So remember how I said last chapter was a pain to write? That was before I had to write a fight scene. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, NEVER AGAIN. Please, please tell me if it reads okay. I think it does. Maybe it's because I can see it in my head. But I was always taught less is more when writing a fight scene, because trying to describe every move makes it awful to read and impossible to write. So...please let me know how I did?
Fitz had never seen Ward fight. He thought he had. But he was so very, very wrong. He'd seen Ward defend. He knew, peripherally, that it took a broken larynx and a nail gun to the foot for May to beat him in their one on one fight. He was used to May, Bobbi and Skye – all of them had to rely on out maneuvering their opponents due to the inevitable difference in size.
Ward didn't have that problem. He was six three, solid, wiry muscle, and a lifetime of rage behind every blow. He didn't have to hit someone more than once to put them down.
But just because he didn't have to, didn't mean he wasn't going to.
Ward slammed the heel of his hand into the first guard's chin, rocketing his head back so fast and with so much force he snapped their neck like it was made of glass. Before his body had a chance to hit the ground, Ward already had his rifle in his hand, swinging around to fire at Zola and Magnus. He kicked out his foot at the second guard's knee and it bent inversely like a chicken leg. Ward finished him off with a twist of his neck that was so quick and so violent it didn't untwist when he let him fall.
Magnus took a blast from the ICER rifle to the face, and Zola ducked out of the room, pulling an alarm as he went.
"Come on, Thomas," Ward growled, and picked one of the handguns from guards up. He took two strides across the room, and shot Magnus twice more in the head. Blood and brain matter spattered, flecking Ward's cheek.
Apparently, the handguns were still regular bullets.
Fitz was a little stunned. In less than a minute, two guards were dead and disarmed, and Magnus…the man who had tortured, starved and experimented on them, was dead. He half expected there to be some sort of epic showdown like in the movies. He was almost disappointed.
On the other hand, dead is dead.
Ward tossed him the handgun and Fitz fumbled as he caught it. He was just happy he didn't accidentally shoot himself.
Ward kept the ICER rifle, and lead them out of the hated room.
The hallway was a flurry of activity – the lights were on emergency power, and unarmed doctors and scientists in their white lab coats ran from them.
Ward didn't seem to be feeling at all magnanimous. He shot those who tried to flee in the back, and as he passed them, he stomped the base of his heel against their axis vertebra. If they weren't dead, they were permanently paralyzed.
It was with frightening ease that Ward cleared the hallways. Fitz wondered if perhaps he had been taking it easy on them every other time they'd gotten into a fight with him on the other side of SHIELD.
Something about the whole thing wasn't making sense though, but Fitz didn't have the luxury of time to wonder about it. It seemed like the security forces were split in half – some barreled around corners so fast and into direct line of fire from Ward, he had to wonder if they even knew what the alarms were for.
One soldier didn't go down easily, missing the shot fired from the rifle and launching himself at Ward.
When the women fought, there was a sort of grace to their movement, like an incredibly violent dance. It was using their opponents' force against them, lots of blocking and bending.
Ward was nothing but rage. There was no elegance, no fancy moves. He grabbed the man by his head, bringing his knee up repeatedly into the man's unguarded face until it was little more than shattered bone and blood. Another one he slammed an elbow into their cheek so hard Fitz saw it cave in, unhinging their jaw. He'd lost the rifle at some point, and it hardly seem to matter. It was all Fitz could do to follow in his wake of destruction.
They may have made it out on their own, if it hadn't been for Zola.
Ward just downed another soldier when he shrieked in pain, grabbing onto his head as he doubled over. And he didn't stop. He dug his fingers into the back of his skull, frantically gouging at his skin hard enough he drew blood.
"You honestly thought that you would escape?" Zola snarled. The tiny man stepped from the shadows in typical villain fashion. He jabbed the remote button again, and Ward collapsed to the ground, howling in pain. "You thought I would let you go again?"
He took his finger off the remote for a moment, and kicked Ward, hard, in the side, flipping him onto his back.
"No, Agent Ward, you are either mine or you're dead," Zola sneered. He hit the remote again.
Fitz's brain obnoxiously thought of the final scene where the Emperor Palpatine tortured Luke Skywalker. What the bloody hell, brain?
"So much talent gone to waste! You could have been one of the originals! One of the secret warriors! Your whole life was meant for this, for generations, and you thought you could avoid it just because you didn't want to?" Zola punctuated every sentence with a kick, and Ward could do little else besides lay there and take it. One final blow from the doctor's booted foot broke Ward's tibia with an audible crack and Ward screamed.
That was Fitz's fault. The chemicals they'd introduced to his system stripped away his amygdala's ability to regulate emotion. People like Ward, they still felt fear – they were just able to choose whether or not to acknowledge it. Pain had the same effect - all field agents were trained to block it out, to overcome instead of being overwhelmed.
As long as it had been overpowering rage, Ward didn't have room for anything else, and Fitz used the memory of the well to make sure of it.
Now?
Fear, pain, anger, despair all fought for dominance. There was no ability to push through it, no choice but to feel and feel everything.
The floors shook, and the lights flickered and Fitz had to grab the wall to stay upright.
What the hell was going on?
He could hear shouting, gun fire, and another explosion rocked the foundation.
It also kicked Fitz's mind into actually functioning.
Zola's finger hovered over the remote, his face twisted in apoplectic vindictiveness and looking every inch the mad scientist.
Until Fitz fired a single round to his chest.
The doctor froze, glancing down at his chest as blood pulsed over his white lab shirt. His hand fluttered uselessly towards his chest, before dropping to his knees, and fell backwards. Fitz wasn't good enough to deliver a killing shot from any distance – this wasn't the movies, and he'd only ever fired a gun a handful of times, and under range conditions, not the world crumbling around him.
Fitz didn't even spare him a second thought as he rushed towards Ward's crumpled form. He didn't even bother to check if Zola was dead. He didn't care. He did, however, grab the remote that fell from Zola's open hand and stuffed it in his pocket.
"Come on, Grant. We can't stay here. I know it hurts, but think of something else. Anything else!" Fitz said, almost as much for Ward as for himself. His hands shook with adrenaline, and his poor health for the past several weeks was catching up to him. His chest burned with exertion, and even as he pulled Ward upright he felt his knees threaten to give out.
Ward leaned heavily on him, trying to follow him. He couldn't give up. Not now. Not after everything.
The corridor had more corpses than living people now, but Fitz still kept an eye out. He only had to use the gun a few times, and unbelievably hit each target. He should feel something, anything. He was killing people. He'd never killed anyone before in his life.
And yet…he felt no more regret than if he'd squashed an ant with his boot.
The further they went though, the harder it became. It felt like the air was growing thinner, and both men were gasping like fish out of water. The longer they took, the more Ward leaned on the smaller man until Fitz was practically dragging him. One quick glance down and Fitz wished he hadn't. Ward was leaning on him so heavily because the break to the lower half of his leg was a compound fracture – he could see the blood and sharp edge of the broken bone in the garish light poking through the tear in Ward's scrubs.
"Jesus," Fitz swore, and stumbled when the floor shook again.
He still had no idea what the hell was going on. Maybe HYDRA was under attack. Maybe they'd made their secret evil base somewhere near the San Andreas. He didn't particularly care, except it was a welcome distraction.
Ward was shaking. Shock was setting in, and with the drug induced sensory overload, he was beginning to shut down. Fitz couldn't carry him much further, and he felt a hot well of anger and frustration bubble up.
They were so close.
The shouting and shooting were getting closer, and Fitz glanced wildly about for some place to hide. He didn't care who was shooting, it wouldn't bode well for them. He kicked in the nearest door and almost cried when it was nothing more than a linen closet.
Stairs would've been nice.
So would a bloody exit.
He heaved Ward inside, slamming the door shut behind them. Only dull blue emergency lighting illuminated the small space, and they both practically tumbled to the floor, Ward crying out in pain as he hit the ground.
Something felt like he'd been punched, hard, in the stomach, and Fitz didn't even have breath to yell. It spread – like the feeling of pulling a tendon in your foot and it didn't hurt so bad until suddenly it did and it took the breath right out of you.
He touched a hand to his stomach and it came away red with blood. He didn't even know what happened. When did he get injured? Was he shot? Did he get stabbed? Fitz almost felt like giggling for an insane moment because really universe? Fuck you too.
And then it hit him and he stifled a sob.
It was over. The end of the line. This was it. They were going to die at the hands of madmen, alone and suffering in the dark.
Fitz felt his breath catch, his chest heaving with emotion as he tried not to hyperventilate. He didn't want to die. He didn't. Not like this. Not now. He wasn't even thirty.
He could hear footsteps pounding down the hallway outside, yelling and shouting so loud he wanted to scream to drown them out.
What was worse than hearing his own shaking breath, feeling the rattle of his teeth as they chattered together from shock, was listening to Ward.
Ward, who was strong enough to take on the berserker staff, who defied HYDRA's years of brainwashing attempts and torture at the hands of the closest thing he had to a parent, sat opposite him, shaking and rocking back and forth, hands pressed firmly to either side of his head as he tried to block the world out.
This was his fault. He'd undone everything that made Ward the man he was. He stripped away every safety net his mind had, made him unable to shut things out. Gone was the borderline sociopath, but in his place, a very broken man existed, left to try and deal with the horrors of HYDRA alone.
He couldn't let that man fall back into HYDRA's hands. He couldn't let Zola have his prized pet back. Not now. Not ever.
It was time to redefine winning.
"Grant!" Fitz called, voice wavering with the knowledge of what he was about to do. He tried to make it sound light, casual. Friendly.
Ward glanced up, eyes red rimmed and glassy from unshed tears.
Jesus, what had he done? He'd taken a self-sufficient specialist and reduced him to someone incapable of defense, on any and every level.
"Come here," Fitz said, forcing his voice to sound even, hands outstretched. He could hear the edge of desperation, and he knew Ward could too. Before, Ward would've never listened, but now…Ward practically crawled to him. His left arm was hanging uselessly beside him, fingers curled loosely and unable to straighten. Fitz didn't even know what happened to it, and it didn't matter. His leg dragged behind him, leaving a swathe of blood in his wake.
"Tommy," Ward rasped, and in the dim light flickering overhead, Fitz could see his eyes were red because he had been crying. "You okay?"
Fitz coughed and laughed at the ridiculousness of the question. They were dying. Both of them. If not from their current injuries, then at the less than gentle hands of Zola and HYDRA's science division, and Ward still asked if his little brother was okay.
"Y-yeah," Fitz said, trying to smile and failing miserably. "Yeah, I'm okay. You?"
Ward leaned in, pressing his face against Fitz's neck in an awkward embrace. "No."
Fitz squeezed his eyes shut. He felt one hot tear escape. "It's okay, Grant. It'll be fine. I'm not going to let them have you." He tightened his grip on the gun in his hand.
It wasn't an ICER gun. This one had bullets, and Fitz had been counting them.
Well, it had a bullet.
Ward's chest heaved in a near silent sob. Whether it was from relief because he believed his little brother would get out of this, or because he knew exactly what Fitz meant. He tried not to think about it.
"Come here," he said, voice rough. He put one hand around the back of Ward's head, felt the tackiness of drying blood there, and pulled him closer. Ward's chin now rested on his shoulder, his head aligned with Fitz's. He could feel the trembling frame and he hugged Ward's body closer to him. "Close your eyes and count to thirty. It'll be like hide and seek."
The shouting outside was getting louder. And closer.
"It's better this way," Fitz whispered, and put the gun to side of his head. At this close range, one bullet would be enough for both of them. "No one is going to hurt you again. Not even me."
The only response he got was Ward pressed his head closer to his as he hunched forwards. His hand snaked up to cover Fitz's in silent acknowledgement that this was okay, that he understood, and that he wasn't going to let him do it alone.
It was as close to forgiveness as either of them would get.
Fitz flicked the safety off.
He didn't know why he hesitated. It was barely a moment. It was long enough.
The door blew backwards, the force of it being ripped off its hinges creating enough of a vacuum that he felt the gun slip, pulling out of his grasp even as he tightened his finger. The shot went wide, missing them both and Fitz wanted to cry.
His ears were ringing, and he heard someone shouting. Several someone's actually. There were bright lights and dust and a flurry of movement he couldn't keep up with.
Bits and pieces came to him through the ringing in his ears.
"Shots fired!"
"Put the gun down!"
"Drop it Ward!"
"Get away from him!"
He knew those voices.
Ward's hand tightened painfully against his own before he was suddenly being ripped away.
"Grant!" he protested, lunging forwards towards the other man. Hands stopped him, pushing him back even as they pulled Ward away.
There were too many hands, too many voices, too many lights and it was too much.
Above it all, he could hear Ward screaming for his little brother.
Mindless action overcame senseless thought and Fitz slapped restraining hands away. He pushed towards the sound of Ward's voice, and wildly grabbed for him. His fingers barely brushed against Ward's outstretched hand, enough to ensure that the other man was still alive.
"I'm sorry!" Fitz shouted, as arms wrapped around his waist, around his shoulders and pulled him back.
"Tommy!" Ward called, panicking.
Fitz was having problems focusing. He heard familiar voices, saw familiar badges and faces but his mind blanked on why. Everything in him was focused on trying to get back to Ward, because he'd made a promise. He could hear Ward snarl in defiance, and then suddenly the agent was dragging his captors forwards instead of the other way around. Despite the use of only one leg and one arm, he could see that Ward was actually starting to slide out of their grasp.
"Enough!"
"No!" Fitz screamed, but it did nothing to stop the harsh blow of a rifle butt against Ward's temple.
The specialist collapsed in their arms, like a marionette whose strings were cut.
He'd failed. He failed, he failed, failedfailedfailedfailed-
"Fitz!"
Hands, gentle, small hands pressed against his cheeks, forcing him to look away from Ward as his body was dragged away. A woman, a very familiar woman smiled back at him, though he could see the fear in her eyes, hear the waver in her voice.
"…Jemma?"
Jemma smiled, nodding vigorously. The motion made the world spin even worse. "That's right. That's right. It's me, Fitz. It's all of us. You're going to be okay. Everything is going to be okay."
His vision tunneled, wiping out everything in existence except the feel of her hands on his face, the look in her eyes, the sound of her voice. He had to tell her something. He had to make sure she knew. They all had to know.
"I lied to him," he said.
He could see she didn't understand. She didn't know what it meant. He felt his legs give out, was dimly aware of people shouting for a medic. Hands pressed against the wound in his stomach, and his vision washed in white.
Too many hands, too many voices, too much sound, too much light. It was too much.
And he had had enough.
Again - pleeease tell me it makes sense. Did you like it, hate it, should I scrap it and try again? You have been lovely readers so far and so much help I feel bad for asking again...well, not really. Read and review to let me know how I did!