Okay, this isn't the best; it's honestly kinda crappy and rushed, but I just got this one idea in my head and I cannot let it go. So, here's my first Skyward fic in months.

Enjoy.

"You can love someone so much...but you can never love people as much as you can miss them." -John Green

She curls up in the corner, and she waits.

She waits and she waits and she waits, but deep down, she knows that Coulson isn't going to change his mind. She knows that he isn't going to come stumbling back itno the cabin, apologies falling from his lips. She knows that he's going to leave her here for days on end with no one to keep her company.

She dips her head between her knees, fingers curling around her ankles and she pulls her legs up to her chest. She swallows, forcing herself to breathe – to fight against the flickering panic searing through her middle, the heat of angry tears from slipping down her cheeks. Because there's nothing else that she can do but wait.

She stays there until the sun sets, darkness settling through the only window in the room. Her feet are bare, her having stripped them of her boots some time ago. Her toes curl against the hard wood as her eyes adjust to the light just as the outside does, waiting for the darkness to swallow her whole.

She almost laughs at the notion. The whole idea of being dark meant the absence of light; it meant that good was gone, that all that was left was to accept the fact that nothing could ever be the same. And that was what had happened here – the darkness had consumed her, taking away everything from her.

Idly, she slips her fingers from their pressed place against the bumps of her ankles and moves them upward, pulling at a loose string from the heavy bonds that are seemingly sealed to her skin. She pulls hard, but the string doesn't loosen. It stays – just like these casts on her arms, and just like the way that she's stuck here.

Before, she wouldn't have thought that she'd be the monster. She wouldn't have thought that she was the one that they were all hiding from, the one that they were all afraid of. May's ex (god, that had been one hell of a shock that even she hadn't seen coming) had hit her right in the core; he had aimed for the very pinpoint of her insecurities and twisted.

All she had ever wanted was to find a family – and look what it had done to her.

She remembers her little girl self drawing pictures of a dark-haired mother and father with crayons that she swiped from the corner store. She remembers dream after dream of a white-picket fence house with her, a mother, and a father; she remembers how she used to pretend that she wasn't alone, that other children in the orphanage were her brothers and sisters.

But then they would leave her out of the games because she was odd and different; every single couple who interviewed her and every single foster family she stayed with had left her in the dust wondering what the hell was wrong with her.

Now – now she knows. Now she knows why they hadn't wanted her.

She was a monster, and nobody could ever love a monster.

She just wants to be normal.

She pretends that her hands aren't shaking as she pulls herself up, pointer fingers wiping away the remnants of hot tears on her cheeks. Her legs are numb from being in the same position for so long, but she ignores the twinges shooting up her legs. Her eyes dart around as she slams the window shut, her fingers curling against the metal on the top.

Coulson hadn't left her with any weapons, telling her that it had been for her own protection. Her hours-ago self had accepted that, albeit warily; now, the absence of a gun made her nervous.

Then again, she was a human weapon.

She swallowed thickly.

Hell – she wasn't even human.

That part was still hard to wrap her head around. The Kree had created a race so long ago, and she was apart of that alien DNA. How had anyone not known? How had she not known?

A tightness in her chest blossoms, and she turns suddenly, slamming her hands against the walls. A scream echoes from her lungs, tearing into the walls as if they were made of tissue paper. She's a mess – a terrifyingly dangerous mess that no one wanted around.

She spends that night curled up on the couch, head tucked between her arms as she wills her powers to go away.

(It doesn't work.)

She spends the next day or so idly picking books of the shelf that lies on the far corner of the cabin. Apparently, Nick Fury liked to read; there are a few that she recognizes (and isn't surprised that they're there) like the S.H.I.E.L.D. handbook, The Hunt for Red October, and War and Peace. But then there are some that surprise her, like 101 Ways To Shoot A Bow and Alice and Wonderland. Really? Somehow, she can't see the former director reading children's books. And he can use a bow and arrow?

Minutes slip into hours as she explores every inch of the cabin, pushing emotions and thoughts into the back of her mind. She tries to remain blank, just like May had showed her.

It's on her third day there that she decides to take a stab at the electronic defenses that the cabin has. It takes her thirteen minutes and twenty seconds to disable the electronic fence around the property. Sloppy, she thinks, and she can almost hear Coulson's voice in her mind saying this isn't a vacation, agent, this is no time to be fooling around.

She grits her teeth and steps out into the stifling air, stripping down to her bra and underwear as she walks towards the lake. She's sick and tired of being trapped in that claustrophobic cabin for so long, and she's done.

The water feels cool against her skin as she dives in, her eyes stuttering shut as she does so. It feels nice – it feels new, and that's exactly what she needs. She stays in the lake for a while, just relaxing and living and breathing.

It's on the sixth day when it all comes to an end.

Looking back at it, she's almost glad that it all ended when it did.

She's asleep on the couch when it starts; a low rumbling that settles through her core, sending anxiety up in a black cloud towards the back of her mind. She thinks it's her at first, but a quick look at the not-trembling floor settles that. Her fingers itch for a weapon as she tosses on a jacket and slips on her boots, the sounds of shouting men and helicopters getting closer.

And she does what she does best – she runs.

Her feet hit the dirt, sticks cracking beneath as she bolts for the woods. There, they won't be able to find her; she can find a place to hide, maybe call Coulson and get him to explain what is going on.

But part of her mind whispers, what if Coulson is the one setting this up?

She swallows, her fingers tightening into her palm. But she continues, that little itch sweeping through her thoughts. She runs and she runs and she runs for what seems like hours, but most likely was only a few minutes. There's adrenaline rushing through her veins as she sprints, half-praying that her power won't kick in. Stay calm, she tells herself, because a seven-point earthquake wouldn't do anything but harm herself at the moment. Calm.

That's when she feels the bullet enter the space right above her right shoulder – and go clean through.

She cries out, unable to keep the pain silenced as she stumbles to the ground. Her hand goes to her shoulder instinctively; when she pulls it away, a dull numbness slinks through her veins, red sinking into her palms.

That night so long ago flashes through her mind – lying on the floor there, rasping for help. Clinging onto hope that someone could save her, that she wouldn't die so young down in Ian Quinn's basement with a bullet to the stomach. Ward's face flashes through her thoughts; how scared he had looked when she was dying, his fingers scraping over her hips and holding her tight.

She forces herself to push that out of her mind as she struggles to her feet, fuzziness darting into the edge of her vision. One hand, her bloody hand, presses to the side of her head as she tries to run, the pain sending jolts up her spine.

She's just so damn tired – tired of running, tired of hiding. Tired of being looked at like she was dangerous by the people she almost called family.

May's words echo through her mind: I don't know how to control her.

The ground starts shaking beneath her feet as another bullet slams into her lower back, sending her dropping like a stone. Her vision is spotty at best now as her head hits the ground, gasps tumbling from her chest as she fights to keep herself awake.

There're hands on her hips then, tugging her upwards. She claws at her unknown attacker weakly as they drag her away, the shaking getting even worse as the fractures in her arms sending spiraling pain up her arms.

She can't even muster a whisper as the darkness fills her vision, and she goes limp.

(Though, before she's pulled into unconsciousness, she almost swears that there are familiar dark eyes pulling her to safety, tucking her close.

But she knows better – because those illusions she had let go a long time ago.)

She hears bits of conversations when her head first decides to release her from the prison of sleep. The voices send a prick of familiarity up her side, but she can't pick apart from enemy or friend.

"It's dangerous. We can't keep–"

"We have to." A man's voice, too far away for her to recognize.

"She's deadly, and you know that."

Then a pause, before the lighter voice picks up again.

"I know how you feel for her, believe me, I do. But we can't do anything for her here; I'm not a doctor, and you sure as hell aren't."

A guttural growl. "You're asking me to abandon her. I did that once. I can't do that again."

"She is going to die."

Heavy breathing. She wants to shake out of this fuzziness, to scream, but she can't. She can't even open her eyes.

"I'll never see her again. I can't lose her again. I can't."

"If you don't do this, you will."

Another pause, this one longer. Before –

"I know." It's the lighter voice, sounding almost comforting. Why?

She feels the feather-touch of fingers against her cheeks, brushing carefully. There're lips against her forehead then, pressing a tender kiss there, igniting a sudden tug in her chest. She stirs, but bringing her senses into focus feels like pushing against a wall of water.

"I love you," she hears the man whisper, before he speaks again, this time louder. "I'm sorry, Skye."

There's another prick on her arm then as unconsciousness catches her in its embrace again, even as she fights harder than before. Because she wants to fight; she knows that voice. She's heard that voice in her dreams a thousand times, heard that voice scream her name, heard that voice whisper promises against her skin.

Grant?

When she wakes again, it's May that's rushing to her side, Coulson's hands on hers as they pull her from the dirt. She hears how and why and what the hell happened and why didn't they take her, but her head is fuzzy and she can't think and why is she thinking about Grant?

They debrief her after they're all back on board. How did she escape? Why are her wounds bandaged? Why was her communicator back on after being off for so long? What happened?

She can't answer any of those questions.

She doesn't know what happened. But she remembers him; she remembers that much at least.

He had saved her life, yet he had given her back to Coulson. Her mind is brimming with a thousand questions, but she doesn't tell them about Grant. She can't.

Some part of her warns her to keep that a secret.

She doesn't know much, but she does know this: Grant Ward saved her. He also told her that he still loves her; she doesn't know what to do about that part.

But she waits - because some part of her, deep, deep down, knows that she's going to see him again.

She'll be ready.

(She hopes.)

Um. Sorry? I didn't really know how to end it, so I rewrote the ending probably like twenty times before I finally settled on something that I sort of liked. Hope to see you guys again soon.