Day 25

"This can't be your house," insisted Grant. "You're married, right? But a man doesn't live here. There are no men's clothes in your closet, and when I got here there were no men's shaving things."

Hand laughed very slightly at Grant's argument. "And from all that data, you conclude that this isn't my house? There's no other possibility?"

"Maybe you're not really married. You're a widow, or divorced, and you just wear the ring."

"Why are you so skeptical that this could actually be my house?"

Grant rolled his eyes. "Last house I was in before this one, I set on fire."

"You'd have a hell of a time burning this one down," said Hand pensively. "Mostly brick to begin with, and after I bought it, I made considerable structural upgrades."

"Aren't you scared of me? I don't mean it as a threat. It's just, I am an ex-con and you've got a broken leg." He sighed. "This is coming out wrong. I just mean that you can stop bluffing."

"I appreciate your concern, Grant," said Hand as she produced a packet of M&Ms.

Grant took the candy wordlessly. In a weird way, he appreciated it, and not just because he liked the taste. He found it disturbingly easy to get past the faint whiff of degradation that came with being paid in treats. Instead, he liked knowing what exactly he had to do to please Hand. He wasn't sure if keeping her happy was his long term goal, but on the off chance he decided to really stick with this SHIELD gig, he wanted to know the rules. He hated guessing, hated the sense of random reward and punishment that he got when he had only social cues to go on. This was concrete. This was tangible.

Hand smiled at him almost affectionately. "And note that I am neither confirming nor denying the possibility of a bluff."

For once, Grant felt like he might very slightly be getting a handle on this situation. He decided to press his luck. "What's that song you listen to over and over again?"

Hand's smile dimmed but did not disappear entirely. "It's called Captain O'Kane."

"Why? I mean why do you listen to it, not why is it called that."

"It was going to be the first dance at my wedding." At this, Hand looked…not sad, precisely, but distant.

This was easily the most personal admission Hand had ever made to Grant. He tried to process it quickly, to think like a spy and balance the available evidence. "He died," blurted Grant. "Your fiancé, did he die?"

"No," said Hand, strangely amused, "I'm not a widow. I'm just bad at dancing. Could never get the hang of it."

"Waltzing's easy," said Grant. "Just pretend one leg is shorter than the other." He put on his most disaffected face and hobbled in a little circle. It was the most artless dancing Hand had ever seen, but it was perfectly rhythmic.

"You know how to waltz?"

Grant pointed a thumb at himself. "Spoiled rich kid, remember?"

Day 28

"Since you got out of jail."

"Pri-" Grant stopped as though interrupting himself. "You're doing that on purpose, aren't you?"

"And you finally caught on."

"Why?!"

"Because it bothered you. At first I thought it was a tough guy thing: 'don't downgrade my felony to a misdemeanor. Then I thought you just wanted full credit for what you've been through since your conviction: 'I wasn't locked in some puny county jail, I was in a state prison with the worst of the worst.' Now I think you're just being a pedant."

"I don't what that word means."

"Pedant? Someone who believes in rules for rules' sake when it comes to language."

"Isn't that a good thing if I get to work at an intelligence agency?"

"Quite the opposite. We want you to be good at bending the truth."

"That thing I said about my older brother? It wasn't true."

"Which thing?"

"Don't make me say it again."

Hand waited.

"That he made me, you know, go down on him." Grant's upper lip curled. "He didn't. It never happened."

"Why did you lie?"

"It wasn't just one thing. It was…it was… he was creative! He would do so many different things. I can't explain all of it."

"Then don't. Tell me one thing."

"He would frame me for stuff. Steal things and hide them in my bedroom. "

"Is that true?"

"Yes."

"Tell me another thing."

"One time, I had a scrape on my knee. He held me down and rubbed dog shit in it so it would get infected. And yes, that's true."

"Tell me another thing."

Grant was silent for a moment. Then, "There was one time, I was maybe ten. He came up behind me and put his hand over my mouth. He had a pill in his hand and he held my mouth shut until I swallowed it. It was a vitamin pill or an aspirin or something, but I didn't know that. He told me it was poison and I was going to die unless I could throw it back up. I know it was stupid, but I believed him. I stuck my finger down my throat. I remember it didn't work the first few times – I had to keep at it. I really thought I was going to die."

Hand didn't wrinkle her nose in disgust, but only because she was a highly trained agent who was above such things. Instead, she noted the parallelism between Grant's initial story and its revision. Both involved his older brother forcing something into his mouth, something noxious and unwanted, and – if she was going to really indulge herself in her role as armchair psychologist – ejaculation and vomiting were not entirely dissimilar.

She could understand his preference for a simple lie. There was less to say, less to think about. And the true storied meant admitting a level of ignorance, of naiveté. Not that sexual abuse didn't lay bare one's vulnerabilities, but at this point it was such a well-known cultural theme that there was no need to elaborate. And of course, the truth carried an additional risk: You might not be believed – or worse, believed but dismissed. 'That doesn't sound so bad.' 'Brothers always bicker.' 'What are you whining about?' If someone discounted a lie, who cared?

But she didn't say any of that. What she said was, "And he's going into politics?"

Day 37

It was a Tuesday when the motorcycle pulled into the driveway. Alarms didn't go off, so Grant assumed the visitor was expected.

"Izzy," breathed Hand, "how was the-"

"A complete shit show, but I don't want to talk about that. I want you to throw me on that bed and-" The woman – Izzy, presumably – was suddenly aware of Grant's presence. "What the hell is he doing here?" She straightened, huskiness gone from her voice. "Is that your little recruit?"

"Mr. Ward," said Hand in a formal tone, "I'd like to introduce you to Agent Hartley, my wife."

Isabelle Hartley extended her hand. Grant offered his own, but was still looking back and forth between the two of them as half a dozen clues clicked into place. "You're…she's…I didn't know you were…"

"You'll have to forgive Grant," said Hand to Hartley in a gallant tone. "He was raised by Republicans."

"Oh!" cried Hartley. "You're that one! Well, in that case." She grabbed Hand's buttocks, pulling her close for an extended, grinding kiss. When it ended, she flashed Grant a shit-eating grin and said, "Tell your daddy we say hello."

"The American Marriage Preservation Act," whispered Grant, sounding rather like police sergeant who was coming to the realization that the real killer was one of his own officers. "I didn't… I had nothing to do with…"

"Of course you didn't," said Hand. "Izzy, stop baiting the kid. Grant, go down to the basement and stay there."

Grant obeyed. As he lay on his cot, he listened to the voices from the main floor.

Hand: Did you lose any?

Hartley: Okonjo.

Hand: Shit.

Hartley: It was quick. As soon as the shockwave hit him, he just sort of melted.

Hand: Are you okay?

Hartley: Burn on my left thigh. Missed my one percent, though, and that's what counts.

Hand: You've only got one thing on the brain, don't you?

Hartley: Can you blame me? I haven't seen you in over a month.

Hand: Did you have to notify Okonjo's family?

Hartley: No one to notify. Small blessings.

Hand: (unintelligible)

Hartley: It has its benefits. Speaking of which, how's your little project working out?

Hand: You know he can hear us, right?

Hartley: A little exhibitionism doesn't bother me.

Hand: Oh for fuck's sake, just hit the button on the-

Their voices were replaced by a gentle whirring sound. Grant was distinctly relieved that he wasn't going to hear them have sex, even if he was sorely lacking in mental imagery to fuel his masturbation. He didn't think of Hand that way. He remembered feeling tempted to steal her panties when he first arrived at the house. Now she was firmly categorized in his mind as – as what. As a military officer? As a prison guard? As a guardian? As something firmly nonsexual, at any rate.

Besides, if he stayed in the basement and kept his mouth shut, he'd probably get more M&Ms.

Grant was summoned out of the basement for dinner. Or rather, he was summoned up to cook dinner.

"You've actually gotten her to eat real people food, eh?" asked Hartley appreciatively, elbowing Grant in the ribs.

"Uhh…" Grant didn't know what to make of this woman intruding on their strange little home.

Hartley was still talking. "Normally with her, it's dry cereal for breakfast, canned soup for lunch, frozen pizza for dinner, and topped off with her weird Polish vodka, which is just a crime."

"Stop!" said Hand, grabbing at Hartley's arm and making the word sound like it had about four syllables. She was only using one crutch and – Grant had to rapidly suppress a blush – she was clearly not wearing a bra.

Grant started to back away. "I'm going to…go for a run…"

"Tell you what. Do us one better," said Hartley. She tossed him Hand's keyring and fished a pair of twenties out of her own pocket. "Go get us some General Tso's chicken and whatever else you want. And beer. Heineken."

Grant looked quickly to Hand. This had to be some kind of test. "I don't have my license," he pointed out, though they surely knew that already. "And I'm not twenty one."

Hand just shrugged and pulled a small lockbox out from underneath the sink. It opened to her handprint. After a moment of rummaging, she handed him an unbelievably realistic fake driver's license with his own, real photograph. "There," she said, "now you have a license."

Grant stared at it. His name was listed as Mitchell Podesta and, according to his date of birth, he had recently turned twenty-two. He wanted to ask when and how she had taken his picture without his knowledge, and if she had any more fake IDs for him just lying around, but more than either of those things, he wanted to leave this weird little brick house and its terrifying unpredictable spy lesbians and drive a car again.

Grant could leave. He knew that. He wouldn't get very far in Hand's SUV, but he could head downtown and buy a bus ticket with the forty dollars, test Hand's promise that he would be free as long as he didn't reoffend. And he might have left, because it was hard to be in the same house as someone who knew he he'd really believed an aspirin was poison, who knew he really was a killer at heart. But he'd also finished the book on the history of SHIELD and he'd listened to them talking about Okonjo's death.

Hand had picked him for this, chosen him to become an agent, really thought that he could do it. Grant didn't know exactly what agents normally did with their time, but she must have something better to do than babysit a teenager.

It made Grant angry, though he could not have said who he was angry at, or why.

He practiced parallel parking outside the Chinese takeout place.

Isabelle Hartley was cool. As much as Grant liked to imagine that an interest in being a badass was something he had outgrown, he couldn't suppress the impulse to copy her. He organized his thoughts on the matter in the form of one of those three-paragraph essays he had been made to write when last he attended school.

Reason number one: General demeanor. She swaggered when she walked and cursed like a sailor with Tourette's. She drank beer in large quantities and never seemed to actually get drunk.

Reason number two: As previously noted, she drove a motorcycle. She had (according to her own stories, though Grant had no reason to doubt her) ridden a motorcycle over the metal struts that made the top of a suspension bridge – called endposts and chords, he learned.

Reason number three: She was proficient in throwing knifes and hatchets. Grant suspected this skill was rarely used in the world of espionage, but that didn't matter to him in the slightest. He wanted her to teach him and was willing to bribe her with the best intel he could provide: "If you do, I'll tell you which senators are gay."

"No deal. But I'll show you how to open a switchblade the right way if you just tell me whether Dale Compton is."

"No. He uses a lot of escorts though."

"Vic, I like this kid."

Still, Grant felt strangely competitive with Hartley, as though Hand were a toy he didn't want to share.

He didn't ask how long Hartley was staying. That would have been overplaying his hand. And besides, it was their house. He was the guest. They were SHIELD agents. He was someone who might possibly one day be a trainee. They were heroes. He had been busted out of prison three years into a twenty-five year sentence. Grant stayed in the background. He studied Polish verbs and quizzed himself on Southeast Asian cities.

Day 42

Grant heard a thud up the stairs. Not loud or heavy enough to be a body, so not alarming. Maybe Hand and Hartley were having sex again, although they had thus far been considerate enough to activate a noise jammer.

The door to the basement opened, and Grant could just see Hartley's duffel on the floor, its landing having obviously caused the noise. She was leaving, probably going on another mission. Grant had strong feelings about this, but he wasn't at all sure which ones. And then there was Hartley herself, coming down the stairs.

Hartley reached into her wallet and pulled out a few bills. She extended them to Grant. "Buy some ingredients. See if you can get her to eat normal food at least some of the time while I'm gone. You can keep the change."

"Yes, ma'am." Grant pocketed the money without checking to see how much it was. He had always been taught that counting money was gauche.

"Sit down," said Hartley, taking a seat on his cot.

Grant sat next to her, not too close, but not conspicuously far either.

"Vic tells me you've been asking why she picked you. That right?"

Grant nodded.

"Well, quit asking. You're never going to like the answer."

"How do you know that?"

"Because you're like me." Hartley gestured intently while she spoke. "Now Vic, she was a good kid. Never got in trouble. But me? I was involved in a lot of bad shit when I got recruited. And I kept asking them why they wanted me. And they'd give different answers – skills I had, because I was on the radar of someone, because I was off the radar of someone else. But the only answer I wanted to hear was that they chose me because I was a hero. Thing is, I wasn't. I was pretty much scum, to be honest. There wasn't anything special in me that said I could be good. But lucky for me, that wasn't what they were looking for. They knew that anyone could be good if you gave them the chance. And they gave that chance to me instead of the next guy for no good reason. And I'll never, ever deserve it more than anyone else."

Grant wasn't sure what he was supposed to say to that. All of a sudden he had dozens of questions, about who Hartley was and what she had done and what was her mission and how did she meet Hand and why on earth did they have a stupid waltz at their wedding.

But before he could speak, Hartley patted his shoulder and stood. "Besides," she said, "it doesn't matter what anyone predicts. You get to make your own future. The world's not random. Cause and effect. Actions and consequences."

And then Hartley was at the top of the stairs, saying good luck or goodbye or something and the door was shut again and Grant didn't really hear any of it.

Day 43

While her wife was in residence, Hand had stopped playing that stupid waltz every night. When "Izzy" left, Hand bid a fond farewell didn't seem overtly distraught. Separation, Grant figured, must be very normal for them. The song was just a ritual, almost like a little prayer. With Hartley gone, the song had returned the night before and Grant was surprised to realize that he had missed it.

The next morning, he counted up the cash on his nightstand. There were ten days left until his SHIELD evaluation. Grant decided he was going to sit down with the cookbook and plan meals for the remainder of his time with Hand. He would drive to the store and buy groceries – he had a license, after all. But first he had to talk to Hand. She was sitting at the kitchen table, pouring over page after page of budget requisitions.

Grant hovered at the entrance to the kitchen. "Remember when I told you about my brother Thomas getting thrown through the glass door?" He paused for confirmation, but he didn't look at Hand, nor did he seem to be listening for a response. "I lied."

"About the whole incident or a specific detail?"

"I didn't protect him. I didn't even try. When I saw my father getting angry, I hid."

"Where?"

"Are you listening to me? I'm telling you I lied. I didn't help at all. I saved my own skin."

"And I'm asking where you hid."

"In a kitchen cabinet. One of the ones on the ground. It was a big kitchen, big cabinets, but I barely fit."

"If you were in a cabinet, how did you know what happened to Thomas?"

"I could hear it. He was scream-crying, the way little kids do. I heard dad yelling. The glass breaking. And then Thomas was quiet. I thought he might be dead. And I still did nothing. And before you say, 'Well, you couldn't have overpowered your father,' you have to remember that wasn't the only option. Before he went after Thomas, I could have gotten him mad at me. Or even after, I could have called 9-1-1. But I didn't do any of that."

"When did you leave the cabinet?"

"I don't know. Hours later. I probably fell asleep. It was the middle of the night when I went to my bedroom."

"And what happened to Thomas?"

"Our mother took him to the emergency room. Said we were roughhousing. They patched him up. He wasn't dead."

"Why did you lie about this?"

"Who would you rather be: the guy who protected his little brother, or the guy who fell asleep on a pile of dishrags?"

"Changing the story doesn't change what you did or who you are." Hand paused a moment to let that sink in. "And since you asked, I would rather be the one who expends resources wisely. Fighting every battle – no matter the cost, no matter the losses – might fit a certain storybook notion of bravery, but it's also a good way to lose a war."