They say your entire life flashes before your eyes when you're about to die. Maybe it's just the highlights. The best and the worst, a collection of all the outstanding moments. Or completely random insignificant ones that he didn't even recall happening. He doesn't give death much thought (everyone dies) let alone to speculate about the last thing that would run through his mind.
He knows now.
And they were wrong.
He doesn't see his life – just faces.
Rose.
Tommy.
May.
Coulson.
Simmons.
Fitz.
Skye.
Flashing by so fast they're a blur of colours. Reds, yellows, purples, greens. So many colours. So bright, too bright. He's dizzy. His eyes are heavy.
"Ward! Stay with me!"
"Trip!"
"Wake up!"
He needs to see her again. He forces them open.
"Skye."
He raises a hand to her cheek, she takes them between hers, "It's me," pressing her lips to his knuckles. "Stay with me, okay?"
He tries to nod. It hurts. Everything hurts.
He wants to sleep. Sleep sounded nice.
He wasn't leaving. It's just a nap. A nap was nice.
"Grant, please don't – don't leave me."
He wants to stay.
He was tired.
He wanted to sleep.
"Grant. Grant!"
The last thing he remembers is being shot.
The last thing he hears is his name.
The last thing he sees is Skye.
And then it's all black.