I cannot wait until season 2. The pause is killing me - it's so hard for me to write SkyeWard now that I'm not seeing them on my iPad every week. I've written hundreds of unfitted stories of SkyeWard, yet can't bring myself to finish them. That sucks.

So, to anyone else who can't stand the lull - you're not alone.

"I could never hurt him enough to make his betrayal stop hurting. And it hurts, in every part of my body." -Veronica Roth, Insurgent

She dreams of their time together, vividly and achingly, so much that each night she wakes with the whisper of tears slipping on her cheeks. She tries to forget, she really does; but it's so hard to whisk away the feeling of his lips against hers, his hand cupping her cheek and kissing her. He had always kissed her, always touched her, like it was the last thing he would ever do — desperate and hopeful all at once. He had known, she realizes now. He must have known that whatever they had would have to be short and simple; yet, he had held her like he never wanted to let her go.

If he had been telling the truth — and that was a rather large if — then his feelings for her were real. She fights the memory of him, of his caresses, of his hands dwarfing hers; but she can't. She'd just as soon forget how to hack before being able to vanish him from her mind, from her lips, from her whole entire being — because her love for him was something seemingly out of a book; only, there was no happy ending. There was just her, alone, cursing his name.

But when she wakes up in a cold sweat for the umpteenth time, remnants of tear stains littering her cheeks, she knows that this has to stop. She has to get closure. She needs to get him out of her mind, once and for all.

So, of course, she goes to see him.

The light from the security camera blinks back at her as she waits at the barred door for them to signal her the green light. She had presented her badge to them, and now was just waiting for conformation.

Her fingers were tapping anxiously by her side, occasionally balling into fists. It's been nearly three months since his betrayal, since he'd been locked up tight in a prison so far out of reach that she had to take three different planes to get here. She's trembling; she tries to stop, her feet lightly scuffling against the ground, but it doesn't work. Nothing does. Not anymore.

The light flashes and then there's a beep, signaling it's unlock. She pushes it open with one hand, the other balling into a fist. She's prepared to scream at him, to tell him exactly what she thinks; but, the moment his eyes meet hers, all sound dies in her throat.

The guard brushes against her shoulder, telling her that she has ten minutes. And then the man is gone, leaving her alone with him.

He stares at her, eyes dark. There's a decent amount of stubble growing on his chin and handcuffs tight on his wrist. He's dressed in gray pants and a similarly colored shirt. But it's baggy on him; too baggy. He's skinner, she notices, pushing away the part of her that wants to be worried about him.

She clears her throat multiple times, but in the end, it's him who speaks first.

"Skye," he rasps, low and carrying a hint of sadness.

Her name on his lips brings a rush of anger; before she realizes it she's stepping towards him, her palm connecting with his cheek. When she draws it away, there's a red mark slowly forming. A mix of emotions fill her; there's relief, yes, as she realizes that she can hurt him. Can make him suffer for what he's done — both to her and the team. But then there's another part, one that makes her swallow thickly and immediately wishes that she can pull it back.

Instead, she steps back, folding her arms into each other. He doesn't remove his gaze from her though, not paying attention to the growing welt on his cheek. His eyes search hers, drawing a dash of heat curling in her stomach.

"I hate you," she hisses. "I hate you so freakin' much it hurts. I hate you because of what you did to FitzSimmons, to Coulson, to May, to me — I don't understand how. I just don't. I've thought and thought and thought and just don't understand. We were a family." Her voice breaks then, and his eyes flash with something she has come to see in the mirror time after time again: grief. "And I hate that I — I fell in love with you."

There's a something akin to a sob that comes from his throat. "I never meant for this to happen," he murmurs. "I'm so sorry, Skye. I'm so—"

"No," she spits. "You don't get a sorry. You don't get a second chance. I just want an explanation: why?"

"Garett took me in," he rushes to explain. "He raised me as his own—"

"He abused you!"

"He was all I had."

There's silence for a moment, before: "Where did I fit in?"

He shakes his head then, fingers tapping against the table. "You," he whispers with the utmost of gentleness. "Skye, you weren't part of the equation. You were never supposed to be here." He's staring at her now, just like he used to right before he —

"No," she breaks in. "No. Just — please. Stop. Tell me though; were your feelings for me — were they ever real?"

There's a pause as she glares at him, willing for him to answer. Just wanting so badly for him to tell her the truth.

"Yes," he speaks, and she closes her eyes. "They always were, Skye. I fell in love with you, too."

There's a lump rising in her throat, and before she could say something, the door opens and the guard steps in, feet clinking against the floor. "Time's up," the woman says roughly. "C'mon."

And then the woman is leading him past her; Skye backs away, because suddenly she can't breathe. Can't speak. Can't do anything, really, because all she wants to do is sink into a ball and never get up.

She pretends not to see the tears that fall down his face.

She pretends not to notice the ones that slip down hers.

She pretends that she's not in love with him.

But deep down, she knows that nothing will ever be the same.

Sorry this was so short.