Chapter 5

The Art of Understanding

"May?" His voice is rough and hoarse as it curls around her name. "May." He repeats, a little more insistently than before.

Nothing.

Silence.

Flat, terrifying silence filled with only the restless pounding of his ironic heartbeat.

It thunders violently through him. A frantic, panicked rhythm. Like the sound of running footsteps. Footsteps that belonged to prey fleeing from the rabid wolf, chased, hunted, with the devil on their heels and nothing left to bargain with if they got caught.

It was a striking testament to the fact that he was still here. That he was still here. That he was still breathing. That he was alive. When he had rarely felt less so.

Darkness was settling around him and inside him. He would have been exhausted had it not been for his hammering heart. Forcing the adrenaline that had been shot through him and the increasing panic that was rising in him through his bloodstream, causing his body to tense and tremble.

He can't see her. There are bodies pressing all around her. Blocking her from his view. He can't see what they're doing to her. He has no idea what she's being made to endure because of him; without him. He can't hear her either. She doesn't answer him when he calls desperately to her. Perhaps she can't. But all that registers with him is that she doesn't. She doesn't answer him. She can't.

And that sends terror flooding through his system threatening to shut it down.

He struggles at his bonds again. Cutting the rope deep into his skin. Deep enough to draw blood. It stings and it burns and his body lashes out against him in protest, convulsing sharply as pain surges through it. He ignores it. He has to get to her. He has to see her. He has to know. He has to-

And just like that, they leave. Without a word of warning or explanation.

The doors to the little black room they've been left in are closed and locked. The harsh metallic click echoes through the space seeming to mock them, to reinforce the fact that they are prisoners. Trapped. Helpless. Left to the mercy of their captors. Notable so far only through it's absence.

But they are alone now. Completely alone. He waits a few minutes. As long as he can stand it. Afraid that they'll return and that she'll pay the price of his impatience.

But they're left alone with their darkness and their silence. With no threat of interruption or retribution. And he can see her now. Her prone form rising from the black floor, slumped only a few feet from him. And he can't stand just sitting here doing nothing.

He struggles towards her. The thick bonds around his wrist make it almost impossible but he manages, collapsing down beside her, panting from the effort it took to drag himself to her side.

He forces himself into a sitting position.

"Melinda." He murmurs softly, wanting nothing more than to reach out to her but refusing to do so without her permission. "Melinda, please..." He breathes urgently.

She can feel him hovering protectively behind her. She had noted the retreat of the bodies that had been pressing around her, suffocating her. Her vision had suddenly been flooded with light as the door in front of her had been opened; and reduced to a faint bar once more as it was closed again.

And then she felt the tension as he fought to keep his distance. To stay back. To wait. To see. To be sure. And then the soft but distinct sounds of him struggling towards her. Watching over her now. Whispering her name like a stolen prayer.

And she wanted to answer him. To calm him and reassure him. To tell him that it was okay; that she was okay.

But she couldn't lie to him like that. And as their condition and situation continued to worsen it was becoming increasingly difficult to lie to herself on that front.

Every atom of her being seemed to be loudly and brutally protesting their circumstances. Her body ached everywhere from the abuse that she had endured. Her muscles burned and trembled. Pain pulsed through her brittle nerves as though they were fuses that had been lit by her beating and left to burn now.

Agony flared through her at random intervals. And it was all she could do not to lose consciousness again, to stay with him. She closed her eyes. Slowing her breathing. Bringing it under control. Trying to gentle the twisting torment inside her.

He's quiet. Watching her tense and convulse in pain before him. Making him feel utterly helpless. Then seeing her freezing without warning. Forcing her short, rapid pants of breath to steady and slow becoming as smooth and measured as she could make them.

And he understood what he was trying to do. And forced himself to be still and silent for her. Knowing that was what was best.

While she tried to relax herself his eyes managed to tear away from her for long enough to focus properly on the ropes that had been knotted around his wrists. He began to pick at them. He harboured no secret longings for escape. Not with Melinda in this condition. But they were tight and were rubbing the skin beneath them raw. And he had always found that there was something therapeutic in undoing knots and untangling wires. A certain satisfaction that made it a worthwhile endeavour.

It was logical. It made sense to him. Setting something straight. Solving the problem presented to him by the twisted rope. His eyes followed the pattern and his brain set about processing a solution and setting his fingers to work on it.

He felt something like a smile, if he had still remembered what that was, ghost across his lips a few minutes later as he dropped the length of rope by his side and rubbed at his newly released wrists, grimacing slightly as his fingertips brushed over the sensitive patches of rough, raw skin, sticky from blood in places.

He turned his full attention back to May as she weakly murmured his name.

It took a lot to manage that one word. Small. Simple. One that she had used many times before. Grant.

She cursed herself for her weakness a second later. Closing her eyes and letting another tremor wash through her.

But his response was as immediate as it was urgent. Concern and fear clearly etched in every syllable he spoke as he replied, softly breathing "Melinda" to her.

He moved around her, crouching down in front of her, blocking her from the door, offering her a second's protection so it seemed, if their captors were to return to them.

She nodded to him, knowing that he was waiting for her approval before he made any move to touch her and knowing that he would understand the gesture as her giving it to him.

He did. He shifted a little closer to her, his body hovering over hers as he examined her. She liked his closeness. The heat radiating from his skin. The intimacy of the moment. Vile though the situation may be. The move was still oddly comforting. Had she really grown so used to having his body beside hers?

His hands ghosted lightly over her, barely touching her as he catalogued every cut and every bruise that she had sustained. She could feel his sense of guilt grow with every fresh injury he uncovered.

"Grant." She murmured again, meeting his eyes as he glanced down at her and she tried to convey all of the things that she couldn't say to him. That it wasn't his fault. That she didn't blame him for any of this. That he was doing well. That it would be okay. That they were going to get through this. They were going to get through this together.

He seemed to understand. A little, at least.

He moved his hands to her hair, brushing it tenderly away from her face and out of her eyes. His thumbs delicately stroking her cheeks, his touch so light, as though afraid that her skin would crumble beneath him like dry paper turned to ash by his touch. His hand trembling faintly, as though afraid that he would leave bruises if he was any firmer.

She closed her eyes as he let a little contact bridge between them once more surrendering something to his touch.

He murmured her name again.

She slowly reached up, joining their hands, letting their fingers entwine, raising his hand a little higher, her lips gently brushing over his knuckles. She wasn't sure why. She wasn't sure what had prompted the gesture, the intimacy. But it helps. It helps him. Grounds him. Anchors him to something and she can feel him settle somewhat.

And it helps her. It reminds her that she has him. Someone she trusts and can depend upon if she needs to. That she's not alone. That she doesn't have to be. That she doesn't have to go through this alone. And that helped.

He gave her hand a gentle squeeze and then released her and returned to examining her. His hands whispering over her body assessing the damage.

"I don't think anything is broken." He tells her, his voice as steady as it can force it to be. "Though it's hard to tell in these conditions." He grimaces, looking around them.

His hands move over the gashes on her back. She hisses in pain despite his delicacy. He pauses and murmurs several tender apologise to her before continuing.

She watches the muscles in his face contort with anger and pain on her behalf and finds herself reaching for his hand again, squeezing it as firmly as she can.

She knows why he's doing this. She knows why he has to do this. Knows that it's just in his nature. That he cares for her and that compels him to look after her. However he can. And he needs to feel like he's doing something. So she lets him do whatever he wills with her body. She trusts him.

He takes several deep, steadying breathes before saying, "None of these look too deep. And the bleeding is beginning to stop." She can sense the but before he says hoarsely, "But you can't take much more of this, Melinda."

She shifts uncomfortably and informs him flatly, "I can." She tries to project more confidence than she feels into her words for his sake.

Everyone has their limits as human beings, even her. And eventually they'll push past them. She's never been in the business of lying to herself about what she can and can't handle. That only puts herself and other agents at risk. She knows herself. She knows what she can take. But he doesn't need to hear that now. He's altogether too aware of it without her affirming it.

"I will." She tells him firmly and then add softly, without ever quite being able to explain why, "I have to."

His eyes meet hers in the dark and a spark of understanding flares between them. Because he understands these words and the weight of the implication and expectation behind them. Because he had said them before. Because he too had suffered so that others wouldn't have to. Because he had endured to protect those he cared about. Because she knew that if there was anyone on this team who would fully understand this aspect of her it was him. Because it was a simultaneous strength and flaw that they both shared. And she knew that. And so she knew his answer before he gave it,

"No, you don't." He said, voice shaking, grimly.

"Grant-" She whispers quietly, closing her eyes.

"You can't, Melinda." He snaps curtly, fear and frustration and exhaustion causing his answer to be far more brutal and blunt than he had intended. "You can't take much more of this." He hisses desperately, his voice cracking, "I know that. I know you. You can't."

"And that is exactly what they want you to think right now. That's why they've done this. Why they've left us alone. Let you come to me. Let you see what they've done. So that it breaks you." She growls as fiercely as she can manage.

But she knows that he won't back down on this. That he never will. That he would fight to the death and beyond to protect someone that he cares about; someone he- She stops herself there. Unable to let her thoughts stray to that point and contemplate those emotions now under these circumstances.

Though she knows them to be true. And mutually so.

She pushes them back.

"They want me to think that because it's true." He snarls back at her.

And she's fighting a battle here that she can't ever hope to win. But then, neither can he. Because they're both fighting the same war for the same reasons with the same convictions.

"I have, I have to do something, Melinda." He breathes quietly, "I-"

"You can't." She interrupts sharply, grabbing at his wrist with a sudden burst of strength found from the fear of her realisation of what he wants to do, "You can't."

"It wouldn't be anything important." He counters urgently, his voice strained, "A lie. Anything." He whispers and her stomach twists in real fear for the first time. "I'll lie to them, I'll tell them something that'll have them chasing their tails for a little while. It'll take the heat off of you." He insists desperately.

She shakes her head. "They'll be expecting you to lie." She reminds him weakly, "And when they find out that you have what do you think they'll do to me then?" Her words are harsh and brutal but he needs to hear them and she needs to get through to him on this. She needs him to understand to start thinking rationally again.

"But it wouldn't be you they'd come for. "He insists, so earnestly that she can feel a blade twist in her heart for him. "It would be me. I lied. It would be me they'd punish." He presses wildly.

She shakes her head and says, "So it would be me they'd hurt. Because they know that's what would cause you the most pain and punish you the most." She whispers softly, "They know your weaknesses, Grant." She murmurs quietly, "Which is why you can't show them any."

He knows this. And she knows he does. But she has to say it. She has to make him believe it again. "If you offer them a lie to make it stop for a while then they'll know it's working. They'll know you're desperate. They'll know that they're breaking you and you can't let them do that. You know why you can't." She says fiercely, her voice growing in strength with every word.

She reaches out and tenderly brushes his cheek with her fingers, "I'm stronger than you think." She murmurs quietly, "And I know you don't want me to be because of what it means I'll go through. But I am. I promise I am." She closes her eyes, her words no longer coming from a training manual but from her, "And if they break you, if you give them what they want, they will kill you." She breathes softly, her fingers tightening around his wrist as she finds herself whispering, "And I'm not strong enough for that, Grant."

She's trembling she realises a few seconds before she realises she doesn't care.

"Melinda-" he begins soothingly, his hand tenderly cupping her cheek, his eyes softening as they meet hers again.

"Promise me." She hisses her body tensing at the sound of footsteps outside, "Grant." She breathes, "Grant promise me." She growls harshly, "Promise me you want say anything." She snarls, "Promise me that you'll follow your training. Whatever they do to me." She catches her cheek in her hand and forces him to meet her eyes as the door opens behind him, "Promise me."

He hesitates closing his eyes in despair and struggling with himself before nodding and managing to mouth hopelessly, "I promise."

Relief floods her.

He closes his eyes, internally cursing her.

They drag him up and retie his hands. The ropes dig in to the wounds he made struggling to get to her.

They pull her up.

A question.

He closes his eyes.

He shakes his head.

Her cry echoes through the room before she drops again. Her body desperately retreating to the backs of her mind to free her from the agony that's been inflicted on it once more.

And she slips into the waiting arms of unconsciousness once more.

She's still breathing hard once he's dragged her outside, away from Quinn, left quivering on the floor and bleating pointless protests to Coulson who's been far too patient and tolerant over him already.

She doesn't care. She can't hear what he's saying. It doesn't matter enough for her to try.

Rage still pulses through her in waves. Rage that burned through her when she touched the beserker staff. Rage that still hasn't left her system. Rage that coupled with the emotion that was tearing through her after what had happened to Skye; that needed an outlet before it burned through her and hollowed her out. Rage that makes her volatile and unpredictable. Like petrol near a flame, flammable and ready to ignite at the slightest provocation.

She had contained. She had restrained herself. She had held back and kept herself in check and calmed herself with every method she knew of. But it had still gotten the better of her. And she's angry at herself for that. She is. But she'd needed it. She'd needed something. And Coulson won't understand. Won't understand why. Not truly.

He expects as much of her as the others. The others who look at her and see the Cavalry. He looks at her and sees Melinda May. But he sees Agent Melinda May. The trained, disciplined soldier he needs her to be. Respected and admired and even befriended but not understood beneath the SHIELD badge that frames every aspect of her.

The only person who has a hope of understanding what she's going through right now is standing next to her.

And she can't look him in the eye.

Her body is tensed and quivering. Like a finger gripping the trigger of a gun, ready to fire, needing to fire, to release, ready to snap at any moment. And she should seize up. Or flinch away. Or push him off. But when the contact comes it's perfectly judged and perfectly timed. Soft yet firm. Tentative yet sure. Foreign in her current state yet achingly familiar.

And she allows it. And she even relaxes somewhat at it. Because he understands. He won't look at her and see demons stirring in her eyes, he will look and see reflections of himself. He won't look at her in shock and confusing but with empathy and understanding. He won't look at her and wonder why or how she could lose control like that. Because he looks at her and sees a human being, a wounded, damaged, sometimes fragile human being that, against her better judgement or not, she allowed him to see.

He slides his hand from its place on her shoulder to join with her hands and lifts them up for his inspection. He appraises the bruises and light cuts on her knuckles then nods, decided.

"Come on." He murmurs, not a command or a suggestion, merely a request. That she grants him.

He doesn't lead her to the medical hub Fitz and Simmons call home however, or even into the little kitchen area, instead he leads her away, away from it all, down into the cargo hold. The training room, their place. The place on this bus he knows she feels most comfortable and most at home and in control aside from her cockpit.

Her cockpit does not however, have a small medical kit in it. He leaves her by a stack of heavy, cushioned training pads and she sits down wordlessly on them. He returns and sinks to his knees in front of her.

He waits until she extends her hand to him, giving him permission. He cleans the cuts and she winces slightly, flexing her fingers as the solution stings the open wounds. He persists, however and once their clean examines them and comes to the conclusion that they don't need stitches. He carefully begins to wind bandages around them in order to offer them some protection, having her flex her hand every now and then to make sure he's giving her enough movement. She pronounces herself satisfied with his work with a swift nod.

But he's not done with her yet. Laying one hand lightly on her thigh he has her stay in the same place as he packs up the kit. She waits, almost certain that he's not going to attempt to follow this with a lecture, he knows her better than that, she's sure.

Instead, he produces a roll of tape and glances up at her, raising his eyebrows. She blinks, seeking some sort of explanation.

"If you need to hit something, hit training pads." He advises curtly.

It's the best idea anyone's presented her with in a while.

The corners of her mouth dare to raise in the flicker of a smile once more and she extends her hands to him again.

He straps her up, taking a little more time than she deems strictly necessary. The motions are fluid and practiced and it's something he's well used to. But there's something almost ritualistic about this. They prepare each other's weapons of war with soft and tender strokes, dulling the edges and smoothing the knots. His skin is warm and strangely soft, considering what he asks of it, against hers.

He hands her a pair of her preferred fingerless gloves to add a little extra padding to her bruised knuckles once he's finished. She knows what to do next and they flow seamlessly, swapping places, his hands in her lap as she picks up the tape. Routine. Order. Structure. Something she knows better than her own name. Something familiar that guides her into a well worn rhythm. Something she doesn't need to think about she can just do. She tugs at the tape and repeats the procedure with him, her hands moving swiftly and efficiently over his, knowing instinctively how tight he likes it to be and what patterns she should follow to best suit his style.

She's already calmer when she gets to her feet, rising at the same time he does, both of them ready. He snatches up one of the heavy body length pads that she had been perching on and braces it opposite her.

They move to the centre of the room, the takes up a strong stance and flicks a short nod in her direction, letting her know he's ready. The pad and his hold absorb the shock of the flurry of quick and hard punches that land on it. He turns to the side and she reacts, her hands withdrawn back to her body, defensive, her leg swinging into a practiced kick that follows his turn and lands where he knows to place to the pad to catch it.

He keeps her on her toes, changing his position and the pads height and angle and forcing her to change her fighting style to match it, anticipating one another in a way that would appear to a casual watcher as though they were following a prescribed pattern. But she knows him and he knows her and it works without being predictable. Challenging yet rewarding and exactly what she needed.

He swaps to smaller hand paddles after a little while. Sweat coats them both. But she can see the soft smile on his lips and in his eyes. He knows this helps. He knows she's grateful. And so she doesn't have to say it and he doesn't have to hear it. They know.

This is a quicker performance than before. And offers him the chance to counter, forcing her to defend as well as simply change her attacks. It offers more movement across the floor as well, chasing and fleeing then changing tact and pushing back, switching their positions, making them both move and think together.

They'd had similar training and they'd both studied each other well enough to know their simultaneous partner and opponents favourite moves. And this made them alter their styles. Push boundaries, push limits, step out of comfort zones in order to catch their partner off and force them to do the same.

They both come to a stop at the same time, breathing hard, their eyes meeting, understanding what comes next. He discards the pads in a corner and settles into stance, his hands raised in front of him, ready. She shifts, her body supple and flowing, settling into the position with a natural ease a part of him still envied.

They had found the centre of the training mats once more. Both breathing a little harder than when they had started. Their muscles tensed. Sweat coating their skin and plastering their clothes to their bodies. And their eyes locked.

They swayed and pulsed and moved both in sync with each other and with their own agenda. Circling each other, looking for the tells they now knew. Like a physical poker game. Bluff and call and raise all mixed together with the position of their bodies; the way they moved their feet; the slight flicker in their eyes before they moved.

They matched each other, a mirrored pair with their own individual style. Equals on a level playing field. Waiting. Baiting. Testing. And they could do this for hours. This mental warfare all conducted behind the eyes in subtle glances and stares, sizing up and studying and understanding. But she's the one who changes the rules of the game first, springing at him.

He reacts and instead of blocking or launching a counter attack, he ducks and rolls around to her back, forcing her to turn and anticipate the blow aimed at her head through some innate instinct and through knowing him.

She catches his punch in her forearm, throwing it aside, her left hand swinging at his ribs, her eyes focussed on his to draw them away but he catches her wrist and tugs her to him. Their bodies crash together and he twists her arms around in front of her, locking her in front of him.

She drops and sweeps his legs. His reflexes force him to throw his hands out to break his fall and he darts out of the way as she lunges for the spot she left him in.

They're facing each other once more. Both on their feet. And their exchange pauses for a moment. Just a moment. He moves forwards this time, feinting with a rough punch to her head while attempting to sweep her legs from under her in revenge for what she had just done to him.

She jumps up and back, evading both moves in one, he spins into the momentum of his last attacks to use it to his advantage, a rough cut aimed at her neck that she avoids, prompting her into the attack again, moving towards him at a speed that always almost catches him off guard.

And so they dance. Moving and flowing smoothly across the training room floor. Their moves precise and elegant and controlled. A mixture of pattern and reaction; of training and instinct; of old and new; push and pull; finding a balance in which they can both continue, matched and outmatched in equal measure by the other. Strength and speed and power and precision and impulsiveness with anticipation and they find a strange harmony, a beat and a rhythm that they fall into almost naturally.

Her eyes find his again, alive and alight with the fire of their back and forth, fixed on her, her face, her eyes, her body, watching her intently, his whole focus, his whole being on her.

She's the one who changes the rules of their game again.

Her anger still pulses through her. Her rage. Her emotion. Her anguish. Her fear. Never forgotten. But always contained. In the back of her mind for when she needed something to tap in to to fuel the extra fire she needed to survive.

But she can tell he wants her to do more than that. He's trying to push her into doing more than that. He's trying to make her relinquish that control, to let those feelings flood her. To let her movements and her style become emotion over training. To release the pent up tension that she's been working so hard to control for weeks. Now that it's reached its peak after what happened to Skye. Now that she needs this. She needs this release. She needs to let herself lose control. She needs to be as vulnerable as she ever can be, surrendering to her emotions, allowing them to take her over, for just a moment, to ensure that they don't consume her.

And she does.

And all at once the pitch and the tempo of their dance changes violently. And it no longer becomes a song of lovers and their balance and their harmony and understanding but one of anger and of fear and of fight.

He reacts to the change, seeing it in her eyes a second before she turns into it. He absorbs as much of it as he can. Her movements become sharper and rougher and faster and she pushes them both to the very edge of what they can handle.

They become closer. Their dance more contained more intense and concentrated. Her attacks come in much quicker succession, one after the other, hard and relentless and there isn't time for feinting and diversions, every action aims to elicit a reaction. He counters and reacts and follows her, taking up a position of pure defence, allowing her to work through the rage that boils that through them both that she's pent up for so long to erupt from her all at once.

The game changes once more as her movements come from a place of pure emotion and aside from their volatility and unpredictability, they're easy for him to counter and to turn away and in the end she finds herself with her back to him, her arms crossed over her body, his fingers wrapped around her wrists and she finds that no resistance comes to her and leans down to murmur softly in her ear,

"Enough, Melinda. Enough."

She collapses against him. Her body melting against his, folding against his now familiar shape as though it was made to. Her eyes close. They're both panting hard. She can feel adrenaline surge from her, leeching out of her system and draining her fight and her anger with it.

It would have left her empty were it not for her fear. Her fear over her Skye. Over losing anyone else. Her upset and her grief at the thought and her guilt, her guilt that she couldn't protect her, that she couldn't keep her safe, that here she was, back in the field and she couldn't do what they had needed her to do, she couldn't protect them all at all times. The cost could have been any price and she would have paid it if she could but she couldn't.

And she feels numb. And she feels hopeless. And she feels so intensely human. Flawed and vulnerable and for a moment she allows herself to be entirely helpless in his arms as his body closes around her.

She can feel it radiating from him too. That despair that feeling of uselessness. There's nothing they can do. They're both fighters, they're both protectors. Their hands weren't made to heal they were made to harm. They were made to be shields but not miracles. They can't fix they can only prevent. And they feel like they've failed. Both of them. And now they feel helpless. They had their chance. And their fight is over. There is no war against enemies they can hit, there are no enemies at all. Only death. And that isn't a foe either of them know how to defend against or attack.

All they can do now is wait. And wait. Wait for results. Wait for others to help; to heal; to fix. Wait for their failure to be reversed. Wait for orders. Wait for news. Wait for others.

They have surrendered all control. This is out of their hands now and they hate it.

She turns. Whether because she wills it or because of a light nudge at her shoulders as his arms lift slightly to allow her to move. In sync once more, understanding the others needs.

She finds herself pressed against him, his arms around her, hot and soft and safe. Her eyes close. She breathes him in. Sweat and aftershave and something that just reminds her of him. It's reassuring somehow. Familiar. Something she associates with comfort and trust.

And it isn't fixed. It isn't gone. It's there. It's all still there. But it's understood now. And so is he. They both have a duty to this team, to its members, they both have a weight and a responsibility on their shoulders and they both feel this similarly and can't express it in front of those they have to protect.

But with each other. With each other there is an openness. A connection. An understanding. A mutual vulnerability. Sinking in to each other and letting their emotions blend and ripple and turn and be felt and shared together.

And that helps.

A/N: I know I have been terrible in updating this fic, and I'm not really sure why the fancy struck me to write this tonight but there's just something about this pairing that I can't get over or let go of. And the potential of what they could have been still stings me. So, for anyone who is still reading this fic and feels the same way about these two I do, I thank you (and welcome any feedback you may have, as always)