A/N: I continued it, after all – although it's not the confrontation some have asked for (I still don't how would that play out). Instead it's a little exploration of Grant's psyche as he tries to come to terms of what happened – as he is trying to reconcile his past, the creature's past and his present.

Reflection

Who are you? – the question echoes in his head as he stares at his own reflection.

I'm Grant Ward, agent of–

No. He stops there. He is not.

I'm Grant Ward…

He sighs, closes his eyes, and braces himself on the sink. He takes a deep breath, two, three, then opens his eyes again.

I'm a man. I'm human. I'm black hair and brown eyes and white skin and nose and mouth and teeth and stubble and…

He can't take it anymore – it's too much, too confusing. He closes his eyes once again.

There's a distant memory in his mind, and it's not his (it's disconcerting). It's somebody else looking through this same set of eyes, looking at the same face, and liking what it sees. The creature approved its host.

(He wants to throw up.)

He tries to focus on something else, bringing forth another memory – a different gaze on the same face. Skye. Skye looking at him with a smile on her lips, Skye reaching forward, her fingers touching his cheeks (he trembles).

"You look like one of those ancient sculptures, you know?" she says (he thinks it's a compliment). "The Greek ones. Or Roman? I never know." Her thumbs are caressing his cheekbones. "So beautiful. So unfair."

(He doesn't know if it really happened or it was part of the illusion. The tumble of memories in his head is just too confusing to properly sort out.)

(He's afraid it never happened.)

He opens his eyes and stares at his hands (he feels disconnected); his fingernails are cracked, the skin dry. It itches.

With shaking hands, he picks up the shaving foam. He squirts some into his palm (it feels foreign), lathers his face with it (it feels good, to be hidden under the white foam), then reaches for the razor (they gave him a razor; they trust him – she trusts him – not to kill himself) and lifts it to his face.

The creature tended to shave – not too often, but it did (it makes his skin crawl to know this), but he spent four – five? – days in that medical room and his face is dark with stubble. He wants it gone (clean slate – clean face; he doesn't know why it goes together in his mind).

He shaves mechanically (it's all muscle memory), seeing and not seeing. It's almost like he is not shaving himself, but somebody else (the reflection still doesn't feel completely like his).

(He still doesn't know who he is.)

His hands are still shaking, and he nicks himself. He hisses at the sudden pain (it's a strange pleasure – feeling pain); the wound is deep as shaving wounds go, and a drop of red appears at the gash, running down his cheek. He lets it flow, watching it in the mirror.

What is so fascinating about blood?, he ponders. Maybe that it's the sign of life. Only the living bleed, only they have bright scarlet tears escaping their body.

He is alive.

(It's strangely comforting.)

His face smooth, he splashes water on it, then wipes it with a towel (he leaves deep red stains on the white material), and looks again. He blinks. He looks… He feels just a little bit more like himself. More like before.

He tries again.

I'm Grant Ward. I'm an agent, a spy, a soldier, a weapon, a killer, a betrayer, a snake…

No.

That's the past. That's the before. It's a new day now, a new life, a new slate – Skye said so.

He sets his gaze down, takes a deep, calming breath, and pushes his hair back from his face (the creature let it grow out; it's almost long enough to be tied back, and it annoys him, but he doesn't want to shave it all off, either, because that would remind him… something else. He hasn't figured out what to do it with yet).

A minute passes with him gripping the edge of the sink, trying to make sense of the world around him – of himself. Then he straightens his spine and faces his reflection once again, this time with newfound determination.

I'm Grant Ward. I'm nobody. I'm a newborn. I'm nobody's – I'm my own. I can be whoever I want to be. I have no friends, no alliances, no connections.

"Ward, are you done yet?" he hears Skye's voice from the other side of the door. "The others are waiting."

He meets the gaze of his reflection one last time.

But I can have it all.