Okay, I'm literately sobbing while I write this. SkyeWard, I mean they're just...I've got chills. We won't get to see them for another five months. But the pure, raw emotion that they reveal? I will never be the same again. Not after aos. Not after this.

On that wonderfully happy note, hope you guys enjoy.

"There are wounds that never show on the body that are deeper and more hurtful than anything that bleeds." -Laurell K. Hamilton

His eyes seem dead, cold, empty. They are lost in a sea of pure blankness as her sight locks with his, her front teeth digging into her tongue as if in an effort not to run at him. Not to go into his arms. Not to feel his warmth around her, holding her close and carefully, as if he would never let her go. But then — there is a flash of something, a barely recognizable piece of emotion that forces her to inhale sharply, the slight whistle of the wind spilling through her teeth.

Her heart pounds.

(And you? What do you want?

What I want — is to stay here with you. And pretend the world outside doesn't exist.)

Her fingers tap a shaky pattern on her upper thighs, a tell that forces his pupils to dilate, the brown coloring flickering back and forth, again and again, as the tips of her hands spell out an unyielding tone against her frayed jeans. It's cold in the cell, she notices, as a brush of icy wind blows across her bare shoulders, forcing goosebumps to rise, slipping over her like the skin was forming anew. Her fingers still then, moving upward and placing themselves on her upper arms, across her body, forming a sort of protection shield, both from him and the cold. She isn't scared of him — no, not by a long shot. It's different than that. She's terrified.

But not of him, physically. She's terrified of what she feels for him, of how she could feel such strong feelings for a man who was no matter than a monster. He was the kind that they fought to put down, fought to keep hidden from the world as not to cause mass panic. But he had slipped through their ranks, broke down her walls, tore her apart from the inside out. Her back is against the wall, one heel propped up slightly against the back of the cold, metal door. The back of her head brushes against the metal bars and she nearly flinches — only to stop as he makes to stand, one hand lying limply by his side, the other reaching towards her.

It's only when he stops all motion that she realizes one of her hands has jolted down, her palm pressed harshly against the handle of the gun she has hidden in the back of her jeans. His eyes are fixated there, and he doesn't move as she breathes, in and out, over and over again. Her back teeth grind together, a little motion that she used to do when she was younger, in the orphanage. The nuns had eventually nursed her out of the habit, saying she would ruin her teeth, but it always came back in times of worry. In times of fear.

His lips part, but when she shrinks back, one hand on the gun while the other slips onto the slippery metal of the door's handle behind her, his lips slam shut again, forming a firm line. His eyes, once having carried the ever slightest of smile lines, now only carried the harsh whispers of pain. There's a bit of blood on his hairline, she offhandedly notices, paired with the same rusty colored that decorates his knuckles. Torture, the brush of a voice runs through her mind, and she shivers again — this time, not from the cold.

(Be careful.

You too.)

She speaks first, her voice low pitched against the stones of the small area, her fingers slowly inching away from the gun at her hip. "Was any of it real?" She tries to keep her voice steady, void of emotion, but it doesn't work. The crack in her tone is clearly heard, and from the look he's giving her right now, she knows that he's not going to forget it.

His tone is matched to hers, though his was more akin to something called regret. "Was any of what?"

"Don't play with me," she chokes, desperately trying to keep the tears back. "Don't. Not now. Not after everything you've done."

(You think I had a part in that? That I would let that happen to you? You know how I feel about you, Skye.

Wait. So even though you've been lying. To everyone. About everything. You're saying your feelings for me —

They're real, Skye. They always have been.)

"Everything I've done?" he asks, his eyebrows raising. He takes a step forward, but she doesn't back down. She straightens, knowing that if he tried anything, he'd be down in a hot second curtsy of the Night-Night gun Trip has currently pointed at his head from the opposite building. That sparks a wave of panic through her, remembering that little bit of information, but she keeps herself calm — the best she can, that is. "Tell me, Skye," he whispers, his voice shaking on her name. "I know what I've done. I don't know why you're here. What more do you want from me?"

"Everything," the words spill out. It's then that all the air disappears from the room; she feels like she can't breathe, her heart pounding desperately in her chest. A coil of heat burns in her middle as he looks at her, for that moment, in a way he used to, before everything. Before.

She wishes she could go back.

She wishes he wasn't HYDRA.

She wishes that she never would've been taken from the van. Maybe then she wouldn't be feeling like this. Maybe she'd still be with Miles, her heart unbroken. She never would've fallen in love.

But she can't.

(You've killed — I don't know how many people. You gonna kill me now?

No. I would never hurt you.)

This forces her to breath again, a shaky sound that penetrates the walls. Her thoughts are tumbling and blurry, her head is pounding, but she only stares point-blank at him, her eyes locked with his. "Was any of it real?" she demands, the question quickly running on a loop through her mind, flashing across her eyelids.

When he finally speaks, she's shaking. "Yes," he breathes.

(Someday. Someday, you'll understand.)

*curls into a ball and sobs for the rest of the night while scrolling through tumblr and promptly sobbing even more*