Disclaimer: Not mine. I borrowed them and I broke them. Can't promise to return them fixed.

Summary: Something happened to Grant Ward fifteen years ago. Something that left him damaged. Music helped him survive and it still does but is surviving enough? Grant wants to live, but he isn't sure he remembers how. He doesn't know if he has what it takes to truly be alive. A chamber music AU, Ward centric.

A/N: I wrote this story, because I really, very much want the team to give Grant Ward the support he needs. Making it happen in an AU setting seemed like the best way to go at the moment.

This is a BigBang story and it's accompanied by art made by MarieInColour (of course, this being ff net, I can't link to said art; it is linked with the story posted on Archive Of Our Own, should you be interested). I was very happy to work with her (go see her other drawings, seriously!) and was really stunned when I saw what she made for this story. I think her picture captures the mood, the emotions and the atmosphere of the story extremely well.

It was a difficult story to write - both emotionally and in terms of technical side of writing and I wouldn't have done it without "a little help" from some wonderful people. :) I want to thank the SkyeWard gang: CaptainSummerDay (for help with the plot), Vesperass-Anuna (for help with the music), Afgani, Nathyfaith, Few-Times, Ldjkitten and Serenitysea (for handholding). There are no romantic pairings in this story - it is a friendship-fic (with emphasis on mayward, maybe pre-relationship biospecialist and philinda, and some skyeward, tripward and fitzward potential).

I hope you all enjoy the story. It may have been difficult to write but it was incredibly satisfying at the same time. Please, let me know if you liked.

The Girl from the Bus
Chapter One

Instead of quotes, chapters in this story are accompanied by music. The piece for this chapter is Franz Schubert – String Trio, Movement in B flat major D.471 (let's try it like this: youtube com (slash) watch?v=thBEfAU4JdQ ). If you want, you may try opening it. :)

Grant Ward was pleased with his life. It was ordinary and quiet, every day looked like the other: he would get up in the morning, eat breakfast, take his violin and go to the Community Center for a group rehearsal, then he would eat dinner, play some more and return home. On Tuesday, Wednesday and Friday afternoons the entire Community Orchestra would gather for two-hour sessions and on Saturdays they usually played concerts. In the evening at home he would read, listen to the music, sometimes watch tv or browse internet. Then, finally, he would fall asleep and slumber, usually undisturbed, for about three hours. He would wake up at four, invariably. Sometimes he'd come around quietly, other times in cold sweat or, very rarely, screaming. The sound of his own voice would always surprise him. He would get up then, drink a glass of water and, depending on the level of anxiety, he would return to sleep or he would sit in an armchair and stare out the window, waiting for the morning to come. Then he would eat breakfast, take his violin and go to the Community Center for a rehearsal.

It was a good life. Grant didn't need to change anything.

When one Monday morning he found that letter in his mailbox, opened it and read it – he wanted to simply throw it away.

Dear Mr Ward, the letter said in small, equal letters, with tall upper elongates and long lower ones.

You were recommended by a friend of mine to consider you for my project. At this time I may only disclose that this project involves playing a piece of classical chamber composition. Should you be interested, please contact me at the telephone number given below, by September 16th. If you meet my expectations, I will explain the exact nature of this project. Please, forgive this secrecy, but it is meant as a surprise gift to my dear friend.

It was signed, sincerely, Melinda May.

Grant stared at the letter for a few heart beats then changed his mind, folded it, put it back into the envelope and then into the pocket, next to his writing pad. He couldn't simply throw into the garbage something that was handwritten, in such an elegant manner, specifically for him. He could appreciate the quality of someone's handwriting.

In the store downstairs he bought a bagel and apple juice and the salesgirl knew not to ask him how he was today. She simply smiled when he paid and he nodded and smiled back.

The Community Center was two bus stops away from where he lived but Grant didn't like public transportation. If he had time, and he usually did, and if it wasn't raining or snowing, he walked the distance. He would get to his workplace in time, not too early and never late. He'd leave his bagel and juice in his locker, he'd take the sheets and he would proceed to one of the small practice chambers behind the stage. In the mornings only about fifteen people practiced. The Hubbard Community Orchestra never employed a complete ensemble but in the recent years the number of full-time instrumentalists dropped even lower. Most members of the orchestra worked elsewhere – they were teachers, administrators, two businessmen, freelancers – and only considered their membership in the Orchestra a prestigious hobby. Out of the violin section only Grant, first fiddle Maria Hill and two others were usually present for those morning sessions.

Maria often said that Grant should play first violin, but she knew as well as he did, that this position required more than hitting perfect notes. First violin was supposed to lead the whole orchestra and she was much, much better suited to do that than he was – and not only because she knew what made people tick.

Morning sessions were the only time they might practice something new and decide if there was any point presenting it to their conductor. Maestro Nicholas Fury was demanding and he had an ear even Boston Philharmonic musicians might envy but he was extremely short tempered. He would scream, bite their heads off if he could, for one little slip. The glare of his one good eye – he had never said how he lost the other one – scared the shit out of most members of the Orchestra. Despite the seemingly ambitious attitude Fury appeared jaded and it took significant effort to convince him to expand their stocks of symphonies and concertos. As a result the repertoire of Hubbard Community Orchestra was rather scanty and first-nights happened not more than three or four times a year. The only person, who could ever placate Fury enough to talk about working with a new piece, was Maria Hill.

For the past couple of weeks the four violinists had dabbled with some well known Haydn and Beethoven concertos as well as contemporary film and tv scores of Bear McCreary and Kerry Muzzey. Grant expected Maria to make up her mind soon, so the sight of her during lunch break, even if somewhat annoying, didn't surprise him. She probably wanted to get final input from him before attacking Fury.

Frankly, Grant wasn't in the mood to talk. The last couple of nights had been on the restless side of his personal scale from bad to worst and he had a headache. He deliberately chose this spot in the patio, a corner obscured by a large yucca, to have his bagel and apple juice in solitude. Of course he would discuss their repertoire if there was no other choice, but he wasn't happy about it. He rubbed his forehead and sighed, listening to Maria's footsteps on the gravel path.

"What's up?" his colleague greeted him in a cheerful voice and, in spite of himself, Grant looked up with a furrowed brow. She hadn't asked him any such question for years, since they'd first met actually; she knew not to. Now she stood before him, shifting back and forth awkwardly.

Grant shrugged in response.

"What are you having?" Maria asked then, as if he wasn't having the same thing. Every. Freaking. Day.

Now, chit-chat was not something Grant would have expected on a day like this. Maria was usually good at reading people and most times she would correctly guess if he needed company, or if he'd rather not be bothered, because his anxieties flared. If this conversation was not about music, then Maria must have mistaken his avoidance of contact for feeling abandoned. She was wrong but that didn't warrant Grant taking out his writing paraphernalia and explaining this to her. Maybe she would get the hint from another shrug.

She didn't. Maria sat next to him, pulled out her own sandwich and added the weirdest question of them all. "Anything interesting happened lately?"

Grant let his hands fall to his sides in exasperation. Did she actually expect an answer?

"I heard some rumors. Thought, maybe you heard them too."

Grant sighed and bit a piece of his bagel.

"A name Melinda May, means something to you?"

He had totally forgotten about the letter he found in his mail this morning. Despite his resolve to not let Maria Hill get to him, Grant turned to her, eyebrows drawn together in a nonmanual marker for "what?"

She understood his facial language well enough after all those years.

"So you've heard about Melinda?" Her face lit up. "Did you get the letter? What do you think?"

Yes, he got the letter. Bewildered, Grant reached into his pocket and pulled out the envelope. Handed it to Maria. She opened it and skimmed it with her eyes, but he didn't think she really read it.

"And?" She patted the paper with her index finger. "What are you gonna do?"

Grant wiped his face and sighed.

"Oh, c'mon. Aren't you gonna answer?" He shook his head. "Aren't you curious?"

Grant turned to her, pointing a finger, eyebrows high. Maria understood most of basic signs too.

"What? Me?" She sounded surprised. "I have enough on my plate making sure this trainwreck of an Orchestra doesn't derail. Besides I didn't get an invitation. It's really a selected group of people that Melinda requested."

Grant finally succumbed. He put his bagel and juice on the bench next to him and pulled out his digital writing pad and pen.

You know this, how? He scribbled balancing the pad on his knee.

"I know things." Maria shrugged. "I want to know what you're gonna do. This is worth trying. I know you may not be overly trusting in a letter from some stranger. But. Haven't you really heard about Melinda May? She's more known from contemporary recitals but still, do you live under a rock? A guess you do. Anyway. If you don't trust this letter, then trust me. You want to try it."

Grant gave it a minute shake of his head and inhaled deep.

Why do you care? He wrote.

"Because you're wasting your talent here, Ward. You can do so much more than play second chair in a Community Orchestra in Hubbard, Massachusetts. Give yourself a chance. What's the worst that can happen? She will not want you, is what. If it pans out, on the other hand, well, it might turn your monotonous life around. Be a change for the better."

I don't like change, he would have interrupted, if he said those words aloud. Maria stopped speaking and took a moment to read anyway. She was considerate like this. Grant didn't even look at her.

Except when he heard her sigh. Then he met her gaze and shivered at how conflicted she was. She stood up, barely nibbled sandwich in hand, walked a few paces away and returned to stand in front of him. Opened her mouth, closed them, sat down and put her hand on his leg. Something was wrong. This was not a friendly chit-chat after all and Grant felt his stomach twist.

"There's gonna be change whether you want it or not," Maria said emphatically. "Fury told me we didn't get funds for the next season, so a month from now – all full-time instrumentalists are to be let go. Of course we may all still play, part time, like the rest of the Orchestra, but we will all need to find real jobs. I already have something lined up, at Stark & Potts Junior High and I know that both Victoria and Jasper are in the talks. It was you I was most worried about," she waved her hand over the letter. "That's why I thought of this."

She'd actually arranged it, Grant should have known. He was about to crush the paper, throw it at her, stand up and stalk away but she kept holding her hand on his thigh and he couldn't move.

"You should take it," she kept talking. "You have to, Ward. Look, I don't know what happened to you that made you..." she paused, checked herself. "It must have been bad. Very bad." If she only knew. "But the gist of it is – you survived. You are alive. But. You are not living. This, what you do, this is not life, this is... barely existing. And if you don't take this chance, Grant..." she's never called him by his first name before. This made the whole situation more terrifying than anything she said so far. "With what's happening with the Orchestra... you might as well be dead."

Grant glared at her for a long moment. He had no idea how much she knew about his situation, but she was scarily right. He qualified for a pension due to his mental issues. If he lost this job, one he got through a favor someone owed his parents, he didn't believe he'd be able to find another one on his own. He most likely wouldn't. He could then apply for government money but that would mean finally, after all those years – giving up.

He wanted to punch Maria Hill for pointing it all out so blatantly. He wanted to throw this letter in her face and say he didn't want, didn't need her mercy, but the truth was – he did. Because that other fate was way worse.

It would be fate worse than death. And he really didn't want to die.

If the music didn't stop playing, just let it play. Close your eyes and relax. :)

t.b.c.