have been making a break for it rather than preparing to allow Simmons to mess with his hand. Except, he thought he could see Mack's point. He didn't feel the need for Simmons or Fitz to trust him necessarily, but Mack was right about him needing to take the first steps to repair their broken trust. Honestly, he'd just be happy if he could be in a room with them without Simmons or Fitz freaking out at him.

Besides, they probably wouldn't let him leave, and starting a fight right now was worse than just letting Simmons bandage his hand.

He expected her to show some resistance to the idea, but she just grabbed his more damaged hand and pulled away the towel to take a look. Her lips thinned at the sight of the wound, though she looked less concerned than he expected. Probably because she was still pissed with him- he'd find it hard to be concerned about someone he was angry with, too.

Her brows pulled close as she ran her fingers around the gash, the clotting of which was breaking somewhat but otherwise appeared pretty solid. It was a long cut, stretching across his palm, but not as wide as it initially looked. Despite Trip's insistence he need stitches, he really doubted that was actually the case. He just needed a bandage and to make sure he didn't flex his hand wrong in the next few days.

"It isn't as bad as I assumed," stated Simmons, her lips pursing as she released him and pulled the antiseptic and a bandage from her bag. "Can you avoid punching me if I clean it?"

"Yeah," winced Grant, gulping a little. The burn didn't actually bother him that much, but he hated the smell. It had filled the room they'd kept him in.

"Go easy on that stuff, Simmons," advised Trip as he pinned the bandage on his arm shut and stood so he was beside Grant. "Might bring back some bad memories."

"I'm fine," stated Grant automatically, his mind refusing to allow even a hint of weakness to emerge from beneath his hard exterior. "Just fine." And he was. He wasn't strapped down, Simmons wasn't wearing a mask, and they were in a kitchen. A bright kitchen. Not a harshly lit lab with him barely conscious. Simmons wasn't going to cut him open, she was going to just stitch up his hand and that would be that. He'd be fine.

"Grant, stay with us man," called out Trip, his voice kind of tense. When Grant blinked, he found Simmons standing a few feet further from him than before, with Trip's arm holding her back a little. May had moved forward as well, coming up on Trip's other side and taking a more defensive stance. At least they were prepared for him to potentially attack this time. Wow, that's depressing. The whole needing to talk thing that Mack mentioned might not be far off the mark.

"I'm here," stated Grant, clearing his throat a little. Blinking, he took note of the somewhat horrified look that had crossed Simmons' face. At least she knew what it looked like if he zoned out on her now- she could be prepared and protect herself that way. "Just, do what you need to."

Nodding meekly, Simmons scurried around Trip and reached for his injured hand once more. Grant allowed her to take it again, focusing on Simmons in hopes it would help alleviate some of the growing anxiety he could feel in his chest. She was far gentler this time though, her motions telegraphed before she made them. It was weird and a little disturbing.

"What are you doing?" asked Grant as he watched her hold the cotton ball intentionally in his line of sight for a moment before slowly lowered it to his skin. The antiseptic stung, but he managed to reduce his wince to little more than a tick in his jaw.

"I'm telegraphing my movements so you don't become startled and attack," stated Simmons, as if that were the most logical thing in the world to do. Which, okay, with him it might be. "This is rather extraordinary the way you have already begun to heal. The larger injury is what I would expect, but the various cuts and scrapes are already red where new skin is beginning to grow."

"They'll be gone tomorrow," stated Grant, trying not to think about why that was. The fact that he healed faster than most was something he'd always taken for granted. Now, he kind of wished that wasn't the case. It wasn't some stroke of luck- it was the result of someone who decided they wanted to screw with his genetics. It was a reminder he wasn't a normal person, but a science experiment.

"Fascinating," murmured Simmons, tilting his hand to glance over the wound. "How did I not notice this before?"

"Major injuries only heal a few days to a week faster than most people," explained Grant, his eyes slipping away from her. It wasn't something he really wanted to talk about, but he knew Simmons wouldn't let up if he didn't give some kind of an explanation, either. She didn't know they'd been injecting him with something in the prison that made the rapid healing thing more pronounced. "It's not really noticeable. You only saw me when my injuries were bad."

"True," admitted Simmons unhappily, dropping his more injured hand to pick up the less injured one. "There's no sherds in that one, and we need to get those out first, before the skin heals over them."

"I don't heal that fast," muttered Grant, even though he knew that wasn't completely correct. The clots over any buried material were going to have to be broken, but he didn't think (he hoped) the skin hadn't started to grow around them yet.

Simmons made a noise that conveyed disbelief and again wiped his hand with the antiseptic before beginning her examination. She was quiet for a moment; only breathy little comments he couldn't understand escaping her. Finally, she raised her head and offered him a wide-eyed, excited look. It made him incredibly nervous.

"I read the files on Captain Rogers and the side effects of the serum, but to see it in person is amazing," remarked Simmons as she reached for her bag blindly. She nearly dumped the whole thing over as she did, only Trip's hand stopping the bag from over-turning.

"What do you need, girl?" asked Trip, stabilizing the bag and turning to peer inside.

"Um, tweezers," stated Simmons, blinking as she looked up at him. "And a scalpel. I think a few of these have new skin that I will need to cut away."

Grant felt his chest tighten. Antiseptic he could handle, but Simmons cutting into his skin? That wasn't something he was sure he could do. The vague memories from those lab monkeys slicing his skin for their experiments was enough to cause bile to rise in his throat.

"No scalpel," stated Grant before he could think better of it. It wasn't his call to make; he was doing this because Mack insisted he do it. It was to give Simmons to some sense that he trusted her. Asking her not to cut into his skin wasn't a sign of trust; it was the complete opposite.

Simmons furrowed her brow as she looked at him for a moment before apparently seeing something that immediately had her handing the tool back to Trip. Her voice was dead when she spoke again, distant and maybe a bit angry. "Right, no scalpel."

Grant winced. He'd fucked that one up and he knew anything he said now would sound hollow and untrue. He knew he didn't trust her with a scalpel on his skin, but he wasn't sure he'd trust anyone with that. Not even Skye or Steve, and they were the two he trusted the most at this point.

"They really did a number on you, didn't they?" asked Simmons quietly as she took his hand and began to carefully pluck porcelain sherds from his skin. Blood began to well up again, spilling into the cup of his hand; he was quick to look away this time, tilting his head back towards the ceiling instead.

He wasn't sure what she was talking about- the prison, the scientists who experimented on him, Garrett, or all of the above. Sometimes it felt like everyone had screwed him over. Everyone kind of had when he thought about it. Even the team had been responsible for sending him to that prison, even if they hadn't known it was actually a Hydra base.

"I'm going to take another look at the files Bobbi pilfered," continued Simmons. He caught sight of it as she exchanged the tweezers for antiseptic, looking down again as she wiped the new blood from his skin. "See if I can determine what they were testing for. It would be good to determine which of the super-soldier attributes you've retained from the initial experiment."

"I think we can worry about that later, Simmons," remarked May, her voice tense. A glance at the specialist confirmed she wasn't happy about something; if it was related to what Simmons had said or him though, it was hard to say. "Just get him bandaged up so we can return him to his room and retrieve Skye."

"Right," murmured Simmons, quickly wrapping a bandage across his now cleaned hand before switching to the other again. "Do we need to worry about infection? I don't recall there being any remarked about previous ones in your file."

"Never had one that I can remember," stated Grant with a shrug. His skin was starting to itch with all this medical talk. He needed to get out of there. Maybe go to the gym or find something to read. Check out the files Darcy had given him- wait, the files. Where was the flash drive?

"Grant, what's up?" asked Trip, one of his hands landing on Grant's shoulder lightly. "Stay with us, man."

"I'm fine," assured Grant, his voice growing a touch irritated with all of the precautions they were taking with him. He wasn't zoning out, he just needed to find that drive. Turning as best he could with Simmons holding onto his other hand, he tried to scan the counter for some signs of the device. Shit. He really hoped he hadn't crushed it with that coffee cup. Who knew if that was the only copy of those files or not?

"Looking for this?" asked Mack, holding out the flash drive towards Grant. Almost immediately, he reached out with his bandaged hand and took it, folding his fingers around the device. He wasn't sure why it mattered- he probably didn't really want to read those files anyway- but he was relieved to have the drive safely in his possession all the same. "Saw it laying on the counter when we came in. Thought I'd grab it before you smashed it with something by accident."

"Thanks," muttered Grant, shoving the drive into his pocket for safe keeping. Something about those files felt important to him. Maybe it was the fact Darcy had taken the time to pull them for him or maybe it was because they might give him a better idea of what parts of himself were really him and what wasn't. Either way, he wanted those files safe.

"Was it Skye or Darcy that gave you that drive?" continued Mack curiously, leaning on the counter beside Grant.

"Darcy," replied Grant, his lips thinning a little as the bite of the needle sliding through his skin registered. His shoulders tightened as memories of a similar pain tried to force their way to the surface of his mind, but he shook them away. He needed to focus on what was happening now, not what had happened then. Simmons wasn't going to experiment on him. He needed to remember that.

"She's a weird one, isn't she?" laughed Mack, nodding like it made sense. "Lot like Skye, actually. Shouldn't have been a surprise that they were friends from the same organization."

"Darcy seemed a little more… distracted than Skye," remarked Simmons, her eyes remaining focused on his hand. "I'm certain with them in the same building, something bad is bound to happen."

"I doubt it'll be bad," corrected Trip, shaking his head a little. "Crazy, yeah, but probably not bad."

"They decided to hack into the major alphabet agencies while drunk," argued Simmons, her tone incredulous. "They could have easily made a mistake and been caught."

"Yeah, somehow, I doubt that was the first time they'd hacked a place drunk," countered Trip, shaking his head and laughing a little. "Skye's done some crazy shit. Thought Coulson was gonna blow a fuse when she mentioned her backdoor in the FBI."

"Why does she have that, anyway?" asked Mack, his brow furrowing slightly. "Does she really hack into the FBI that much?"

"She did before," broke in Grant, recalling vaguely a conversation they'd had about her pact illegal activities. Well, it was more like Skye was trying to defend stealing government secrets. She'd given a lot of examples of cover-ups she'd found, many of which had been found through the FBI. "She told me as much."

"Well, if you knew she had a back door into the FBI, you might not wanna let Coulson know you knew," advised Trip, pulling a pair of scissors from the medical bag and offering them to Simmons. Grant tensed until Simmons snipped the loose thread at the end of the stitches with them and quickly handed them back to Trip. He was able to relax again once they were out of sight.

"I didn't know she had a back door," stated Grant, which he really hadn't. "I just knew she had a way in. Didn't ask, didn't want to know how."

"Smart man," applauded Mack as he walked back around the counter while Simmons sealed the bandage on Grant's other hand. "He good now, Simmons?"

"Yes, he is," confirmed Simmons as she tucked the few remaining materials of hers back into her bag. "Why?"

"Because I'm going to make us pancakes if you're finished," stated Mack, pulling open the pantry and dragging a bunch of ingredients out onto the counter. "Simmons, you mind grabbing Turbo? Pretty sure he'll want some."

"Not at all," replied Simmons, eying Grant sadly once more before exiting the room. He wasn't sure what the sad look was about, but he doubted it was good.

"Grant, you want to stick around?" asked Mack curiously, giving the man a once-over. "You gotta be hungry. Not sure you've eaten since you got here."

Grant had to admit he was hungry and his stomach reminded him of this fact rather sharply as it rumbled a little at the thought of food. He wasn't up for the conversation or company, though. He already felt exhausted from the confrontations with Fitz and Simmons, and having May glare at him as he ate didn't sound fun. Maybe he could just grab something quick and go back to his room. That sounded like a good plan. Maybe there was something he could make fast or just eat raw. Probably was.

"I think I'm just going to grab something fast and go back to the room," stated Grant quietly. Standing carefully, Grant moved around the counter and opened the fridge in hopes he'd find leftovers or something. He nearly balked a little when he saw a container inside with his name on it; that wasn't something he'd expected at all.

Pulling it out, he popped the lid a little to find what looked like almost a full pot roast inside, complete with potatoes and vegetables. The hell? Was someone trying to poison him with food? Was that why his name was on the container?

"Oh yeah, Steve made that for you," stated Mack as he began pouring and mixing ingredients. "Said something about fast metabolisms and a need for high-protein foods. It was for when you got hungry. Forgot he did that."

"Why did he make me food?" asked Grant, still completely confused by the idea someone had thought of him enough to make or set food aside for him.

"He probably knew you'd get hungry and need something more substantial than pancakes to eat," replied Trip, shrugging a little. "Microwave is on the end of the counter if you want to use it. Smelled good when he was making it."

Nodding faintly, Grant found the microwave and threw the food into it, careful to set the timer for what he thought would be correct. As the food began to spin, he allowed his mind to drift a little; mostly, it focused on what Steve had done for him. It sounded silly, but something as simple as someone making food for him was precious in its own way. Yeah, his mother or whatever she was had made meals for the family, but it was one of those 'you show up or you starve' situations. No one had ever mad anything specifically for him before that he could remember.

The ding of the microwave drew him out of his thoughts; the others were still quiet, though a glance back revealed May and Trip sitting closer to each other than he would have expected. The younger man wasn't touching the specialist or anything, but it was still weird to see May allowing someone to breach her personal space like that. Even he hadn't been allowed to do that when they were sleeping together. Now, after everything that had happened, he wished Garrett had allowed him to sleep with Skye rather than May. Tactically speaking, May was a better choice, but Skye was the woman he'd actually wanted.

Tugging his food out of the microwave, he turned towards the door, only pausing to take the fork that Mack offered him before exiting the room. He should say thank you or something, but words felt too difficult in that moment. He needed the silence; needed the sanctuary that isolation offered him in order to recover from, well, everything. His brain needed to reset, and that would only happen if he was alone. Or at least, in silence.

Jarvis didn't ask where he wanted to go as he stepped into the elevator, nor did the AI offer any verbal aid as he stepped into the hall. Instead, lights illuminated the hallway and Grant quickly found his way back to the room from earlier. Skye was still asleep inside when he stepped in, and he was careful to avoid waking her as he sat down at the lone computer in the room and plugged the drive into the device. Immediately, the drive opened, laying out every document on the drive as if it were some neat, simple matter. He knew the truth, though; nothing about the documents or the story they told was simple. It was his great-uncle's story, or whatever it was Steve counted as. The story was as much Steve's as his at this point though, and he wanted to understand what it was that he, well, was. He wouldn't have every power Steve did, but figuring out which ones he did have would at least help him figure out how screwed he actually was. How human he actually was.

Popping open the container of food, Grant clicked on the first file in the drive and began to read. At least he was prepared for the chaos the story would bring. Or he thought he was.

That, as it turned out, was a major mistake.


-31 years ago, Coron Island, Philippians-

"Dr. Earnic," greeted Sims as Arthur stepped through the door of the shack-like structure that was serving as their temporary lab and central headquarters. with the female engineer. Said engineer nodded at the older man, embracing him as they met on the tarmac. "It's good to see you freed from those Soviet degenerates."

"The Soviets are fools and their projects are a reflection of that ignorance," stated Earnic, stepped back a bit and releasing Sims. Her hands slipped into her pockets almost immediately as she glanced around their temporary space in disinterest. "So what madness have you embarked upon now?"

"It isn't madness," spoke up Arthur, immediately coming to Sims' defense. Even if he personally thought the idea was a bit of a stretch, he wasn't going to tell his mentor he thought so and he certainly wasn't going to let someone else say it.

Sims glanced at him in displeasure, a look that said he shouldn't have spoken clearly written on his mentor's face. "My madness is a sanctuary for science. A place where we can pursue our research without baseless morals restricting us. Where we can advance the scientific community in ways we never would if we were to work within the confines of the government."

"Well that sounds cheery," stated Earnic, clearly skeptical. Her eyes glanced around the room again, disinterest preset on her features. "And I see you are off to a spectacular start."

"It's a temporary structure," dismissed Sims casually, flicking his wrist casually in a way that indicated it was a meaningless setback, "but it is what has led to me calling you here."

A look of understanding crossed Earnic's face as she nodded slowly. "You want me to build robots to help you construct this place."

"Not just robots for construction," corrected Sims, his eyes lighting up. "I want your work to be the heart of our facility. I want you to build whatever you wish to make our new world functional and fulfilling. I do have a list of necessities, but anything you wish to add beyond that is up to you."

Wait, he was giving her the right to basically design the facility? That wasn't right. Arthur had the blueprints for the facility safely locked away at his workstation. What was Sims going on about?

"Anything," repeated Earnic in disbelief. Her hands left her pockets so her arms could cross her chest in clear disbelief. "You always have a plan and a design, Sims. What's your catch?"

"No catch," assured Sims, gesturing towards Arthur. "Dr. Arthur Ward is responsible for over-seeing the facility's construction. He has a copy of some blueprints I've previously designed. You will be working with him to enhance and reconfigure everything as you both feel is necessary for cohesive functionality."

For the first time since they entered the building, Earnic turned her full attention onto him. Of course, he'd seen her stand when they climbed onto the plane that brought them out to the island. He'd barely avoided staring as she stripped away her apparently borrowed parka and taken a seat beside him in the aircraft. He hadn't been the sole point of focus for her until that moment though; not in the intense way she was looking at him right then. It was unnerving and hot, two things that shouldn't belong in the same sentence where he was concerned.

"So, we will work together to build this research facility," stated Earnic, weighing her words as she spoke them. Her eyes glinted mischievously, lips tilting upwards slightly as she stared at him for a moment before turning back to Sims. "Alright, I agree."

Arthur felt like he should have some say in this, but somehow suspected any objections he had would be cast aside without review. Great. Well, at least he was doing something helpful; it would eat into his research time, but he could make that up. There might even be a way to foist most of the supervisory work related to the construction into Earnic's hands to boot. Then he could make up for lost time on his personal research.

"Perfect!" exclaimed Sims with a nod, motioning for the two of them to head towards the corner of the shack where Arthur's workspace was located. "Arthur, show Dr. Earnic what we have so far in terms of a working design."

"Yes, sir," muttered Arthur, glancing between Sims and Earnic for a moment. Sims, however, just turned and walked away, leaving him and Earnic alone. Great. Well, might as well get started then. The sooner he discussed the design with her, the sooner he could break into his own research again. Gesturing towards the back of the room, he motioned for her to follow as he headed towards his workstation. "Well, Dr. Earnic-"

"Lucy," spoke up Earnic, cutting him off rather effectively. It was enough to cause him to pause mid-step and shoot her a curious look. She just shrugged as she passed him, offering him a smile. "My name is Lucy. Might as well use it, better than you calling me 'Earnic' all of the time."

"Right," sighed Arthur, doing his best not to feel too giddy at learning her first name. Seriously, what was it about this woman that made him want to stare at her? He'd need to figure it out if he was going to work with her effectively. That was for another time, though. Quickly falling into step with her, he continued from his original line of thought. "Well then, Lucy, the blueprints we have so far are in my desk. However, I suspect they're too small for what Sims wants. We'll need to expand them."

"Might be easier if we figure out what equipment there is first," pointed out Lucy, gesturing a little around the space they had so far. "Unless you plan on continuing to build structures such as these, there are ways to install equipment to save space. We can discuss the matter once I see the blueprints and the list of what Sims is demanding be present in the facility."

Well, he had to admit, at least she seemed efficient. He could get behind that. "The list is in my desk along with the designs."

"Well then let's get to it," stated Lucy, offering him a borderline sultry look and smirk. "I'll need a few hours once we talk to really get into the designs and I'm certain you'd like a bit of quality time with your cells and such. Might as well get through the tedium so we can both have what we want."

Arthur wasn't really sure right then what he wanted, but he was certain of one thing: some time away from Lucy would do him a lot of good. Particularly if she was going to look at him like that.

Reaching into his desk, he extracted the tube with the blueprints and the list of necessary rooms and features, both of which he offered to Lucy. "Blueprints or necessities first? Dealers choice."

The smirk she gave him promised that the next few hours, regardless of the content of their conversation, were probably going to be very interesting.