"One day you'll be gone."
"I'll stay for as long as you want me."
.
They say you should never make promises you can't keep. But then again, who would've thought that her clock would stop ticking?
Her hourglass is at a standstill but the sand still slips through his.
She watches them ebb away, slowly but surely.
In the fine lines surrounding Jemma's beaming smile. In the way Fitz's hands tremble. In the way Trip unknowingly rubs at his back.
She lives for the moments, savours them as one would slowly melt a piece of chocolate in their mouth, desperately trying to make it last. She commits the minute details to memory, locking them away for safekeeping.
The brief spark of pride in Coulson's eye. May's soft soothing voice.
Her memories are all she has to live with.
(She worries that one day she'll forget the way his eyes crinkle when he smiles.)
.
.
.
It's not their choice to leave. But none of them can stay.
.
.
.
He pretends not to notice, telling her time and time again that it didn't matter. But the truth remains, loud and clear.
Their days were numbered.
She sees him, in the morning as he rids himself of the scruff. How he'll run a hand through his hair, strands of grey peppering the sides. He'll catch her eye in the mirror and smile, a slight tilt of his lips.
You'll be jealous wrinkly old hags. She wishes Fitz was right.
She hates looking in the mirror, afraid to see what's reflected back. It was a reminder that where Grant was going, she wouldn't be following.
Skye takes his face in her hands, fingers tracing his features. The grooves etched in his forehead. The creases around his eyes. Her thumbs rub over his smooth cheeks, feeling his eyes burn into hers.
(They begin mistaking Grant. For her father. For her grandfather.)
But she doesn't leave.
Her lip trembles, eyes clenched shut. He draws her into his arms, lips pressed against her crown. He holds her tight, she clutches him tighter.
She won't leave.
.
.
.
"No."
"Between me and Mom, there'll be enough."
Skye won't force his hand. But their daughter fights for it – lives with the hope that one day he'll change his mind.
He won't.
"I won't put you through that. Either one of you."
And he means it.
"That's it? You're just going to leave us?"
"Sunny, how would you feel if someone shot me?"
"I'd kill them."
"If you'd kill someone for hurting me, how do you expect me to live knowing I'd hurt you?"
.
.
.
What good was it to live a thousand years when you have nothing to live for?
.
.
.
Time passes too quickly for her liking. At times months go by without her notice.
His hair turns white. His vision blurs. His hearing weakens. He doesn't move much and when he does, he needs support.
It's a long way from when they had met. That agent who'd slipped a bag over her head. Waking up to see his face before letting sleep pull her under again. Watching him teach their daughter to ride a bike, the way he'd patched her up when Becca had fallen.
She chooses to remember him as the man who loves her with everything in him.
Their last days are spent at home; Grant refuses to die in the hospital, attached to beeping machines. They watch movies where Skye watches him. Becca reads aloud from any book she can find, Shakespeare, Poe, Austen, Murakami, Brown, even her history textbook.
.
.
"Come here, sweetheart," her head's tucked under his chin, his arm draped over her back clutching her to him. His fingers gently comb through her tresses, "It's okay. Everything's going to be okay." Skye shakes her head. "You'll be okay, I know it. You're strong."
She can feel him slowly slipping away even as she tries so hard to latch on; she hardly leaves his side.
Maybe if she doesn't let go, he'll stay.
He doesn't.
Grant passes in the night. With her in his arms, their fingers entwined.
She wakes to a still heart and a cold embrace.
Her anguished wail brings their daughter running.
But she holds on to the other half of her whole.
.
.
How do you cope with the silence – where your sentence goes unfinished?
.
.
He's buried with the rest of their family. Grant had taken care of everything, made the necessary preparations. To spare her.
Always to spare her.
"Surrounded by darkness yet enfolded in light."
"I thought it was appropriate." Becca squeezes her shoulder, retreating to the path.
She crouches by the headstone, fingers running over the letters that formed his name. Grant Douglas Ward. Her best friend, protector, husband. She shuffles the flowers, arranging them in ROYGBIV order, wipes off the nonexistent dust.
.
.
"I'm sorry."
Skye acknowledges her birth father's condolences with a nod, letting him pull her into a hug. "It's time to leave."
"Mom, are you sure about this?"
She chances a glance at the row where her family lies. A final look before she goes.
She doesn't know if she'll come back, not sure if she wants to.
"Yes."
.
.
There was nothing left for her to bury.