AN: This is dedicated to Annie :)

She wakes up with a head so heavy she wonders how many elephants have made their home in there. Her eyes open a crack but aside from the sliver of light creeping in under her door, its pitch black. She gropes on the table for the clock, seeing the numbers 04:23.

Shit. How had she fallen asleep? There was still so much to do, she tries to sit up, the world spins – oh god. Why was the world spinning? Her head throbs. Her hand shoots out to steady her, knocking something over.

"Easy."

She knows that voice. Ward's here. Why was he here? In – yes, it's her room. What was he doing in her room?

"What -" God, she sounded like a frog. Ward brings a cup to her lips and she realizes just how thirsty she is. "Can you help me up?"

He does, propping her against him as she tries to eat the crackers, managing three, before the nausea comes back full force. Skye takes the two pills, chasing them down with an entire glass of water.

"Why're you here?" She turns to the side, watching as Ward wrings a washcloth. It's nice, cool against her skin, soothing against her burning cheeks.

"You were at 103 before." He folds it with precision, placing it on her forehead before grabbing another. "We had to get it down."

He runs it over her arms getting the edge of her sleeve wet, around her bicep, over her elbows, down her forearm and wrist, massaging each of her fingers. He dunks it into the bowl, wrings the cloth and repeats the entire process with her other arm.

"You don't have to do this – Jemma would've,"

"I know." Ward removes the cloth from her forehead, pushing away the hair plastered to her skin. His movements are gentle, caressing her skin with the kind of touch one reserved for an infant. "I wanted to."

Skye feels her heart begin to pound, just like before (it's a reaction she's been fighting); the warm rush of something (she knows what it is but no, she won't admit it).She feels the prickle, hastily rubbing at her eyes.

"You should sleep."

"Don't go."

"I won't," he assures. "I'll be here if you need anything."

"No. Stay." Her fingers have latched onto the front of his shirt, tugging.

Skye's already half gone, but her grip is strong and she pulls sending him tumbling onto the bed. He braces himself on his arms so that he doesn't crush her. "Grant."

He stops fighting, but doesn't get under the covers (he doesn't need Coulson or May to kill him), lying back. Skye drapes herself over him, clinging like a starfish. There's a content sigh as she burrows her face against his chest. He wraps an arm around her, holding tight. "'S not the same."

"What is?"

"Team – you – gone – missing."

It's his imagination again, playing tricks. Either that or the meds talking. Like when people when people are drunk and they end up spouting all kinds of nonsense, the things their brain usually actively suppresses. He hears her breathing steady.

He skims his fingers against the exposed skin of her back, it's still warm, tracing patterns.

"'S nice."

"Sleep, Skye."

"Miss you."

"I miss you too." He presses his lips to her hairline, "I always do."