IS THAT YOUR TRUE NATURE ?

     It always comes back to Coulson.  In some ways,  Daisy understands harboring that level of resentment;  she understands needing to bite back every now and again because she used to be the same way with him.  In others…  not so much.  “Don’t you own,  like,  two pairs of jeans?”

     The corner of her mouth hitches in the faintest smile.  Hardly noticeable beneath the bar’s dim lighting.  She’ll blame it on the vodka later.  It’s the only thing keeping her heart from breaking apart inside her chest.

     Coulson is a sore subject.

     That semblance of a smile is as quick to disappear as it was to arrive.  Another topic of conversation she was hoping to avoid.

     “Better than what they’re calling you.  I hear the big fat  Nazi  organization is under new management.”

            hardly noticeable is nigh - on imperceptible, and he still notices. a lacuna in his left - side peripherals. there and gone. “bought a third pair just last week. turns out an old dog can learn some new tricks.” 

            she hedges. deflects. that one is a familiar habit, vaguely reminiscent of the skye from before: a girl with no last name, no history, no real sense of self. funny, what passes for common ground when the ground is so full of cracks. had the timing been better, maybe they would have bonded over their respective identity crises. 

            then again, maybe not. 

            “— you know that hydra itself actually predates world war two, right?” as if she baited the hook for a history lesson. still, it strikes a flint of amusement in his eyes. “compelling as i’m sure this would be for you, we don’t have to do that.”

             with a tip of his own glass, he gestures to hers. 

        the silence is loud. deafening. violent. the whirring of the air in the plane seems to dim in to a background noise so inconsequential it may as well not exist, everything stands still, no one moves, no one breathes. roman’s eyes don’t leave ward. the silence says everything and he wasn’t anticipating more than that, but then he speaks. he speaks and it feels like he’s watching a man caught between two times. then and now. then, when he was with his brother, and here with roman now. the man he was before and the man he is now are different, even by a hairline fracture, and for a second, roman wonders if that’s who he’s seeing in the small glimpses. in his eyes, open and readable now. only there’s no way for him to know for sure. all he has is familiarity.

        the question, the answer, the act - none of them are easy. none of them are simple.

       roman can’t see the waterlogged memory that creeps like well water through the cracks. all he can see is ward. but he feels it. this nameless sensation that floods with no warning. roman feels it in his chest. he feels it because whatever ward felt, whatever he’s still feeling, is tangible. it’s thick and fills the air around them until just like that, it’s gone. the air is easier, thinner. one of ward’s men scratches at his nose. the ambient noise returns to the plane.

      it’s grounding; to know that under the pristine marble, there’s a raw live-wire in him, too.

      trust your instincts. they’ve kept him here, haven’t they?

     “what does it feel like? getting the confession. being free. closure.” how does anything feel when it isn’t caught in a net of rage and pain? roman’s mind races. another swallow of his drink and he asks, “is it enough?”

            the men on board know better than to speak through that silence, to make their presence anything but inconsequential. flies on the wall. what he says — what he reveals, flashes of a bigger picture, a coup d'œil behind the curtain — is meaningless to them. what he says, and what he doesn’t say, what the silence says for him, is for roman, and roman only.

            “what does what feel like?” a minute twist at the upper corner of his mouth. “you’re asking three different questions. getting the confession is only step one. closure is something else completely.”

            words, again. words with power. words with weight.

            and his instincts, so far, have been correct: ward isn’t the same man as he was before. from caterpillar to chrysalis, a long, visceral transformation, into ... what?

            nothing beautiful. nothing that has a name.

            but a transformation, nonetheless.

     Why?  There isn’t an easy answer.  ‘I lost someone’ sounds too cliché,  because who hasn’t?  ‘He died’ gives away too much  ––  too much he could use as ammunition later if he really wanted to.  Don’t hand them the bullet to shoot you with,  Daisy.  ‘I wasn’t happy’ is a lie washed down her throat with a sip from the glass sitting in front of her.

     Every beginning has its end,  right?

     “Got tired of the dress code so I changed career paths.”

            "i never realized the dress code was that strict. unless you’re coulson, anyway.” an addendum nearly slips. a dig; a barbed and how’s he doing these days? that stilts anything lighthearted in ward’s tone. he catches himself. too much blood under that bridge, the bridge itself too unsteady. 

            much like her. not skye: daisy. 

            it’s pretty, but strangely juxtaposed. a flower with no shortage of thorns. 

            he finally takes a sip of his drink, facing forward despite the pull to keep looking at her. 

       the complexities of family and all that single, simple word entail are not unknown to him. even with present circumstances making a kaleidoscope of what is and isn’t. in the midst of his beating, he’d wondered if garrett was ward’s alice. he’d been wrong. it’s there for him to grasp at; the swap isn’t a clean one that makes the comparison easy, but he had a christian. it’s there. an older brother that he set free. could he set alice free?

       you and i are blood and we’ve always protected each other. always.

      he drowns his sister’s voice with another swallow of burning liquor. 

      “sounds like a real asshole. a delight at family dinners, i’m sure.” 

      could he set alice free? the thought nags at the darker recesses of his mind.

      “free,” something caught between a grin and a smile quirks his mouth. it’s a good word. a liberating one to even think. free. he’s so close, he can almost taste it. “good word.” 

      perhaps this isn’t freedom, but being in a plane of highly skilled could kill at the drop of dime men and their boss, a ghost chased by the self-proclaimed Good Guys, is a fantastic taste of it. fitting, that he’d feel more at ease here. there’s a reason the reform didn’t take. he feels that more and more. tracking his thumb through a drip of malt down the side of his glass, he asks.

     “was it easy?” roman licks the spill from his thumb. waste not, want not. “when everything was said and done, did you know you’d be able to do it after all?”

            a good word. a powerful one. and like anything that has power, it comes at a price. ward paid for his, in dirt, ash, and blood. rotted wood, stagnant water. crocodile tears that near the end became genuine; the first and only show of remorse he ever pulled from christian, and even that, sometimes, feels tainted behind a scrim of gaslit manipulations.

            that is not how i think, grant, that’s how you think.

            listen to yourself.

            you twist every act and blame it on somebody else.

            “couldn’t tell you. we weren’t big on family dinners.”

            but roman had smiled. drank like he was tasting not only the liquor but the promise of that one word. far be it from ward to distort its potential, to take a hammer to a new pane of glass and scatter the pieces again. 

            a price in blood: how many of his brother’s words are yet to be paraphrased by alice, he wonders.

            she’ll be the last. the masterwork, the pièce de résistance. by then, the ground roman treads has to be empty of land mines. his sea has to be calm. one tip — one ill - timed wave catching him in its crest, one tripped wire, one tiny crack ...

                    “admit you made me push thomas down the well.”

                    "no.” christian stops digging to stare his brother down. “you forced him. he was terrified, and you wouldn’t pull him up. you enjoyed it."

                    a twitch of muscle in ward’s cheek. “you keep trying to put thoughts in my head. like you always have. you used to convince me they were my own.” for years. again, and again, and again. his chin lifts. “not anymore.”

                    “you lie to yourself,” christian sneers. “you wanna know why? it’s simple. you can’t reconcile all the horrible things you do with the hero you so desperately want to become.”

            ward’s silence, prolonged by the raise of glass to mouth, two, three times in slow succession, would speak for itself had he not carried the intention to stay honest throughout all this. to stay honest with roman, who reminds him so much of himself that if they’d met a year ago, six months ago, he wouldn’t have been clear on where to draw that line.

            “i knew it had to be done,” he says, at length. “but — no. no, i wouldn’t say it was easy. not until he confessed.”

            and even then. even then. 

                    a dampness to the updraft of stale air, the smell of mildew and wet stone, earthy, and somehow lifeless. cold. he holds christian over the edge, forcing him to look. to see, to remember. mingled with the earth, a metallic scent of blood. “admit it,” he says, through the grit of his teeth. “not to me. to yourself.”

                    “no —”

                    “it’s dark down there, christian. you’ll have plenty of alone time to think.”

            ward wets his lips and lowers his glass. eye contact, then. letting roman read him, openly. an uncovered well. 

            “he admitted everything to me. what he’d done. what he’d made me do. when he apologized, i almost believed him.”

                    “i did it! i did! i know!” now he’s sobbing. now he’s unraveling. over the well’s edge, and then on the ground where he’s thrown, trembling. bleeding. pitiful, and yet —

                    does he feel pity? does he feel sorrow? does he feel ... ?

                    “i wanted him dead. i’m sorry. i wanted him dead. thomas was the only one mother didn’t torture ... and dad always let her do it. she loved him so much. it had to end. i wanted her to feel our pain, but i didn’t have the courage to do it myself. i’m sorry. grant, i’m so sorry. i’m sorry.”

     That would have earned something.  Not a laugh or a smile,  but something that would have said,  yeah,  I remember.  We all remember.  Something with bite,  because that level of betrayal still stung like salt on an open wound  ––  but there isn’t an  all  anymore.  There isn’t a ‘we’.

     Better to leave that where it is.

     The straw is plucked from the glass and fidgeted with.  It gives her restless hands something to do.  “O-kay,  except you’re not  ‘working’  with S.H.I.E.L.D anymore,  and neither am I.”

     “But you already  knew  that,  didn’t you?”

            the short answer is yes. rebranding a formerly named terrorist organization — oh, the irony — couldn’t prevent the media frenzy those accusations had provoked. all anyone would have to do is glance at the headlines. 

            ward isn’t just anyone. 

            her restlessness, tension riding high in the stiff set of her shoulders; she still has tells. he still recognizes them, even after this long. 

            he’s yet to touch his drink. 

     Not everything.  Time has turned her world upside down;  loss weighs heavy on the heart and mind,  but at least she has that,  right?  What he told her before.  Her lip almost curls in a sneer.

     It’s a disproportionate response.  She knows.  “Gee,  thanks.”

     What’s left in her glass is thrown back and then she’s signaling the bartender.  Almost closes her tab,  but reconsiders.  Another vodka and lime is put in front of her instead.

     “How’d you find me?”

            disproportionate, but he would have expected nothing less. bite and bitterness. she’s harder than she used to be. time corroded those soft edges and made them jagged, carved from stone. maybe her name won’t take any getting used to, after all. 

            the bartender looks to him once her drink is brought. 

            he orders. on the rocks. 

            if the ice cubes start to shake in their glass while she sits here, he’ll know he overstayed his already limited welcome.

     It’s been over a year since Daisy has heard that name.  Maybe longer.  It stirs something inside of her  ––  a familiarity of sorts,  like crossing paths with an old friend you no longer recognize.  “It’s been three years.  I’d start playing  catch up  pretty quick if I were you.”

            three years. time is a fluid thing; too easily lost through cracks of memory like fissured earth, or a wound that never quite heals. 

            three years. 

     “Ward––”  It’s clipped,  hardly fit as a response.  “That’s a loaded question and you know it.”

        unbidden, another snippet of memory unfurls. this one isn’t violent and jarring. this one is less about him and more about the man that offers him his drink. roman takes it, bringing it up to his mouth where he pauses only to smell it first. a news snippet plays on the tv behind someone’s head. ellen’s. his sister’s. he can’t tell, it’s hazy. traitor. murderer. brought to justice. he remembers the heading, remembers the talk around it. the panic. the threat. 

         was. he said was. roman lifts his glass to clink the edge against the edge of ward’s and he finally takes a sip. 

        “i know i asked, but i’m not worried,” because he isn’t. they’ll make their move as they see fit and they’ll be behind every step of the way. ward wouldn’t be here right now if they weren’t always behind. “it’s good,” roman comments on the drink, lifting the glass just enough for him to stare at the amber of the malt. dark. dark, but not wholly unable to be seen through. topaz. like the color of - he glances up. ward’s eyes match. fitting.

        “your name was all over the news. i remember seeing it. from … from where i was holed up. with alice, i think. sandstorm was already wiped out. briggs out in the wind. i heard your brother talk,” sound clips of his voice, but he can’t make out what he’s saying. even if he could remember, he likely wouldn’t. senator christian ward wasn’t a ghost from his past. roman takes another drink, a longer one, licking his lips when he’s momentarily sated.

         “was,” he nods a few times, a small gesture. “you’ve done what i’m about to.” 

        less a question, more an observation.

            a compliment acknowledged with another lift of his glass; small indulgences, here and there. comfortable without touching on extravagant, gaudy, the things he hates seeing in others. roman deserves a little civility — a little reminder that not every room is barren and cold.

             he remembers. once more, ward is impressed. it’s why he withholds nothing, why he offers glimpses to bridge the gap between past and present, because every exchange they share seems to bring roman closer to being whole again. steady. a truer version of himself not sullied by someone else’s agenda. 

            the nod is matched, segued into a second, leisurely sip of his own drink. a smooth burn. 

            “you remember when i said i didn’t like hypocrisy? christian’s was ... masterful, really. gotta hand it to him. he knew what he was doing. all our lives, every word out of his mouth was exact. over, and over, until his lies became my truth. so, you’re right — my brother and i, we had a good, long talk.”

            what’s the plan, boss? chaos?

            closure.

         the last time he was in the air, he was chained at the ankles and the wrists, kept away from anyone and anything that could be made into a weapon. into an escape route. he was looked at like an animal, like a threat, like he was less than human. transported from one facility to  the next for observation. for safekeeping. it won’t be long. i promise you’ll get out of here. so he could be put under a microscope and scrutinized, prodded at, told he needed to be better than what he’d been before. and he didn’t know why. he didn’t know why because they’d taken that from him and still treated him like - 

         he cuts himself from that train of thought, fastening his seatbelt.

         four other men. the pilot. ward. he counts them, takes note of their faces, watches the way they move as one and the focal point is always ward. the gravitational pull brings everyone into orbit and there’s something to be said about that. something to be said about how he’s here and that pull has him, too, but it’s different. at any point he could throw himself from the ring. roman settles back in his seat. 

        “do i look like i’d be one?” there’s a crack at humor there, even if it doesn’t reach full bloom. “… i’m not,” roman adds on when one of ward’s men spares him an extra glance. and he gets that, too. he was in their shoes once.

        take off is smooth. smooth enough that it doesn’t jostle fragments in his head and he’s able to keep from clutching at the seat to keep himself present. roman’s not relaxed, but he’s not coiled tight. not right now, not yet. 

       he’s quiet until they reach elevation. 

       “you know them,” there isn’t a need to clarify who he means. or who he’s talking to. “how long do we get before they follow our scent?” 

            “not long. days, at most, but we’ll be in the wind again by the time they catch any traction. coulson made it personal — he just needed the excuse. granted,” ward amends, “he’s been sending his best people to kill me ever since he —”

            a pause, a bitter twist to his exhale that lingers in the hairpin curve of his mouth.

            “my older brother was a senator. highly respected. after garrett died, back when SHIELD had me on lockdown, he publicly named me a traitor and advocated for my trial and execution. a lot of theatrics, manipulations ... he was always good at that. good at convincing people. i guess that’s why he went into politics. coulson made a deal with him, to have me transferred into his custody. SHIELD couldn’t just put me down themselves, so why not make it a spectacle, right? wash their hands of all accountability. it’s a solid play, one of their favorites. drink, by the way?” 

            he flags one of the men over. donovan. younger than the others on board but keen - eyed, adaptable. boyish features offset by a prominent jaw and a neck tattoo half - hidden beneath his collar. 

            “sir?”

            “let’s open the ... auchentoshan, today. two glasses.”

            i’ll give you a choice — colombian necktie, or bullet in the head.

            bullet in the head. on the rocks.

            twelve - year - old single malt, promptly served. ward takes both drinks and passes one to roman. 

     “Not so sure that’s a bad thing.”

     “––  you’re not supposed to be here.”     /  @killshield​

        they pull to a stop and his impulse is to open the door and search the perimeter himself. it’s unusual being the one in the back, behind the tinted windows, waiting for word that everything is clear. another fragment of memory is unlocked, but this one doesn’t cause him to react. it’s mundane and routine and he knows it like rote. roman’s the watchdog, the kill on command set of teeth. he’s still mulling over ward’s advice when his voice pulls him from an intrusive freight train of just what he wanted to do to randall when he got his hands on him. 

        roman blinks.

        “… yeah,” he replies, an unfamiliar sensation knocking loose in his chest. it’s uncomfortable, but not unpleasant. there’s a name for it, he’s sure, but he doesn’t dig too hard. a distraction. a landmine, half buried. it’s because of grant ward roman’s breathing fresh air and not kept in a cell under the guise of rerouting his life. it’s because of him, he’s on his way to destroying one of the people that set everything in motion for a boy with no chance. and ward offers him the shot calling. he’d ask why, but they’ve been down that road before. 

       he nods, sealing the singular word.

      “things up here still don’t make sense,” he taps two fingers against his temple. “but i’m sure about this, ward.” conviction sets the blue in his eyes to deepen in shade, in his peripheral, kebo’s shadow moves alongside the car. roman anticipates the door opening again. not that it would have true impact on their conversation. 

     “i don’t need to run the show, i just want people dead. if you have a call you need to make during any of this, make it. i’m here for the free vacation.” 

            "enough said, then.” he knew without the admission, but roman giving it so candidly speaks to a shared channel of communication they’ve already tapped into together. “either way, i’ll be along for the ride.” 

            between the lines, again. more unspoken than verbally expressed. it means he’ll be there, should anything change. a trigger. a lapse. the tempting lure of that ever - present ledge. he’ll be there to make sure that if roman strays too far out to sea, he can still find his way back to the shore. 

            they exit the vehicle upon kebo’s return, and ward prompts him with a look.

            “we’re good,” he says.

            “radar?” ward asks. “infrared, satellite feeds — ?”

            “all clear. plane’s fueled up, pilot’s ready when you are.” 

            “fantastic.” 

            as it turns out, they both travel light. roman with his single backpack, ward with a heavy canvas duffel bag that kebo retrieves from the trunk. the gun he’d laid out when they set off is replaced in his waistband. more utility, habit, than outright security; as standard for him as anyone else pocketing their wallet or their keys. kebo hands off the bag and doesn’t board the fuselage — as discussed, he’ll stay behind and hold down the fort until ward gets back. that’s not to say he isn’t bringing an entourage: excluding the pilot, an armed guard of four other men, highly trained and thoroughly vetted, take their seats in silence once roman and ward take theirs. 

            flying always calls him back to his days on the bus. with the team that was never his team. bad food, practical jokes. fitz and simmons jettisoned into the middle of the ocean. SHIELD 616, what’s your position?

            mechanical whirring, the circulatory hiss of canned air, a voice coming through from the cockpit to address ward and announce an imminent takeoff.