Fears Come True Before Dreams Ever Do
To Ward's satisfaction, he saw that callouses had formed in the places where he put weight on his body. New ones, not old ones. This was like his own little history, a small accomplishment that grounded him in THIS place, not a very good place, but somewhere more tangible now. Places become more real once they leave traces on those who visit them. Ward thought that sentence again and decided he approved of it. He signed it to himself, a slowly forming habit of his. He always tried to hide his hands, but sometimes he got excited and wasn't careful.
What happened next wasn't because he signed anything. It was inexplicable.
No one really knows what the appendix is doing in the human body; in Ward's case, it was bursting. He bent forward and his eyes widened in confusion and a brief register of pain, but not any sort brought on by torture. Something inside him was wrong, and he couldn't fix it. Sweat stood out on his forehead as he stumbled to his bed and stared up at the light shining down on his cell. He slowed his breathing, tried not to move too much. 'Calm down.' But he'd followed his routine, how had this happened? The routine was supposed to protect him from himself and others, but now, now, it wasn't doing anything, ow, ow, ow... He shut his eyes, swallowed the saliva that had built up and threatened to spill out and down the sides of his mouth. He whimpered.
He felt scared.
From the feeds, Coulson saw Ward fall onto the bed and he saw Ward try to get himself under control, he saw where Ward's hand was, and he called in Simmons for a second opinion because he wasn't an idiot and he knew better than to make judgments off of his own observations. "What does that look like to you?" he asked Simmons. She leaned over and studied Ward, her face tight. "Those appear to be the signs of a burst appendix, sir," she said.
"Think you could take it out?"
"I don't have a say."
"We can't let him die."
"You can't, but I bet if I had a go at it--"
"Jemma, don't make me order you. I'm trying to do the right thing and it's not sitting well with me but it has to happen. And you're the best."
Jemma nodded her agreement but still looked far from pleased.
"You'll do it?"
She lifted her shoulders and dropped them.
"Thank you."
She didn't reply, only left the room to go gather the equipment she'd need to perform the surgery.
******
Ward felt it getting worse, but he did his best not to panic, and that didn't go well. He chewed inside his mouth and felt sweat trickle down his head onto the pillow, and he felt a fresh wave of fear. The taste of blood touched his tongue. He kept chewing at his mouth so he didn't scream; he couldn't scream, couldn't break, if he broke, something worse would happen. He knew what it was. He knew it might be time for it to happen anyway. But he wasn't ready. He never was. His body started to shake and he felt his shirt grow damp by his armpits, in the center of his back, on his chest. Calm down... calm down... His hand twitched out 'think of this pain as the fox', and the distraction lessened his fright, but only marginally.
It came back when he saw someone else was in his cell with him. Someone had some type of sedative... he had to breathe it in because he couldn't get away when he hurt this much... his eyes shut. His hand stopped twitching. Like he'd trained himself to do, images and memorized sensations of his flat in France came to mind as he slipped into sleep. Once he was under, Jemma went to work, enjoying none of it. She thought how easily she could make his death look like an accident. She knew which artery was closest. She wanted to do it. Darkness and the hope of revenge bubbled inside her, and she picked up a surgical knife, aimed it down, got close and then closer to doing it. Her hand shook, and it kept shaking. She put the blade down on the tray, straightened it, and grabbed the tools meant for stitching up a patient. Her hair was messy, her breath felt hot on her face behind the mask she'd put on, but she would do her job, do it well, not for the sake of nobility, but rather because she couldn't be absolutely sure of killing him and not getting caught.
Once she had her chance she wouldn't regret doing it. It would become one of her favorite memories.
********
Ward felt disoriented and wasn't surprised, but his clothes felt wrong and he felt bandages against his skin. He wasn't on the normal mat on top of the cement block which acted as his bed, but instead he was in a hospital bed, hooked up to monitors, an I.V. in his arm, his wrists strapped down in just-in-case measures. Coulson probably knew how easy it would be for him to get free of these restraints, but maybe/probably Coulson guessed that Ward didn't want to. Other reasons for not moving or trying to escape included but were not limited to: 1) He was too weak, 2) He was pumped full of drugs, 3) He figured he was missing an appendix now, so, why not get used to that feeling? His hands were stiff and his back had the kind of ache in its spine that meant if Ward moved it just right there would be a lot of great popping noises. He flexed his hands and swallowed, blinked up at the light, realized he knew that light, and that he was still in his cell.
Chair legs scraped the floor; Ward moved his eyes so he could see the foot of his bed. There sat Coulson. "Your appendix burst," Coulson said. "I had Simmons take it out. She'll oversee your recovery." But he didn't just say this, with his mouth, the good old-fashioned way. He signed it.
Ward signed his thanks and let the gesture stand on its own.