Hey guys! Here's a little something I found lying around on my desktop.

Enjoy...the angst.

"You care so much you feel as though you will bleed to death with the pain of it." -J.K. Rowling

She's shaking.

She doesn't know why she's shaking. Her fingers rise to her lips, the prick of her thumb gliding over the rough skin before slipping down to her shoulder, defeated. Worn. Tired.

She's so tired. So tired of everything, so tired of the tests, of the looks, of the glares, of the stupid idiotic words that come out of their mouths that she can't seem to understand –

Because it hurts.

It hurts everywhere, from the creases between her toes to the constant, pounding, aching noise in her head. It won't stop; she won't stop.

Her knees curl up to her chest as she tucks her chin carefully between her knees. There are tears dripping down her cheeks, making their own path down the curves of her face between finally finding home in the juncture of her chest. She swallows thickly.

His face flashes her mind, the glimpse of a smile passing behind his eyes. She wants to reach for him, to tuck her chin beneath his collarbone and find home there. She'd always wanted to do that, ever since she'd met him. Something about him screamed sad, sad puppy. Worn puppy. Tired puppy. Limp puppy.

Unwanted. Abandoned.

That was part of why she had been drawn to him. He was unwanted, like her. He was tossed away like a piece of trash. He was like her. He was like her and he'd never hurt her, oh god, he'd never hurt her because he was like her and they were wrong, they were so, so wrong about him, and she'd listened, she'd put a bullet in him and it was all her fault, he was dead, dead, he was dead –

Her lips parted shakily. "Grant," she chokes out, quiet enough so now one can hear. She doesn't say anything else.

There's a hand on hers and she looks up, flinching away from the member. Her head is still pounding from the last incident; she doesn't want to cause another one.

She can still see the floor shaking. Everything had shattered. Crashing. Bleeding.

Her eyes meet Fitz's, and she looks at him, eyes darting away from the sudden light. It's bright. Too bright.

"Hey," he says, voice calm. Quiet. "You alright?"

She wants to laugh at the irony of that statement. Her? Alright? "No," she forces out, clenching her teeth as her hands curl by her sides. I'm not." She leans back against the wall, the makeshift cot shifting beneath her.

Fitz doesn't move. "Skye," he says. "Please. Please let me – let us – help you."

She can feel it coming on again. That pounding in her head, threatening to tear her skull apart. Her mouth parts to scream, to warn someone.

She's dangerous.

A monster.

"Get out," she grits. "Now."

He follows her instructions quickly, his toes finding their way around all of the equipment, the automatic door sliding shut behind him. She doesn't move.

The shaking starts. It's minimum, but it's enough to cause her to want to tear herself in two. She'd never hurt anyone then. She'd never – she'd be safe. They'd be safe.

She wants Grant.

She knows that she shouldn't. She knows that she shouldn't want the man who'd killed for her, who'd been convicted of being a traitor right under the noses. She knows she's shouldn't, yet she does, and god, why does it all hurt?

But he's dead, her mind screams for her to remember. You. Killed. Him. He was defenseless, and you killed him.

Monster, her conscience screams. Dirty little monster.

She screams, and the shaking starts faster.

Grant.

Yup. I'm evil. It's just a little drabble. Stop crying.