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May had come by earlier. She stood in the door of his bunk, a dark silhouette. She had tilted her head questioningly and he had simply shaken his. She nodded curtly and left. She thought she knew why he had called it off. How could she know? The Cavalry would never get into the situation he had.
He had been trained to resist torture and mindgames. He had resisted torture a number of times. He had scars on the soles of his feet and peppered across his lower back to prove it. He shouldn’t be shaken like this.
“I’m going to give you a reward…”
He had tried to open his mouth, to ask her to spare his team –that would be reward enough. He may not be the best guy out there –and if orders came to cross them off, he would, without hesitation. But he had come to care about them, in their own little way, and if they didn’t have to be killed, he’d rather they were left alive.
Yes, he had been trained to withstand torture and mindgames and terror. But he’d never –you could never be trained for something like this.
Jones had come back from one mission, as hard as steel. Then they had found out exactly what had been done to her during that three day stint in captivity and put her in therapy for eight months. And Eriksson had never been the same after his cover had been blown during that thing with the Moldavian mob. Last he had heard, the agent had been reassigned to HR.
He looked down at his hands, and noticed they were shaking. He’d been aware. That had been the worst part. He had been aware of everything he was doing, had tried to scream and fight and more than once his hand had half twitched to his gun. But a glance had always stopped him. One measly glance.
She had tasted fake. Harsh and cold and bitter. She kissed him and he had tried to pull away but instead he had leant forward.
She had pulled at his shirt and he had brought a hand up to her wrist to break it. Only he had helped her strip him, had let her pin him against the wall and run her too-soft hands (no callouses, had never worked for a thing in her life) all over his bare chest.
He collapsed back on his narrow bunk, in his dark pod. Dark. Quiet. The climate controls set high, blisteringly so. Make him forget the continual soft breeze of the air conditioner that had blown across his back as they had stumbled across a dark room towards the pristine bed.
Silence. Peace. Hide from the others. Coulson had debriefed him but he had said he didn’t remember, that it was hazy.
Because he was Grant Ward. He was badass tin man super secret agent. He didn’t suffer from pain or grief or fear. He got on with it, he did the job and he didn’t suffer anything. Especially not nightmares, not nightmares of an Asgardian woman who should have looked beautiful except for the fact her eyes were so very cold.
And that was the thing. Would anyone believe him if he told them what had happened? Maybe Fitz would possibly understand, the engineer knowing what it felt like to be lost under Lorelei’s grasp. But how many guys would clap him on the back and call “Good on you!”? It was difficult to explain how he felt.
He’d showered for almost half an hour, scalding water eradicating every trace of her touch and he’d scrubbed himself until he bled. He wanted to stay longer, to get clean but May was hovering outside making comments about water conservation and if he stayed in for much longer she’d get suspicious. He came out and made a joke about getting rid of the aches May had left. She hadn’t looked convinced.
He curled his hand up, digging his fingers deep into his palm, drawing blood. Weak. Pitiful. Ruled by flesh.
He had reacted to her. Her touches had gained the reaction she had wanted, no matter how hard he had tried to supress it. He was a failure, couldn’t even prevent a woman from…
It wasn’t rape. It couldn’t be rape. Rape was what had happened to Jones and Eriksson. Rape meant blood and tearing and fighting back. He had kissed the woman back and touched her and let her push him onto the bed without physically resisting. He had done all those things, despite screaming inside.
And it couldn’t be… It couldn’t be, because then it would make him weak and HYDRA was not weak. He had done with being weak when he was fourteen and his brother’s head had sunk beneath the black waters and never come up again. He had finished being weak when he found his other brother and picked up the hockey stick and beaten him to unconsciousness.
He was done being weak yet he had bowed to that woman with just one touch. He had sworn never to be a victim and if… if SHIELD found out what had happened, he’d be treated as the ultimate victim. And his worth in Garrett’s eyes would fall to zero. He couldn’t control his own body, how could he be expected to control himself in battle?
So he lay in the darkness and stared at the blank ceiling and concentrated on the harsh bite of his nails in his palm to take his mind off the scratches left by perfectly manicured nails on his back and the bite marks across his chest. He had avoided a medical check-up but knew he wouldn’t have long. Soon Simmons would be up here, cheerful and bright, insisting he let her give him the required medical.
She’d see the marks. She’d judge him. She’d think him weak. Weak, pitiful and unable to control himself. She couldn’t see. He couldn’t let her.
Because he was Grant Ward and he was done being weak.