🍁🍁Comfy-vember 🍁🍁
Day 8: Thunder shower/Fresh fruit
Grant Ward & Gramsy & Phil Coulson, Agents of SHIELD, Saving Grant Ward AU
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The storm rolled in faster than Grant had expected, its flash and growl catching them just as they turned in at the lane up to Oakstone.
"Come on, Lady!"
Grant bolted, sprinting fast enough his tennis shoes barely seemed to touch the paving stones. Lady caught him at the turn by the rose hedge, and passed him, her chestnut ears streaming behind her head.
The rain came slow at first, big fat drops that warned of a torrent, but by the time he reached the walk up to the kitchen door, the heavens had truly opened.
He fetched up on the veranda soaked through, dripping as he took off his baseball cap and walked to where Coulson and Gramsy sat in lawnchairs, sipping sweet tea and smiling over at him.
"Did you take a swim?" Coulson kidded.
"Don't stay wet too long, honey," Gramsy said, squinting a little in the dim storm light.
"Yes, ma'am," he nodded, suddenly self-conscious under their combined scrutiny. Of course, he thought, they must have been talking about him, Coulson getting the scoop on all the skeletons in the Ward family closets.
The man looked away, out over the lawn, and Grant quickly stole the drink out of his grandmother's hand, drained it in three gulps. He ignored her exclamation and it's fondness, rattling the left-over ice cubes as he pushed the glass back into her fingers.
"Thanks, Gramsy!" he called as he bolted back to the edge of the porch, hopping a few steps on one foot then the other as he tugged his shoes and socks off, before running back out into the rain.
Soft grass, cool and wet under his bare feet, as he ran down the lawn to the pond, divebombed in, came up laughing like a crazy person. Lightning flashed, thunder close on its heels, and the rain fell thick enough he felt like he still had his head underwater. He swam to the little dock, hoisted himself out in a single easy motion, and jogged back up the hill a little ways.
Again a flash, the crack of thunder almost on top of it, and he straightened sharply out of his flinch, almost glaring up into the sky, daring it to frighten him again.
He had to close his eyes against the rain, and as he stood there, he became aware of the warmth in the water covering his face, the sticky sweat washed clean away, his quick breathing, his rapid heartbeat. His skin seemed to tingle, and then he saw the burst of light through his eyelids, heard the sound of the sky tearing, an enormous sound, followed by a boom that shook the ground under him.
Grant did not move.
Let the storm rage, let the lightning burn, he'd survive.
When he opened his eyes, he was less startled by the lightning, than he was to discover Coulson standing beside him.
The man had taken his suit jacket off, and his own socks and shoes, and now he was as drenched as Grant, head tilted back, eyes closed. When light and sound split the sky, Coulson laughed, opened his eyes to grin over at Grant.
"When I was a kid," he called, loud in the abruptly slackening rain, "I was terrified of thunderstorms." His voice dropped, smile softening. "Until my dad carried me out in a storm, danced me around in it. Once I stopped screaming, I realized it was actually beautiful."
Grant had to turn away from that direct look.
"We'll have to strip in the mudroom," he said over his shoulder. "Gramsy doesn't like anyone tracking mud on her carpets."
"True southern woman," Coulson chuckled, sloshing after him back up the lawn to the house.
Simply slipping into dry clothes made Grant feel like he'd turned on a heater, and he found himself whistling softly as he followed Lady back down the main stairs to the kitchen, where Gramsy was slicing fresh peaches into three bowls.
"You're in Georgia, child," she said, when he raised his eyebrows at her.
"In the summer," he smiled, filling in the old thing she'd always said to him and Rosie. Outside, the rain had slowed to a drizzle, and the thunder's growl was faint.
Glancing down at Lady, Grant snuck two slices from under the knife, dropping one on the white tile, where the little spaniel gobbled it up.
"Grant!"
He couldn't help grinning at her shocked indignation, and the backhand across his bicep was more of a pat.
Gramsey was so small and fair, so open and carefree, Grant had often had trouble believing she was his father's mother. But then he'd catch the heavy hints of sadness when she looked at him sometimes, and he knew she was reminded of the boy she once loved.
"Dropping fruit on my floor." Gramsy tsked her tongue, wagged her small knife at him. "What kind of manners is that Mr. Coulson teaching you out there in the Wild West?"
"Oregon isn't the Wild West, that's Texas." He leaned on the counter, stuck his hands in the pockets of his jeans.
"Well, he says you're the best marksman he's ever seen, so I don't see much of a difference." Gramsy's grey curls bobbed around her face as she shook her head.
Grant felt a sudden heat in his cheeks, and he stared off out the half-open windows.
"But I like him. He's good for you, I can tell. And to think he turned his life upside down for you, left the job he loved, moved to the other side of the country to give you a fresh start... well. If that doesn't tell me he cares deeply about you, I don't know what does."
Grant bit his lip, wanting to shake his head. He didn't understand it. Coulson had agreed to that within 48 hours of meeting Grant—how could he care about a nutcase teenager that much that fast?
Maybe he'd ask Ms. Trina in their next session, after he and Coulson got back to Oregon. Or maybe not. After all it wasn't like he trusted her.
But after stealing Lola, Grant thought he might be starting to trust Coulson.
"Speak of the devil," Gramsy said, as Coulson appeared, now in jeans and a t-shirt himself.
"Uh-oh." Coulson raised his eyebrows. "Am I really that bad?"
Gramsy laughed, a light sound that lifted Grant's heart.
"Not at all, honey."
"Well, you have your faults." He bit back the 'sir' as Coulson's gaze slid to him.
"Such as?" The man spread his hands in a gesture of innocent confusion.
"You are a traitor to your state, cheering for the White Sox like that."
Coulson cracked into an honest chuckle. "Yes, my parents would be absolutely ashamed of me."
"And Grant grew up in Massachusetts but cheers for the Yankees." Gramsy raised her eyebrows at his glare. "Honey, it's nothing to be ashamed of, everyone cheers for the Yankees."
"Except you," Grant pointed out.
"You know very well I don't cheer for any baseball team but the Swainsboro Tigers," Gramsy said primly. "Now, let's take these peaches outside. The humidity makes them taste better, I promise."
Grant sat on the steps, Lady lying beside him, and mostly just listened to the adults talk. He hadn't actually visited Gramsy in several years, not since he'd been sent off to Lyman Ward.
As kids, he and Rosie had been sent here for two weeks out of the summer, while Mother and Father took Chistian and Thomas off to Europe or wherever. Rosie had declared Oakstone to be fairyland, or maybe Heaven. It was understood that they would never tell Gramsy about the things that happened back home. Oakstone was a safe place, and they wouldn't even think about Mother or any of that while they were there.
Now... Grant was looking forward to going home tomorrow. He liked his job at the pizzeria, and Coulson said he had enough money to start browsing the junkyards and dealers for something good. Grant wanted a truck, Ford, something classy, but not an antique. Maybe something like what Rory Jefferson had had, not that he'd deserved it. Grant twitched, shaking off the memories of Christian's gang, tuned back into Coulson and Gramsy's conversation.
"The yard needs some work," Coulson was saying. "Not much in the way of grass."
"Oh, you should take some cuttings back with you for some roses. Maybe some Teasing Georgia, or a Tahitian Sunset?"
"I've never tried growing roses before. But Grant's been a big help tilling, and putting in a bit of a vegetable garden. We've got more tomatoes than we know what to do with."
Grant smiled a little to himself. Putting in the garden had been fun. And Sal at the pizzeria had promised to show Grant how to make a good sauce.
Lady huffed a sigh, sprawled on her side so her head pressed against his thigh, and he ran a hand over her soft belly fur.
"Good girl," he whispered.
The sweetness of peaches and brown sugar syrup still lingered on his tongue, when the clouds broke, and a shaft of afternoon sunlight spilled through.
