A/N: Well, dear readers, here we are: chapter 21-and it didn't even take five months this time! Go me!

I can't promise when the next chapter will be along; the next couple weeks are crunch time for me at school, and-as you might've noticed-I've got approximately twenty other in-progress multi-chapters that could use my attention. But we're almost to the end, now, so I'm not giving up!

Thanks for reading and, as always, please be gentle if you review!

Grant spends the three days following the events in LA going quietly crazy.

The data from the hard drive has significantly moved up Centipede's time table; the scientists think they're close to a breakthrough on the GH-325, which means it's time to start looking for buyers for the Centipede serum. HYDRA will be getting first crack at it, of course, but Garrett's an equal-opportunity bastard, and he wants to get as much for the serum as he can.

The problem is that Garrett's method of advertising the Centipede serum's potential is having Deathlok cause as much of a public spectacle as possible. For the past three days, Deathlok has been solely responsible for carrying out Garrett's dirty work—meaning Grant's been left with basically nothing to do.

The inactivity is driving him insane.

He dedicates a full four hours on the first day to making sure every single one of the agents on loan from HYDRA understand exactly how severe the consequences for harming Jemma will be, but other than that, he's got nothing to distract himself with.

With no distractions, it's impossible to keep his mind off of Jemma—something that isn't helped at all by the fact that Garrett's made the Bus their new primary base. There's not an inch of this plane that doesn't have some memory of Jemma associated with it; there's nowhere to hide.

He tries, on the second day. He heads down to the storage area, thinking that surely there must be at least one room or pod or closet in the cargo hold he won't associate with Jemma.

He's wrong.

In one of the storage pods near avionics, he finds one of Jemma's sweaters abandoned on a table, and a memory hits him so hard he'd almost call it a flashback.

Less than two weeks ago, he volunteered to help her do inventory. He wanted some time alone with her, away from the stress the recovering Skye was inflicting on everyone, and figured a few hours in the cargo hold were the best he was gonna get.

He lasted all of twenty minutes before the way she kept chewing on her pen as she tried to calculate the exact number of polypropylene tubes she'd need for the centrifuge got to him. He backed her into a corner over her giggling protests, and inventory was forgotten for at least half an hour in favor of making out like a couple of teenagers.

Standing in the storage pod, holding her sweater, he can almost hear her breathless If all you're going to do is distract me, you need to leave—can almost feel her hands on his shoulders as she shoved him away and the quick, smiling kiss she pressed to his jaw when he offered to do a lot more than distract her.

That's not a very professional offer, Agent Ward, she told him, and he can still see the wide smile that ruined her stern tone.

He stares down at her sweater, rubbing the soft fabric between his fingers as he remembers peeling it off of her—remembers the way she hooked her fingers in his belt loops and tugged him back when he tried to step away long enough to unbutton the shirt she was wearing under it—and asks the empty storage pod the question he should have asked her then.

"Who gives a fuck about being professional?"

He wasted so much time with her, toeing the line of regulations and appearances. He should have told Coulson to go screw himself; if he would let Grant stay on a field team with his soulmate, he should've let him be with his soulmate. Hell, Grant should've pulled a few HYDRA strings and got an exemption to his exemption.

He shouldn't have left Providence.

Wait.

No.

He shouldn't have let her leave Providence. He should have—he should have what? What could he have done differently? What move could he have made, what words could he have said, to get her here?

There's no use dwelling on it. What's done is done. The past can't be changed.

He leaves her sweater in the pod. He doesn't go down to the storage area again.

x

By the next day, he's given up on distractions. Being here, alone and knowing he's lost her forever, is torture. Worse than torture, even. But there's nothing for it; there's no changing it and no distracting himself, so all he can do is live with it.

Garrett, of course, isn't helping.

He's over the moon with how close they are to being finished. He's been all but bouncing for the past three days, his general jovial approach dialed up to eleven. It's kind of pissing Grant off.

And it's more than kind of pissing Deathlok off. If Ace Peterson ever slips their hold, Garrett is really going to regret the last three days—for about as long as it takes Deathlok to brutally kill him, that is, and judging by the way Deathlok's blank stare has been getting steadily more murderous, that'll be about five seconds.

Seriously, Grant really hopes they don't end up regretting they gave that guy super strength.

Of course, that thought just brings him back around to how crazy he's going with nothing to do. Not that Garrett has any sympathy, for him or for Deathlok. Grant's (admittedly kind of petulant) opinion that he could've handled their most recent op—crossing off a drug dealer in Bogota—is greeted with disdain. And Deathlok's barely-leashed anger…well, that just amuses Garrett.

"If I didn't know better, I'd swear you're starting to enjoy your job," Garrett says, and looks to Grant. "You get the impression he's enjoying his job?"

Grant barely holds back a sigh. "Somebody does."

"Well, I'd like to think we all enjoy our work," Garrett says. "And why not? These are exciting times, full of rewards…which reminds me."

He pulls out his phone and makes a quick call to Cybertek, ordering Zeller to stream Deathlok some footage of his son. Grant, watching Deathlok's face after Garrett's flippant don't mention it, subtracts a second from the count.

If Ace Peterson weren't at risk, Garrett would be dead in four seconds.

As he falls into step behind Garrett, Grant makes a mental note to do a spot-check on the Incentives program's security the next time they're in New Mexico.

"How about that guy?" Garrett asks. "I've turned him into a new man."

"Is that what he is?"

Garrett lowers his voice. "Are you still sore about what he did to you?"

Grant's heart twinges. It keeps doing that; he's considered getting it checked out, but the thought of a doctor other than Jemma putting their hands on him just pisses him off, so he dismisses the idea every time.

"No," he says, voice carefully even, "I'm sore at you for making him do it."

It's the truth, and it's a new one.

Deathlok stopping his heart wasn't the first time Grant's ever been hurt on Garrett's orders. It wasn't even the worst—that honor belongs to the time he spent two days being tortured by HYDRA agents pretending to be extremists in order to gain the trust of a prospective asset. He's been hurt for the cause multiple times, and it's never bothered him before.

So he has no idea why he would nurse a grudge for it this time, but he can't deny the fact that that's exactly what he's doing.

"Look," Garrett says, "We're on the verge of completing something I've been chasing for twenty-five years." He stops to set his beer on a table and turns a sardonic grin on Grant. "Can't you just be happy for me?"

With that, he continues towards the stairs, leaving Grant to follow silently and ponder the unsettling realization that he's not happy for him. Not as happy as he should be, anyway.

With Jemma lost to him, Garrett's the only family he has. Seeing him succeed in the objective he's been after for so long should have Grant overjoyed—especially since part of that objective is saving his own life, meaning it'll be that much longer before Grant loses him, too.

He should be at least a little happy about this.

Self-reflection'll have to wait, though, because Garrett's destination is the lab, which means Grant needs to keep all of his focus on not thinking of Jemma. He hangs back while Raina gives her report—the scientists have made that breakthrough they've been working towards; there'll be initial results waiting for them in Cuba—and doesn't say anything in response to Garrett's pointed comment about wishing everyone on his team had Raina's success rate.

Grant doesn't point out that Raina failed to get answers from Coulson after kidnapping him, or that she spent four months in a secure facility from which he had to personally rescue her. He also doesn't bring up the fact that he's done everything Garrett's asked—everything—for the last fifteen years.

But he thinks it—and thinks about bringing it up. That's new, too, and kind of worrying.

It's probably just the lab. He and Jemma spent more time here than they did anywhere else on the Bus; he's hardly ever been in it without her. Of course he misses her the most strongly while he's here.

With that in mind, he should probably go somewhere else.

For some reason, though, he can't make his feet move. Raina and Garrett leave, but he stays where he is, leaning against a table and watching Garrett's scientists move around Jemma and Fitz's space. His heart gives another twinge, and he rubs at his chest. The burn from that thing Deathlok used to nearly kill him hasn't faded yet; the skin above his heart is red and irritated and overly sensitive, and while it's minor in comparison to all of his other wounds, it's the one that bothers him the most.

He's overly emotional. It's a weakness. Jemma is a weakness, the proverbial chink in his armor that's making him question Garrett after fifteen years of unwavering loyalty.

Fifteen years. Fifteen years, and this is what he gets?

Pain spikes in his cracked ribs as he pushes away from the table, and realization hits him like a physical blow—the reason why he can't let go of what Garrett ordered Deathlok to do to him.

He remembers sitting in this very lab a few days ago, Jemma patching him up while he wove a story about what happened at the Fridge. Fitz was hovering, getting in Jemma's way, while Skye asked nervous questions, and later, Grant barely had to wince before Coulson was ordering him to stay behind.

Fifteen years he's been loyal to Garrett, and a team he worked with for barely eight months showed him more concern in four hours than Garrett has in all that time.

It shouldn't bother him. The team was weak—full of attachments, easy to play—and the realization should just be confirmation that he's on the right side.

But remembering how unhappy Jemma was, the look on her face when Trip helped him out of his shirt and she saw his injuries, and comparing it to Garrett's complete lack of remorse—to the way he hasn't let go of Grant's one bad day but has expected Grant to let go of the call to have Deathlok almost kill him…

The berserker rage washes over him like a wave, and the next thing he knows, he's in Coulson's—Garrett's—office, shouting.

"You were gonna let me die!"

"Okay," Garrett says softly. He doesn't look surprised by the shouting, so however Grant got here—and that he can't remember is really not good; he hasn't lost time like this since the day he was exposed—apparently it was at least long enough ago that he led into the topic with something a little less blunt. "First off, I think we should use our indoor voices."

His calm, condescending tone only makes the rage spike, and Grant stalks a little closer.

"Since the day we met," he says, obligingly keeping his voice low, "I have done everything you asked."

Five years. Five years alone in the woods, stealing to survive—no one to depend on but himself. He could've left at any time, could've stolen a car or hitched a ride or spun a sob story for any of the people he kept stealing from, but he didn't. He stayed right where he was, miles from civilization, because Garrett told him to.

And that's the easiest of all the orders he's been given—has followed—over the years.

"Not sure we can say everything," Garrett muses, looking up at him, and the rage is so tight in Grant's throat he can barely breathe through it.

"I gave up my soulmate for you!" he snaps, careful not to let it become a shout. "Twice!"

Once when he let them take his timer and again, much more permanently, when he walked away from the team. Jemma's out there in the world somewhere, hating him and—possibly, probably, if he's either lucky or unlucky, depending on his mood at any given moment—fearing him, and that's because of Garrett.

Garrett, who isn't even grateful. "Now whose fault is that? I told you you could bring the girl along; don't go blaming me because you were too much of a soft touch to do what needed to be done!"

He's said those words before, after Grant let Buddy—the only company he had, the only friend he had, for five lonely years—go instead of killing him as ordered, and the reminder makes the berserker rage surge yet again. After three days when he couldn't summon it even when he wanted it (and he has wanted it, has wished desperately for something other than the useless despair that's been weighing him down), his sudden lack of control is probably something to worry about, but he can't think about consequences right now.

"I am not that scared kid anymore," he says.

"Then stop acting like it," Garrett growls, surging to his feet. He rounds the desk to approach Grant as he continues, "Stop being weak. All these years and you're still playing the victim. Sometimes I ask myself why I ever bothered—"

The (unfortunately familiar) tirade is cut off by a grunt, and then a choked gasp as Garrett collapses. Grant catches him, forgetting his anger at once as he realizes how unsteady Garrett's breathing is.

"John?" he asks. Garrett gasps for air. "John!"

Fuck.

He's seen this happen before; Garrett's Cybertek implants, the biomechanical system keeping him alive, are shutting down. If he doesn't get them rebooted in the next five minutes, Garrett'll be dead.

Panic swirls in his lungs, but it's a lot easier to shut down than the rage was. The kit's in the lab, and even if he has to physically carry Garrett, he can get them there in a lot less than five minutes.

And he does.

They get a few weird looks as Grant, with assistance from one of the disposable HYDRA agents, drags Garrett through the lounge and down the stairs, but all it takes is a single glare at the one staring, and whoever it is suddenly remembers they've got something to do on the other end of the plane. Garrett is limp at his side, breathing labored and pulse racing in the wrist Grant's got his hand around, and Grant's own heart is pounding hard by the time they reach the lab.

"Everybody out!" he orders. "Now!"

He and the HYDRA agent—Michaels, he thinks—get Garrett on the table as the scientists scramble to vacate the lab, and it takes him a second longer than it should to realize that Raina isn't moving.

"I said get the hell out," he snarls at her, and she stares at him with wide eyes. He jerks his chin at Michaels.

"You heard the man," Michaels says, and physically drags Raina out of the lab as Grant goes for the kit.

"All right," he says, mostly so he has something other than Garrett's horrible, raspy breathing to listen to as he opens the kit, "Hang in there. I'll get you stabilized."

Garrett lifts his shirt up, revealing the panel in his side, and Grant lets muscle memory take over as he goes through the motions of rebooting him. His hands are as steady as always, but he feels like he's shaking all over.

It's unfair of him to be so angry at Garrett. He owes Garrett everything, and all Garrett has ever asked is his help in surviving. Of course he's angry about Grant's failure in LA; if not for Deathlok, the hard drive never would have been decrypted, and Garrett's miracle cure would've been far out of reach.

The bars on the display begin to turn green, and Grant holds his breath.

"Biomechanics rebooting…" The kit chimes, and he sighs, relieved. "There. That should do it." Garrett is still and quiet, and Grant keeps talking, just to fill the uncomfortable silence. "You scared me. Hasn't happened like that in a while."

"Yes, it has," Garrett disagrees, and Grant pulls his eyes away from the reassuring, green-lit display to stare at him. Garrett's own eyes are fixed on the middle distance, and a horrible, sick feeling claws at Grant's throat as he realizes how old Garrett looks. "Been happening more and more." His breathing still sounds labored. "Biomechanics are fine. It's my organs that're failing."

Something cold unfurls in Grant's gut. "What are you saying, John?"

He doesn't use Garrett's first name often. It was too much of a risk in SHIELD, where they were supposed to be nothing more than SO and trainee, and not a habit he could afford to fall into when they were away from SHIELD.

But sometimes—like now—he just can't help it.

"I'm dying," Garrett says, turning to look at him, and the weight of his gaze keeps Grant from pointing out that they've known that for years. "Cybertek team gives me a month, two tops."

Grant's head spins. He doesn't know what to say to that—what to do. It's a good thing he was already leaning against the table; his knees are weak, and if not for the table's support, he thinks he might be on the ground.

Two months, tops. He's always known that Garrett was dying, living on borrowed time, but this?

"John," he starts, but whatever he might have said—and really, he has no idea what was about to come out of his mouth—is interrupted by the sudden ring of Garrett's cell phone.

"Hold that thought," Garrett says with a poor attempt at a careless grin, and answers the phone. "Yeah?"

His face goes dark. "Really…When?…Describe them…And they took it all?" Grant waits, watching Garrett's knuckles whiten around the phone. "I'm disappointed, Diaz, I really am. We'll be talking about this later."

"Sir?" Grant asks.

"There was a security breach," Garrett says. He ends the call and returns the phone to his pocket in a slow, deliberate manner that suggests he's struggling with the urge to throw it across the room. "In Palo Alto."

As Palo Alto, in this context, refers to Cybertek's corporate headquarters, that's…not good.

"What'd they get?" he asks. There's a lot of intel, not to mention assets, stored away in Palo Alto. There's no end to the possibilities.

"The Deathlok files."

"The Deathlok files?" he echoes, surprised. All of the intel in Palo Alto is paper-copy only, to keep it safe from hacking, and there's a lot of paper to the Deathlok files. "How?"

"Couple of scientists showed up for an interview and staged a little raid," Garrett says, easing himself off the table. "Shoved the whole cabinet out the window and loaded it onto a van, then drove off before Cybertek security could stop 'em."

"Okay," Grant says, absorbing that. "Points for originality, I guess."

"Yeah." Garrett smiles humorlessly. "Funny thing, those scientists? A couple of former SHIELD agents calling themselves Fitz and Simmons."

The sudden shock of Jemma's name, heard now, when he's actually managed not to think of her for at least fifteen minutes, actually makes him numb. Which is probably just as well, since Garrett's clearly watching him for a reaction.

There isn't, strictly speaking, a real need to hide his reaction. After all, it's not like Garrett doesn't know that Grant's torn up about leaving Jemma behind—if he didn't know the moment Grant walked back into the barbershop three days ago, that shouting match in Coulson's office earlier would've tipped him off.

But for whatever reason, Grant still finds himself grateful for the layer of calm his numbness lets him hide behind.

"Must've been a cover," he says evenly. "Jemma and Fitz don't have the skills that kind of infiltration would require."

"No," Garrett agrees. "The description sounded like Coulson and May to me. Which still leaves the question of how the hell your old team found out about Palo Alto."

A spark of indignation breaks through his calm, and Grant pushes away from the table, straightening to his full height as Garrett steps right up into his space.

"Now, you didn't get sloppy, son, did you?" he asks, voice deceptively light.

"I'm not the one who used Cybertek to bait a trap," Grant reminds him. "Cybertek led us to Quinn in Italy, Quinn had Deathlok, and now Deathlok's working for you. It was only a matter of time before Coulson pulled on that thread."

"Was it?"

"Yeah," he says. "It was." It's an effort to maintain eye contact when Garrett's wearing that look, but Grant manages it. "If you want someone to blame, John, blame yourself."

For a second, Garrett doesn't say anything, just keeps aiming that look at Grant, and something coils in his throat. He's been withstanding Garrett's barbs for the past few days because they were, for the most part, true—he did screw up in LA and with Skye. But he won't be blamed for this, not when it's so clearly Garrett's own error. Grant's not playing whipping boy, not today.

After a tense pause, however, Garrett grins.

"Well, you've got me there," he says, chuckling. "This one's my bad."

Grant relaxes, but only a little. Just because he's not being blamed for this doesn't mean it's not bad news; there are a lot of secrets to be found in the Deathlok files, and just the thought of what Coulson could do with them makes him wince.

"They got all the Deathlok files?" he checks, leaning back against the table.

"Whole damn cabinet," Garrett confirms.

Sooner or later, those files will lead the team to Cuba, and Grant says so. Garrett doesn't look happy about it, but he obviously agrees.

"We'll have to pack it up and move out," he says. "Coulson's no match for my soldiers, but we can't risk the lab being compromised, not when we're so close."

"You want me to arrange a move to Site B?" Grant asks. It'll be in the files, too, of course, but so will all their other sites—and they've got plenty. Coulson doesn't have the necessary manpower to search all of them; unless he gets very, very lucky, he won't hit on which base they move to anytime soon.

Garrett shakes his head. "Better be C, just to be safe. And make it snappy; I wanna be out of Cuba by this time tomorrow."

"Yes, sir," Grant says, and pulls out his phone. "I'll get right on it."

Site C is New Mexico, and as a fallback, it makes sense. They've already got a lot of their assets concentrated there—it's where most of the hostages for Centipede's Incentives program are kept—and, as it's on US soil, it'll make a good meeting place for the pitch they intend to make to the American government.

But it's gonna be a stretch to get them there by tomorrow. Packing up the lab won't be an issue—it's designed to be something they can clear out of in a hurry—but getting all of their transport into the States undetected'll be tricky. The jump jets and Quinjets have cloaks; the Bus, on the other hand, is gonna have to take a very, very careful flight path.

There's no time to waste.

x

There are some minor hiccups along the way—it turns out Quinn's their new spokesperson, SHIELD's fall affording him an excellent way to regain his lost reputation, and, same side or not, Grant still hates that guy, and Raina has some information on, of all things, Skye's parents—but they get the lab packed in relatively short order.

There's a lot of work to be done while they're packing up the lab and arranging transportation for all of their people and supplies to the airfield where the Bus is parked, so Grant doesn't have much time to dwell on anything once they arrive in Havana. He's got Garrett's subordinates to oversee, Garrett to report to, arrangements to be made—both in Cuba and in New Mexico—and some packing of his own to do.

Once all that's done, though? Once they return to the airfield, and all that's left to do is load the Bus?

Then, he dwells. He dwells a lot.

Even he can't keep track of his thoughts. He jumps from Garrett's condition to Jemma to Raina's news about Skye to Jemma to how much he hates Quinn to Jemma to Garrett's condition to Jemma to—

He's going in circles, is the point. Garrett's condition shouldn't be a big deal—they've got the GH-325 sample, as promised, and all Garrett should have to do is inject it and his problems should be solved—but it is, for a number of reasons. Not least of which is that they only have one sample, and HYDRA won't be too impressed if Garrett uses it to save his own life instead of advancing the Centipede program.

(Not that Grant cares too much about making an enemy of HYDRA, but they've already got SHIELD after them. Sooner or later, the number of enemies they've made is gonna catch up to them.)

As always, though, Jemma is the main focus of his attention.

The team knows about Cybertek—about Deathlok—and that line's gonna lead them straight here. There's no telling how long that'll take, but knowing his team the way he does, Grant's pretty sure it's gonna be sooner rather than later.

Jemma could be on her way to Cuba right now—could even be in Havana already—and, just like in LA, knowing that she's close is enough to increase his longing for her tenfold.

Of course, there's every chance that she's not coming to Havana, that Coulson will have the good sense to leave her behind, somewhere she'll be safe. It was the whole point of his little play with Hill, to scare Coulson (and Jemma) into keeping her out of the field. But the chance that she's not, that she might be here—or that she might be somewhere else, alone and undefended, somewhere he could find her, somewhere he could talk to her and try to explain—

Ten minutes after their arrival at Abel Santamaria, he's already driving himself to distraction. And considering how that ended in LA, he decides he'd better find something to do—something that'll keep his attention and keep him out of the position to make stupid mistakes.

"I'm gonna do a few rounds of patrol," he tells Garrett, "Make sure our perimeter's secure."

"Good thinking," Garrett says, clapping him on the shoulder. "Gotta stay sharp, with Coulson so close on our tails."

"Yes, sir," Grant agrees.

Garrett stops him before he leaves. "Oh, Grant?"

"Sir?"

"If you find anyone but your old team, kill them," he orders.

"And if I find my old team?" Grant asks, unease creeping along his spine.

"Bring 'em to me."

He's not entirely sure what to make of the order, or the weird smile that accompanies it, but either way there's only one acceptable response.

"Yes, sir," he says.

"And take a few of the grunts with you," Garrett adds. "I know you can handle any trouble on your own, but you've taken a few too many beatings lately. A couple more fights and you'll need the GH formula more than I do!"

"Understood," Grant says, as Garrett chuckles to himself. Grant's not laughing, though; it'd only hurt his ribs, which feel like they haven't stopped throbbing in weeks.

(If Jemma were here, she wouldn't be laughing either. Actually, she'd probably be fussing at him about his decision to check the perimeter; he hasn't gotten much of that rest she prescribed at Providence, and he's sure, at this point, he's earned at least three lectures. They might actually be at the point where she would bring Coulson into it to order him to rest.

If Coulson and Jemma didn't both hate him now, that is.)

Orders are orders, so Grant rounds up a few of the HYDRA grunts and, in two SUVs, they set off to check the perimeter.

Half of the airfield they're in is surrounded by hills, some of them ridiculously steep, and those they have to check on foot. There have been fly-bys in one of the Quinjets, of course, but this kind of landscape provides a lot of hiding places, and they can't afford to miss any spies in the bushes, not when they're so close to success.

So, after a quick sweep of the other half of the airfield—a half-built shack that was probably going to be a supply shed at some point, a tiny office, and a whole lot of empty space—Grant leads the HYDRA agents on a nice little nature hike.

It's grueling and exhausting and by the end of it, Grant's ribs are so sore that he kind of wants to shoot one of the grunts, just so someone else'll be in more pain than he is. But as a distraction, it works. By the time they've checked every inch of the hills, he's feeling nicely settled for the first time in days. A little physical exertion was exactly what he needed.

"Back to the plane, then, sir?" one of the grunts asks. Specifically, one of the ones who got to drive the SUVs to meet them at the other end of the hills; all of the agents who accompanied him on the hike are still trying to catch their breath.

It's a little sad, actually.

"Not yet," Grant says, checking his watch. The hike took a while; it's possible someone might've snuck into position on the other half of the perimeter while they were occupied. "Let's do another sweep of the other side first."

"Yes, sir," the man says, and Grant and the others pile back into the SUVs.

Better to play on the safer side, of course, but mostly, the precaution is just an excuse to put off returning to the Bus. He's not expecting to find anything, not really.

Which is why it's such a shock that he does.

As to what he finds—or, more importantly, who—well. That's a lot more than a shock.

He's still a good fifteen feet away from the shack on the far end of the airfield when he hears the voices within, and he signals the grunt accompanying him to circle around to the other side and wait for his signal. He holds in place as the other man nods and adjusts his course, giving him a few minutes to get into position, and then—after quietly radioing the rest of the patrol team—draws closer.

He stops three feet from the door, but that's not strategy.

No, he's frozen, stuck in place as his feet absolutely refuse to move, because he recognizes that voice.

"I can't handle square one again."

That's Jemma.

Fuck. Fuck.

Grant is fluent in seven languages, but he can swear in fifteen, and he does so—very, very quietly—as he tries to get a handle on himself. A war erupts in his chest, the berserker rage that she's here, in danger, with (from the sound of it) no one but Fitz to protect her, battling giddiness and desire and the sheer relief that she's here, right here, mere feet away from him, where he can see her, where he can touch her, the way he's been itching to for days, where he can explain—

Jemma's voice pulls him back to himself.

"Hurry," she's saying. "I don't want to linger here any longer than we must."

There's something in her tone he doesn't like, a touch of fear or dread that doesn't belong there at all.

"I'll be quick," Fitz says, and then lowers his voice to add, "He's not going to touch you, Jemma. I promise. I'll kill him if he tries."

Any other time, the idea of Fitz killing anyone would be hysterical, but Grant's not laughing. Not when he's pretty sure they're talking about him. Not when he's almost positive that it's him—or, more accurately, the idea of seeing him—that's put that tone in Jemma's voice.

"Thank you, Fitz," she says, fondness lessening, though not erasing, that horrible undertone. "But I'd just as soon not put that to the test, so…"

There's definitely fear in her voice. So his threat worked on Jemma just fine, leaving Coulson (presumably, considering Jemma and Fitz's unprotected presence) unaffected.

And isn't that just perfect.

"Right," Fitz says. "I'll go get Sneezy from the car."

Grant's not ready to face him—to face Jemma—but it appears he's out of time. He gives the signal—a low whistle, perfectly pitched to blend in with the bird calls that are ubiquitous on this part of the island—and steps into the shack's doorway.

Fitz freezes three steps from the door, and if it were anyone else, Grant would've gotten a kick out of watching the blood drain from his face. As it is, his throat is tight; Fitz is his friend, and seeing his obvious terror hits Grant in the gut the same way Skye's tears did.

Jemma hasn't noticed him yet—she's focused on the grunt, who's got his gun raised (though not pointed at her; looks like all those threats paid off)—but if she looks at him this way, he won't survive it. He can't.

There's no choice. He has his orders.

He tries to push aside the weakness, but his voice is still rough when he says, "Long time, no see."

Jemma drops her phone.

Grant jerks his chin at the grunt who, in turn, motions Jemma to turn around. She does so, slowly, and suddenly, he can't breathe.

The look on her face is just as bad as he feared. She's terrified. She only meets his eyes for a split second before her gaze skitters away, but that split second is all it takes to tear him open. It literally, physically hurts his heart, even worse than Deathlok's attack did.

That's his soulmate, cringing away from him, cowering behind her best friend like she's got something to fear, like she thinks Grant is going to hurt her.

And that knowing it's his own fault—that it's down to the threat he made with the sole intention of it getting back to her—doesn't do a damn thing to ease the stabbing pain in his chest.

This isn't what he wanted.

He'd like to say something to reassure her, but he just can't think past the look on her face.

"Outside," he says, falling back on his orders. Garrett said to bring any of his old team onto the Bus, so that's what he's gonna do.

"We're not going anywhere with you," Fitz says, voice shaking.

The grunt in the window cocks his gun.

"You don't have a choice," Grant says roughly. "You're outnumbered and outgunned, Fitz. Don't make this harder than it has to be."

Something in him goes cold as Jemma takes Fitz's hand, drawing his eyes away from Grant. There are a thousand words hiding in the single glance they share, and the reminder of how close they are, how strong their bond to one another is, when Grant's own with both of them has been broken, only tightens the knots in his stomach.

"Don't make me make it a threat," he warns, and Jemma nods slightly.

"It's all right," she says, quietly, the words meant only for Fitz.

"No, it's not," Fitz mutters, but as he's already moving to leave the shack, Grant lets it pass unremarked.

He stands back to let them by, and Fitz is blatant about keeping himself between Grant and Jemma. It's not unwise; having her pass so close after so long has him literally fighting himself to stay still, to not just reach out and draw her into his arms.

She wouldn't welcome it, he reminds himself. She's terrified and pale and still isn't making eye contact; touching her right now would only make things worse. He can't soothe away her fear when he's the one causing it.

His heart more than twinges at the thought.

Once they're out of the shack, he falls into step behind them—close enough that he can stop any attempt at escape before it even begins—but it turns out to be unnecessary. The two SUVs he took on patrol are parked less than fifteen feet from the shack, the rest of the patrol team arrayed outside them.

His orders are to take any member of his team that shows up to Garrett, but it occurs to him, looking at the SUVs, that there's nothing to prevent a little conversation first.

Strategically speaking, it's better to separate Jemma and Fitz. Together, they're a force to be reckoned with, and he wouldn't put it past them to finagle some kind of dramatic escape. But apart? Neither one of them will flee without the other; he could take Jemma to the Bus and leave Fitz here, unrestrained and unguarded, and all he'd do would be chase after the SUV.

It's tactically sound. But it's not strategy that has him motioning two of the grunts toward Fitz.

"Take Fitz to the Bus," he orders. "Jemma and I are gonna have a quick conversation before we join you."

"No!" Jemma cries.

Fitz doesn't bother with protests; he tries to fight the man who pulls him away from Jemma, but he's easily overpowered. Then he picks up the complaining.

"Let me go," he says, struggling against the grunts holding him. "I'm not letting you—"

"Just a conversation, Fitz," Grant says. It's a miracle his voice is as even as it is; old habit has him wanting to protect Fitz, to cross off the men restraining him and get him and Jemma the hell out of here before anyone else comes along. "I'm not gonna hurt my own soulmate."

The reassurance doesn't seem to help; Fitz continues to struggle, only stilling when one of the grunts gets fed up and draws a knife to hold at his throat. That, however, only agitates Jemma.

"Let him go!" she demands, tensing like she's about to throw herself at the men and physically pry them off of Fitz.

Even with Grant's threats to hold the HYDRA agents in line, there's no way that ends well for Jemma. He reaches for her, intending to hold her back for as long as it takes them to get Fitz in the SUV, but she spots the motion before he makes contact and scampers out of reach.

The fear on her face hasn't stopped hurting him yet, and seeing her actually retreat from him, even if only a few inches, rips the hole in his chest open even further.

Fitz has renewed his struggling, and Grant turns the rage swelling in his chest on the grunts.

"Get him out of here," he snaps. "Take him to the Bus. Now."

It takes longer than it should—Fitz is fighting like crazy, and only Grant reaching for her again keeps Jemma from throwing herself into the fray—but eventually the grunts get Fitz into the back of one of the SUVs. He sends it ahead with a nod, and almost all of the patrol team goes with it, leaving only Grant, Jemma, and the second driver.

"Give us some privacy," Grant orders. The man gets into the second SUV at once, and Grant turns his attention to Jemma.

She still hasn't looked at him.

"Jemma," he says, stepping in front of her.

She swallows audibly, eyes fixed firmly on the ground, and his stomach knots even further.

"Jemma, please."

His palms might actually be sweating. He doesn't know how to do this. He needs to explain, to get her to understand.

He's been telling himself for more than a week now that it's over between them, that his allegiance always meant losing her and there's no getting her back. He's gone in circles about it, again and again, acceptance and denial and anger in an endless cycle. It's interfered with his work, left him so distracted and inefficient that he nearly screwed things up beyond repair in LA.

He thought he'd finally accepted it, after that mess. He thought he'd finally, truly absorbed that she's a weakness he can't afford, a blessing he's already lost.

But now, standing in front of her, looking at her beautiful face—even pale, even frightened—he knows for a fact that he'll never accept it. He'll never be able to let her go.

They're soulmates; he's not supposed to let her go. They're made for one another—destined—and that's why he's been going in circles: because his mind couldn't overwrite instinct, couldn't logic its way past the ingrained need for Jemma.

She's not a weakness; she's his heart.

So, he needs to explain. He needs to make her understand, get her to see things his way.

He knows that's what he needs to do.

But he has no idea where to even start.

Well, getting her to make eye contact is probably a good bet. Saying her name isn't working, and he's still itching to touch her, so he decides to give that a try. Just a little touch to her cheek, a tiny bit of skin contact to tide him over until they're in a better place.

But reaching for her—for the third time today—turns out to be a mistake.

She flinches, eyes squeezing shut and face turning away like she's expecting a blow, and for a second he's honestly afraid he's about to faint as his feet waver beneath him. He lets his hand drop.

"I'm not gonna hurt you," he says. He has to force the words out, and his voice is accordingly rough. "Jemma, you have to know—I would never."

She opens her eyes, but he has no chance to celebrate the victory that she finally makes eye contact, because the look she pins him with does nothing to help his struggle to breathe.

She looks disgusted.

"Oh," she says, voice shaking. "I think that ship has sailed, don't you?"

Her voice isn't the only thing that's shaking. She's trembling, but it's not just from disgust.

She's never looked at him this way—any of these ways. None of the fights they had, not the minor ones or the one big one, ever put this kind of fury in her eyes, and he's never seen anything like the terror and disgust that accompany it. She's never aimed a single one of these emotions at him before; individually, they would have been enough to break him, but all at once?

There's a burning in his throat, and it takes him a minute to gather the necessary composure to speak.

"I wouldn't," he vows. "I won't."

"Are you—" Her hands fist and then loosen at her sides. "Are you part of the Incentives program?"

His heart sinks at the hope he detects in her voice. "No."

"Do you have a kill switch?" she asks.

"No," he repeats. He can see her gearing up to ask further questions, and while he hates to quash what little hope she's clinging to, he can't stand here and watch it die little by little. "Everything I've done was of my own free will, Jemma."

She nods to herself, just a little.

"Then you can't say you won't hurt me," she says quietly. "You already have, by everything you've done of your own free will."

Somehow, the bitter twist to her echo of his words leaves his mind totally blank. All he can think to offer in reply is, "I love you."

She flinches again, and that it's from his words and not his actions does nothing to ease the sting of it.

"Well, I don't love you," she snaps.

That hurts—tremendously. It hurts like nothing has ever hurt before; if he thought the look she's still giving him was painful, it's nothing to this. The words cause him pain of far greater magnitude than any injury he's received over the course of his decade as a specialist—maybe even more than all of those injuries combined.

But they're also a relief. Suddenly, he's breathless for a completely different reason.

"You still can't lie, Jemma," he tells her, and he sounds almost giddy, even to his own ears.

That was a lie. It was definitely a lie. Maybe she doesn't want to love him, maybe she's angry about loving him, but she does still love him.

"You still love me," he says. "You do."

"No," she denies. "No, I don't." She swallows. "I love the person I thought you were. But he doesn't exist."

"He does, Jemma," he says urgently. "I'm still me. I haven't…" He has to curl his hands into fists to keep from touching her—from kissing that look off of her face. "There were things that I lied about, it's true. And there are things I'm not proud of. But I'm still me—I'm still the same person."

"No, you aren't," she says. "The man I love is a good man. He never could have done even half the things you have. He wouldn't even dream of them."

He can't really argue that, as much as he'd like to. His cover never would have killed Nash, let alone Hand or any of the others who came after. He definitely wouldn't have held Skye against her will or broken Raina out of containment or…

Well, the point is, she's not wrong.

So he changes tacks. "Okay, maybe you're right. Maybe I'm not a good man. But I can be. I can be a good man for you, Jemma."

She scoffs, looking for all the world like he's claimed he can get her in touch with the Tooth Fairy.

"I don't want you to be a good man for me," she says, and though her expression is still disbelieving, there's something almost plaintive about her voice. "I just want you to be a good man." She smiles painfully, eyes welling with tears. "But you're not capable of that, are you."

It's not a question.

He doesn't know what to say to that, how to convince her that he can be anything she wants him to be, if only she won't leave him. He doesn't know how to get her to understand that he won't survive without her—that every word she speaks is tearing him open a little further.

But he has to try.

"I am, Jemma," he says. "I can be a good man—I can be anything you want me to be. I love you."

Apparently it's the wrong thing to say. The despair disappears from her face, and her eyes—though still filled with tears—are once again lit with fury.

"How could you possibly expect me to believe that?" she demands. "After everything you've done?"

"Jemma—"

"You killed Agent Hand," she says. "All of those agents at the Fridge. You released dangerous and, in many cases, superpowered criminals into the world. You killed Agent Koenig. You kidnapped Skye!"

He's shaking his head, helplessly, unable to deny the charges she's laying against him. "Jemma, I had to, I didn't have a—"

"You just handed my best friend over to HYDRA!" she all but shrieks. "How can you look me in the eye and tell me you love me after that?"

She gestures angrily after the SUV, and any response he might have formed is lost, because his eyes catch on her wrist.

Or, more accurately, the black wristband she's wearing.

It's the kind of wristband that's used to hide a timer, the fabric thick enough to block the glow, and the sight of her wearing it—like a widow, like a divorcée, like someone who wants to forget her soulmate—is enough to knock any other thoughts right out of his head.

He forgets that he's trying not to touch her—not to scare her—and seizes her by the wrist, remembering at the last second to keep his grip gentle. She freezes, but he ignores her reaction in favor of stripping the wristband away to reveal her timer.

His breath stutters in his chest. The wristband falls from his suddenly numb fingers.

The timer is exactly as it's supposed to be, solid and green and displaying the date and time of their first meeting, down to the second, but the skin around it isn't. It's red and swollen and covered in tiny scratches, as if—as if—

"I tried to pry it off," Jemma says, voice eerily calm. "I knew it was hopeless—it takes surgery to remove a timer—but I suppose I wasn't thinking clearly. I just wanted it gone."

He can't look at her. He can't tear his eyes away from the state of her skin, from the evidence of just how badly he's fractured things. It's like all the blood's drained right out of him; he's cold all over.

She tried to erase—to remove—their connection.

"You—" He swallows, tries again. "Why would you—"

"You get to escape the reminder," she says, her free hand coming up to brush against his bare wrist. It's the first contact she's initiated today, but he can't get any enjoyment out of it. "Why shouldn't I?"

Fuck.

"No," he says. "No, I've told you how much I hate—how much I regret letting them take my timer. It was a mistake, Jemma. I wasn't trying to—to escape anything."

Her hand falls away, and something in him cries out. "I don't believe you."

Damn it.

She's gone too long without an explanation. Of course she thinks the worst of him; he hasn't given her a reason not to. All she can know is whatever Skye had to tell her—and, of course, the threat he implied against her at the airfield in LA.

Of course she doesn't understand. She's had three days to stew in her misconceptions, to draw all the wrong conclusions and go searching her brilliant mind for evidence to back them up.

He shouldn't have let her leave Providence. He should've pushed it, should've made her stay. He should never have let her out of his sight.

"It was the truth," he says, forcing his eyes away from her timer—from her scratched and swollen wrist—to meet her gaze. "I hate not having my timer. The last few days—it's been horrible. I miss it. I miss you."

Her mouth twists unhappily. She doesn't return the sentiment.

"I love you," he adds—a little because he just wants to say it again, but mostly because he wants a reaction.

And he gets one. Jemma wrenches her wrist out of his hold, backing away from him.

"If you love me," she says, "Then fetch Fitz back and let us go."

He can't contain a wince at just the thought of what Garrett would say to that.

"I can't," he says. "I'm sorry, but I have my orders."

She looks away from him, laughing humorlessly. "Of course."

"Jemma?"

The disappointed look she turns on him is, somehow, just as bad as every other look she's turned on him today. Each time he thinks he'll have to hit his limit on how much it can hurt, and each time he's proven wrong; at this point, the hole in his heart has become a gaping chest wound, and he's starting to accept that it's only gonna get worse.

"Three times now, you've chosen Garrett over me," she says, quietly. The sheen of tears in her eyes makes the disappointment even worse; it's almost a relief when she looks away again. "How am I meant to believe you love me after that?"

He doesn't know what to do. He doesn't know how to convince her how wrong she is, how much she means to him.

"Jemma, please—"

"I didn't realize it at first," she says, almost to herself. "But that's what you were doing, wasn't it? That's why you kissed me the way you did at the Hub—because you thought you were saying goodbye. You couldn't have anticipated that you'd need to come back for Skye. It was supposed to be the last time."

"Yeah," he admits, mouth dry. "I thought I'd never see you again."

She nods like it's just what she expected to hear, and Grant doesn't need to see her face to know that it was exactly the wrong thing to say.

"You have no idea how hard that was for me," he adds, drawing her eyes back to him. "But Jemma, I didn't have a choice."

She scoffs. "Yes, you did! No one forced you onto the team going to the Fridge, Grant, and none of us knew you were HYDRA. You could've stayed with the team and—and pretended." She hugs herself, looking so tired and so miserable that he has to physically step back to keep from touching her. "You'd still be a liar, but at least you wouldn't be…everything else you are."

That? That stings. It's nothing compared to everything else—to the look on her face, to the scratches around her timer, to the fear in her eyes—but it still hurts.

He has to make her understand.

"I didn't have a choice," he repeats. "As soon as we were away from the Hub, Hand ordered me to shoot John. Did you know that?"

He knows she doesn't—how could she?—but it has the desired effect. She's stunned into silence.

"If I hadn't gone with them, John would be dead," he says. "You know what he means to me—who he is. Could you stand back and watch your father get murdered?"

"No," she says, arms falling to hang limply at her sides. "No, I couldn't."

"So," Grant starts, only to be interrupted almost immediately.

"But I couldn't stand back and watch him be a murderer, either," she says. "I certainly couldn't help him." She drops her gaze to focus on her timer, tracing around the edges of it with her thumb. "All the people he's hurt, everyone he's killed—their lives are on your head just as surely as the lives you've personally taken. Doesn't that bother you?"

"Jemma, I—"

"You chose Garrett over me when you left the Hub," she interrupts sharply. "You chose him over me when you left Providence, and you chose him over me when you ordered Fitz taken to the Bus just now. But more than that…" She takes a deep, shuddering breath. "Every time you've stood back and let him hurt people, you've chosen him over me. Again and again and again."

The back of his throat is burning again. He thinks he might be sick. "Jemma, I've been working for John for fifteen years."

He watches the anger drain out of her, and for a second, he hopes—but the exhaustion and disappointment that's left behind isn't much better.

"Then I suppose," she says heavily, "We never really stood a chance."

That makes him angry. Garrett's the only reason he even survived long enough to meet her; it's not fair of her—not fair at all—to use him as an obstacle between them. The berserker rage rushes into him, filling some of the hollow in his chest, and it's not easy to keep it leashed.

He doesn't want to hurt Jemma. He doesn't want to scare her.

He just wants her to understand.

"If you would just give me a chance to explain," he tries. "This isn't unfixable, Jemma."

"Yes, it is," she disagrees. Her eyes are welling with tears again. "You're wasting your breath, Grant. All the words in the world won't excuse your actions. You might as well just take me to the Bus." The smile she gives him is probably supposed to be mocking, but mostly it just looks miserable. "After all, you have your orders."

She tries to move past him, heading for the SUV, and—rage boiling his blood—he catches her by the arm, swinging her back around to face him. Momentum sends her stumbling into his chest, and he grips her other arm, too—partly to steady her and partly to hold her in place.

Having her so close after so long, feeling the press of her body against his, douses the rage like little else has. Half of the tension disappears from his spine, just like that.

But he can't enjoy it.

Jemma has gone still, eyes wide, and her heart beats a frantic, panicked rhythm against his chest. She's terrified, all the fear that's gradually drained out of her over the course of their conversation returned with a vengeance, and it kills him. Slowly—so, so reluctantly—he eases back a step, putting a little distance between them.

"No," he says, careful to keep his voice gentle. "No, you're gonna listen to me. You haven't even given me a chance."

Her eyes flicker over his face, and then away. She lifts her chin, mouth firming.

"Fine," she says, and her voice trembles. "Fine. Have your say, then."

"John saved me," he tells her. "I was a stupid, scared kid who tried to get back at my brother—and my parents—for abusing me and only ended up landing myself in trouble. I was in juvie, looking at life in prison, when I met John."

Jemma jolts a little, but doesn't speak and doesn't make a move to interrupt, so he keeps going.

"He broke me out, taught me—taught me how to be a man, how to stop hiding behind the excuse of what my family did to me and how to take my life back. He gave me a purpose, a reason for existing. HYDRA? HYDRA's nothing. I don't care about HYDRA. I care about John, and he's dying." His heart is in his throat, and it's not easy to speak past it. If he messes this up, if he can't get her to understand… "Everything I've done has been for John. I owe him everything, Jemma. I can't let him die—and I can't abandon him. We're family."

Slowly, as he speaks, Jemma's eyes drift back to his. She's crying now, silent tears slipping down her face, and he has to fight the urge to hug her close.

"Jemma?"

"And what are we?" she asks.

He frowns. He doesn't know what she's expecting. "We're soulmates."

"That means something to you?" she presses.

"How can you ask me that?" He flexes his fingers around her arms, battling the need to pull her closer. "You have no idea—it means everything."

She laughs, quiet and tight, like it's being wrung out of her, and swipes the heel of one hand along her cheeks, brushing her tears away.

"I don't know which possibility is worse," she says, letting out a slow breath, "If you're lying, or if you honestly don't see what's wrong with what you're saying."

What's wrong with what he's saying? "I'm not lying."

"Maybe not," she says. She drags her bottom lip between her teeth, and for a second, he wants to kiss her so badly that the pain of not following through hurts even worse than the metaphorical wound in his chest. "Maybe it wasn't all a lie. Or maybe it was."

"It wasn't," he insists.

"Either way," she continues like he hasn't spoken, "It doesn't make a difference. You can't explain away what you've done, Grant, and you can't take it back."

Fuck. "Jemma—"

"Just take me to Fitz," she says tiredly. "You wouldn't want to leave Garrett waiting, would you?"

She obviously means it as a barb, but she's not wrong. He didn't give those HYDRA grunts much in the way of instruction; if they took Fitz straight to Garrett instead of waiting for Grant to bring Jemma to the Bus, Garrett'll be getting impatient by now. He'll have plenty to say about this, about Grant's desperate and completely unsuccessful attempts to win Jemma over, and Grant's really not in the mood to hear it.

In any case, winning Jemma back isn't gonna happen in one conversation. He's not giving up—for as many times as he's told himself over the past week that he had to let her go, it's obvious he's just not capable of that—but he'll let her have some time. He's made his intentions clear, reassured her that he really does love her and that he's not gonna hurt her. He'll let that sink in for a while, let her see that he won't do anything against her, and revisit this conversation later. Tomorrow, maybe.

Jemma's here, with him, where he can keep her safe, and she's not going anywhere. He can afford to take his time convincing her of his sincerity.

"Fine," he says, and forces himself to let go of her. "We'll talk about this later."

She doesn't respond. She just climbs into the SUV without a word when he opens the door for her.

The drive to the Bus is short, and Grant leaves Jemma to her thoughts during it. For his own sake, he pretends not to see the way she hooks her thumb in her sleeve and tugs it down to cover her timer—or the way her lip trembles when the green glows clearly through the fabric. He occupies himself calling ahead to let Garrett know they're coming, in a very brief but somehow unsettling conversation.

Jemma doesn't make a sound until they reach the Bus, where—upon spotting Fitz waiting at the bottom of the cargo ramp, flanked by three grunts and frantic but unharmed—she lets out a shuddering breath. Fitz is a little more vocal; when Grant lets Jemma out of the back of the SUV, he actually says, "Oh, thank Christ," loud enough that one of the scientists milling in the lab looks their way.

Grant gives them a second to cling to each other and exchange quiet reassurances that they're fine. There's a little bit of jealousy, cold and ugly, brewing in him—because Jemma's all over Fitz, whereas he couldn't touch her without making her flinch—but he pushes it aside. It's his own fault; he was the one who made that threat at the airfield, who left her alone to suffer under her misconceptions. He only has himself to blame.

Still, he has his limits, and as the hug draws out, he reaches them pretty quick.

"Let's go," he orders. "Upstairs."

He doesn't wait to see what look the order gets him; he leads the way up to the lounge, leaving it to the HYDRA agents to force the issue. (It takes a second; most HYDRA agents aren't great with making things happen without violence, and Grant's threats about what violence aimed in Jemma's direction would get were very, very explicit.)

Garrett's in the lounge, giving some last minute orders, and he looks more than pleased to see Jemma and Fitz.

"Here they are," Grant says, mostly just to say something. He catches Jemma's eye as he moves to stand beside Garrett, and the accusing look she's wearing cuts right through him.

It's written all over her face that she views this as another instance of Grant choosing Garrett over her, and it's hard to argue when he's literally just left her side to stand at Garrett's. There's something about viewing the scene from this angle—about Jemma and Fitz framed by three large and menacing men—that sits uncomfortably with him. The same old instinct that he had to fight when Fitz was being put in the car returns, and he has to tamp down on the rising need to fight his—their—way out of here.

This is ridiculous.

"This is our plane," Fitz says. "We want it back."

Speaking of ridiculous…

"Really?" Garrett asks, mouth curving in amusement. "Just like that, kid?"

Fitz doesn't have a response, and Garrett doesn't wait for one, instead turning to the agent still waiting for the last of his orders.

"Coulson probably figured out we're using the barbershop," Garrett says. "Call Kaminsky. He'll know what to do."

The agent runs off to obey, and Garrett turns to the grunts arrayed behind Jemma and Fitz. Grant's watching them, not the agents, and while it's hard to focus on anything but Jemma—on the look she's giving him, the silent accusation and disappointment—he still catches the move Fitz makes for his pocket as Garrett gives the order to keep the Bus in harrier mode until they're over the Gulf.

One of the agents turns to deliver the order to the pilot even as Grant steps forward to grab Fitz's arm before he can take his hand out of his pocket. It draws Garrett's attention, and he moves closer.

"What's he got there?" he asks.

Grant slides his hand down to Fitz's wrist and keeps a tight grip on it as he tugs Fitz's hand into view, but Fitz makes no move to resist. He's shaking, something that shouldn't upset Grant nearly as much as it does, and he's holding…

"One of those prank joy buzzers," Grant says, bemused.

"Yeah," Fitz says lowly. "You know me. Always kidding around."

Even as Garrett turns away with a dismissive smirk, Fitz hits the buzzer, and Grant's estimation of the threat level is proven horribly, horribly wrong.

Electricity crackles. Two of the lamps in the lounge spark and go dark. And Garrett grunts and falls against a seat, clutching his side.

"What the hell was that?" Grant demands. He barely takes a second to snatch the buzzer from Fitz before running to Garrett's side, and it falls from his hand, immediately forgotten, when Garrett provides the answer.

"An EMP," he rasps.

Fuck. Grant doesn't even wanna imagine the kind of damage that just did to Garrett's Cybertek implants, and he sure as hell doesn't wanna imagine how long Garrett's failing organs will last without their support.

The grunt behind Jemma must've moved fast, because he's already got her secured. He's just holding her by the arms, nothing that'll hurt her unless she goes crazy with the escape attempts, but she's not going anywhere.

The man behind Fitz, however, is a little slower, leaving Fitz free to lunge towards them.

"Looks like the joke's on you," he spits as the grunt drags him back.

The floor shudders beneath their feet as the Bus takes off, and Grant steadies Garrett by the shoulders. He's still hunched over, one hand clutching his shirt over the panel in his side, and his breathing is worryingly uneven.

"Stay here," Grant says, helping Garrett into one of the recliners. "I'll be right back."

He doesn't wait for an answer; he just books it to the lab as fast as he can.

Raina's there, and she's alone. Grant doesn't waste time asking where the scientists are or what she's up to; he grabs the kit and its resupply bag from their respective shelves as he gives her a very brief summary of Fitz's actions, then orders her to call Cybertek and fill them in. He's out the door and up the stairs in seconds; his whole trip, from the lounge to the lab and back, takes less than a minute total.

It's still too long; when he reenters the lounge, he finds that Garrett has visibly worsened.

Aside from the two grunts restraining Jemma and Fitz, all of the HYDRA agents are just standing around, staring uselessly. Grant shoves one of them out of the way in order to take the other recliner, and it's only force of will that keeps his hands steady as he sets the kit up on the coffee table.

"I'm glad that I did it," Fitz says. Grant ignores him. "You hear me? You lose, we win."

In his peripheral vision, he catches Garrett twist to look at him. "You're dead."

"Well, no worse than you," Fitz says. "And you don't have to take orders from him anymore, Ward. Ward!"

The kit's booting up, so Grant risks a glance away from it, towards Fitz. He's frantic, desperate, with no sign of the hate or fear he was directing Grant's way earlier. He wonders what changed between Fitz and Jemma's hug and bringing them upstairs, but there's no time to dwell on it.

Jemma is still and silent. There's no time to dwell on that, either.

"Let him die," Fitz pleads. "He deserves to die."

The frantic racing of Grant's heart only increases at that, because if—when, it can't be if, it won't be anything but definite—when Garrett survives this, he's gonna be pissed, and Fitz isn't helping his case any. It's gonna take a lot of persuasion to keep Garrett from hurting him too badly.

Grant looks to the agents restraining Jemma and Fitz. They're both watching him, waiting for orders; he's been well established as Garrett's second, and none of them will move without his or Garrett's say-so—something Garrett's in no position to provide.

"Get them out of here," Grant orders. His panic—worry for Garrett, for Fitz, for Jemma—and the remnants of his earlier emotional whiplash while talking to Jemma make his voice louder than it should be, but it does the job, so he doesn't bother to lower it as he adds, "Clear! Everybody out!"

It's not like the grunts don't know something is up—first Garrett needing to be carried to the lab earlier, now this—but there's no need to give them an up close and personal look at Garrett's vulnerable spot.

As soon as the lounge is clear, Garrett collapses forward with another grunt. It's clear the effort of holding himself upright is too much, so Grant—with some muttered swearing—helps him lie down on top of the coffee table.

"Hand me that pillow, would you?" Garrett asks, motioning towards the couch. He's trying to sound light-hearted, but his difficulty breathing makes his voice raspy, and Grant's heart picks up speed again. "It's like lying on a rock."

Grant silently grabs one of the throw pillows from the couch and arranges it beneath Garrett's head, then returns his attention to his health. He gets the kit hooked up to Garrett's side well enough, but that's about all that goes right.

He's not getting any readings. He tries rebooting the kit, then hooks Garrett up to the back-up and running a hard reboot on the biomechanics themselves. Nothing works.

"The internal battery must have fried," Grant says, helplessly flipping a switch back and forth. He hears Raina come up behind him, but ignores her in favor of Garrett. "I'm gonna have to open it up, see if there's a mechanical fix."

He's not holding out much hope on that score, though; these are advanced biomechanics that just got hit with an EMP, not a fucking broken-down truck.

"I talked to Cybertek," Raina says, and Grant looks up at her. "They're prepping a facility in Miami."

"Good," Garrett says weakly, and grabs on to Grant's jacket. He pulls himself up by it, just a little, and lowers his voice. "I need you to do something for me."

"Yeah," Grant says at once. "Anything."

"Put down Fitz," Garrett rasps.

Grant's mind stutters to a halt. "What? No. There's plenty of time." He needs to put it off long enough for Garrett to calm down, long enough that reason can win out over Garrett's immediate need for vengeance. "I won't leave you."

"And I'm telling you to cross him off for me," Garrett says. "And if you can't get your girl under control, you cross her off, too."

Grant's heart stops. "What?"

"You heard me," Garrett says.

How can he say that? How can he ask that of Grant?

There's something Grant should say, some magical combination of words that will defuse this situation, but he can't figure it out. His mind is too full of other things—May on a roof in Belfast, telling him his worry for Jemma was human, Jemma cuddled into his side in this very room, telling him it was only human to want her nearby, Coulson in Lola's driver's seat, encouraging his attachment to Jemma, Trip in a random closet in Beirut, daydreaming about his soulmate without any sign of hesitance.

Jemma he could explain away—has explained away, because they're supposed to want to be together. But Coulson? Trip? May?

It occurs to him, for the first time—why is it the first time?—that Garrett's the only person he's ever met who called soulmates a weakness. Even SHIELD, who taught him to hide his connection to his soulmate, who took his timer, who gave course after course on manipulating the expectations of a mark, never categorized an agent's actual soulmate as anything but good.

He can't kill Jemma. He can't and he won't; the order is honestly the most ridiculous one he's ever been given. It's absurd, unthinkable, impossible.

He can't cross her off, but—if he follows his orders—he'll have to. He won't be able to get Jemma under control, not without at least a week of persuasion, and definitely not after killing Fitz.

If he obeys Garrett—(and that's never been a question before, but it's a big one now)—he'll have no choice but to kill them both.

But he can't.

"That's not a weakness, is it?" Garrett adds.

Grant knows there's only one acceptable response to that, but for a heartbeat, he honestly can't think of it.

He's heard those words from Garrett before—has heard them loads of times, actually, enough that he actually hears them in his sleep on occasion. Which is, of course, the problem, because he's suddenly remembering a specific instance of hearing them in his sleep.

Namely, in October. In Italy, when he took Jemma to one of his properties for her traumatic leave—he dreamed about those woods in Wyoming, re-lived that last day with Jemma in Buddy's place. He dreamed about Garrett ordering him to kill Jemma and, when he hesitated, asking if it was a weakness.

At the time, he thought it was a nightmare. He laughed it off as ridiculous, something Garrett would never do.

In hindsight, it looks like a warning.

He thinks of the conversation earlier, in the office, Garrett reusing another old line—don't go blaming me because you were too much of a soft touch to do what needed to be done!

The first time Garrett said that to him was after Grant, unable to bring himself to kill the only friend he had, scared Buddy off instead of shooting him. To be exact, Garrett said it three minutes after using a sniper rifle to kill Buddy anyway.

The parallel's impossible to ignore. If Grant doesn't kill Jemma—doesn't take his own soulmate's life—Garrett will do it himself. Or, more likely—considering his condition—order one of the numerous agents on this plane to do it for him.

His lungs constrict at the realization.

"Grant," Garrett snaps. "Is it a weakness?"

The repeated question—or rather, the look that accompanies it—brings on a new and arguably worse epiphany.

There's no sympathy in Garrett. He's impatient, annoyed, angry—but not sympathetic. He doesn't give a damn that he's just ordered Grant to kill his own soulmate. He's not giving any thought to how hard it would be, how much it would cost Grant. He doesn't care.

Staring down at the man he's spent the last decade thinking of as his father, tears burning at the back of his throat, Grant has the sudden horrible, unbearable, completely unexpected and, he thinks, very belated realization that Garrett doesn't give a fuck about him.

"Grant."

"No," he says. "It's not a weakness."

"Then take care of them," Garrett whispers, letting go of Grant's jacket. "I'll take care of me."

And that's all he's ever done, isn't it? Grant can't believe he's never seen it before.

Everything Garrett's ever done for him was for his own purposes. Even breaking him out of juvie, getting him into SHIELD, training him—sure, it was a lot of time and effort, but look what it got him: a devoted, loyal second who would follow—who has followed—him into hell.

"I've cheated death plenty of times," Garrett adds, and Raina steps forward.

"I'll stay," she offers.

Grant nods once and pushes himself slowly to his feet.

He feels numb, distant, his limbs heavier than usual. It takes everything he has in him to stand up straight.

Fifteen years of loyalty.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Jemma accuses, you've chosen him over me. Again and again and again.

He leaves the lounge, but he doesn't go far. He waits, just out of sight, and listens.

There's a reason Garrett's pushing him to take care of Jemma and Fitz right this second, and Grant wants to know what it is. So he leans against the wall, just inside the hall leading to the cargo bay stairs, and eavesdrops on Raina and Garrett.

Jemma's not here—he doesn't know where the grunts took her, other than not-the-Cage—but he'd almost swear she is. He can almost feel her, hovering at his elbow, her fingers linked with his, as he listens to Garrett tell Raina he's been using her Centipede serum to stay alive the last few months. He's been so far gone that it couldn't give him super-strength, but it was the push he needed to keep going.

Maybe that's the reason he's telling her, and not Grant, about the mechanical failsafe in his side.

Or maybe it's just that he didn't care enough to fill Grant in.

"I'm afraid your entire system is shutting down," Raina says—though, to Grant's ears, she sounds more fascinated than sorry.

"Maybe you can jump-start it," Garrett rasps. "With this."

The two of them are focused on each other, so they don't notice when Grant moves back into the lounge to see what Garrett's holding out—although he's got a pretty good idea already.

Sure enough, it's the GH-325.

The GH-325 that Skye was shot—twice—to find. The GH-325 that Grant was given a heart attack (a fucking heart attack, he's been tortured and beaten and nearly killed a thousand times for Garrett) to unlock the secrets of. The GH-325 Grant gave up his soulmate—and his team—to deliver.

And shouldn't that have been a major fucking clue? Garrett's complete lack of sympathy then, his careless approach to Grant's world falling apart, the total absence of compassion—

Grant's been so blind. It's a bitter pill to swallow.

Not that he can swallow, not with his throat swollen shut the way it is. He can barely even breathe.

He knows what he has to do. It's necessary, the only choice.

That doesn't make it any easier.

He steels himself—draws on all his training to shut down the emotions threatening his calm, blinding him—and, as a final push, looks down at his bare, empty wrist.

There's supposed to be a timer there. He gave it up—sacrificed it—sacrificed Jemma—for Garrett. For a man that didn't deserve a single second of the decade's worth of loyalty and devotion Grant's given him.

He's not making the same mistake twice.

Silently, he moves further into the lounge. Garrett's eyes widen as he spots him, but by then it's too late; Grant snatches the GH-325 right out of Raina's hands.

"Or you could not," he suggests, as she surges to her feet.

"Grant," Garrett coughs, struggling to sit up. His lips are flecked with blood; he must not have much time left. "What are you doing?"

"What I should have done a long time ago," he says. Slowly, pointedly, he pockets the vial of GH-325. "Letting you die."

Garrett collapses back against the table, unable to summon the strength to sit up, and gasps, "HYDRA."

"What about it?" Grant asks. "The bosses know you're dying, don't they? And all those grunts just saw you collapse after Fitz activated an EMP." He shrugs, using the throbbing the motion spikes in his ribs to shore up his façade of calm. "It's tragic, but that's field work for you."

Raina's watching him, eyes wide and thoughtful.

"I could tell them the truth," she says, tone more testing than threatening.

"You could," he agrees. "But why would you? You said it yourself, back at the barbershop; Garrett doesn't want what you want. He's not interested in powered people, just saving his own sorry ass." He turns away from Garrett slightly to focus on her. "You wanna reunite Skye with her parents? That's a lot more likely to happen through me than him."

Skye's always wondered about her parents—has spent her whole life searching for them. Arranging an introduction won't do much in the way of amends for Grant's part in her getting shot, but it's a start.

As for amends to the rest of the team—Jemma especially—well, that he's gonna have to think on. There's no guarantee that they'll forgive him, and even if they do, this single act alone won't be enough to convince them of his good intentions.

But all of that—even Jemma—can wait. They're on a plane above the middle of the ocean; Jemma and Fitz aren't going anywhere anytime soon.

"You'll help me get Skye to her father?" Raina asks.

"Yeah," Grant says, as Garrett tries—through wheezing breaths—to protest. "I will."

She nods, and looks to Garrett. "Goodbye, then, Agent Garrett. It's been…interesting working with you."

With that, she walks away, wandering towards the kitchen, where the majority of the HYDRA agents have gathered.

Garrett flails weakly and coughs—more blood. Grant crouches down next to him.

"If you're gonna kill me," he says, voice barely a croak, "At least have the decency to shoot me."

"No," Grant says. "No, I don't think so."

Part of it's emotional. His attachment to Garrett—no matter how undeserved or one-sided—won't let him turn a weapon on him.

Mostly, though, it's just strategic. None of the others on the Bus are loyal to Garrett, not like Grant is. They're just agents on loan from HYDRA; they're following Garrett's lead under orders, not devotion. None of them are gonna be seeking revenge when Garrett dies—they'll just look to Grant for orders, instead.

If he dies from Fitz's EMP, that is. If Grant shoots him…

Well, mutiny in HYDRA's not the death sentence it would've been in SHIELD, but it'll still put him under more scrutiny than he really wants. Better to let Garrett fade away.

"Aft—after everything I've done for you," Garrett croaks, and Grant scoffs.

"After everything you've done for you," he corrects. The pumping…thing in Garrett's side is starting to slow; Grant reaches out and closes the panel, just to spare himself the sound. "I've been loyal to you for half my life, John. And all you've ever done is use me to advance your own agenda."

The painful rasp of Garrett's breathing grates against his nerves. It's not easy, watching him die. Grant can't just turn off so many years of loyalty—of love. He's called Garrett his father and meant it; that's not something he's capable of just putting aside.

"I would've done anything for you," he says, mostly to himself. "Well, almost." He meets Garrett's eyes and finds they're starting to grow hazy. "You shouldn't have ordered me to hurt Jemma, John. You should've known that was going too far."

Garrett's too far gone to speak. All he does is clench his hand in Grant's sleeve, face twisted in condemnation.

"You picked the wrong time for another test," Grant concludes quietly, and watches in silence as Garrett breathes his last.