Heads up guys; this one is a bit darker than my previous Skye/Ward stories. Sorry, but this little idea just popped into my head and wouldn't let me enjoy my Saturday morning in peace.

"It's only after we've lost everything that we're free to do anything." -Chuck Palahniuk

They had found out why she had bled so much, more than any human ever should have ever had a loss of blood, more than anything else; one gunshot had pierced, with such intensity, her lower stomach, while the other landed right below her left breast. He, along with the rest of the team, had found out why there was so much, why the blood had slinked down her thighs, spilling and blossoming into the surgical table with a wayward pattern of scarlet.

She had been pregnant.

His eyes had widened at the news, his free fist falling loose in their previous clenched state – he had been holding her lifeless, limp hand at the time when the doctor's lips had moved (a kind woman who had worked with S.H.I.E.L.D for many years, providing her services after she had been taken out of commission with a gunshot to the leg, permanently causing a limp) and he had nearly dropped his hand from hers, instead gaining enough closure of mind to just pause from the movements of his thumb against her palm.

The older woman had sounded pitiful at the news, waving her hands in a way that was supposed to calm them – but it didn't. Simmons had burst into tears when the words left the doctor's lips; Fitz clenched his fists so tight Ward could see the nail marks that would surely be there the next morning; May had remained placid, as always; but Coulson? The man had took one look at his unconscious protégé before turning on the dime and leaving the room, as different as his reaction had been to when he found her bleeding on the floor of the cellar, whispering for someone, anyone, to help her.

Then the doctor, with Coulson absent, had asked if they knew who the father was; if the father was around, surely he would like to know?

The question, littered with only good intentions, cause the entire team to freeze and glance wayward looks at each other. Who had been the father? FitzSimmons was lost, as was May. The only one with confusion not portrayed in his features was Ward; his face, instead, was covered in grief.

He remembers their one night together, in a tangle of sheets and blankets and hushed glances – he remembers her leaving in the morning, with him feigning sleep on his bed in the darkened room. They hadn't spoken for a day after before she appeared, nudged him, and announced she needed more training.

It had quickly become clear that a night after too much alcohol and too much pain, was not to be mentioned again. He had abided by the rules, trying desperately to wipe the memory of that night from his thoughts. But he hadn't been able too, choosing instead to keep it buried within the section of memories that were not to be thought of again.

She had been pregnant; and he had been the father.

He dropped her hand at the sudden realization, before turning and slamming his fist tightly into the wall beside her bedside. The doctor, instead of reprimanding him, only shook her head once before stepping out the door to give them some privacy.

The rest of the team hadn't made the connection yet, with confusion and pain still blossomed across their features. And he had hoped they never would; in order to make sure so, he asked them to leave the room in order for him to have some time alone with her, to comfort him.

Right away, FitzSimmons abided to his request. May took a little longer, eyeing him with some suspicion before slipping out in a manner so different than the science members of the team had.

Then they were alone, just him, her, and the thoughts of a child that had never been born, who never would be.

And then the tears finally came, allowing themselves to break free after many nights of being hidden. They leaked down his cheeks with such quickness that he didn't even try to wipe them off; he instead bent on his knees beside her, pressing his forehead against her hip, and sobbed like a boy who had never sobbed before.

He cried for her pain, for his grief, and their dead child. He cried for hours and hours it seemed; but when he finished he took a shaky breath and made to stand up –

– only to feel his palm with slight pressure set against it, with a former limp hand rubbing his palm, as he had hers, and when he turned, he met the brown eyes of a woman long gone.

"Skye," he rasped. He tried to say more, but the lump in his throat prevented him.

"Ward," she whispered, voice rough from sleep and pain. "Ward – what happened?"

And he told her, as tears blossomed and feel freely down her cheeks, for she hadn't known she had been pregnant.

When she was released from the medical ward, it was a long and slow process to make sure she could be able to heal fully – both physically and emotionally. He was there every step of the way thought, holding her hand as she took her first steps since the accident, holding her in his arms as they both cried at their joined loss.

But as time sped by, wounds, both invisible and apparent, began to heal, and the pair slowly began to adjust to life before.

The rest of the team had noticed their newfound bond, but carefully avoided it. Protocol be damned, Coulson had said. If he didn't see that anything was going on, then it didn't happen.

For once Ward was grateful that the man was able to overlook and allow them their peace.

Months had passed since the accident, when Skye had emerged from her bunk, eyes red from crying, and announced she was ready to begin training again.

And the cycle started all over again; this time though, hell itself would have to keep him apart from her.

For some reason I can only write sad and painful Skye/Ward.