The White Silence

by starshine

After they crash in the Canadian mountains, Ward must get an injured Skye to Providence. The fact that he is an enemy of SHIELD is of little importance in the face of hypothermia threatening to set in.

There was a story he had once read. One of Garrett's assignments, but then everything he had ever read had been an assignment of his. Somebody, once, had tried to impress onto Ward just how much unhealthy control John had been exerting over him, and had used the books as one of the examples. Which, no matter how attentive and amendable he had been (and he had been all that or more, because he had so wanted for something, anything, to just make sense in his head after so long) - still, the book list as a means of control had only made a very partial sense. Matterhorn? Well, Ward could see how a war novel written from a perspective of a soldier and presenting only one side of the conflict could be limiting instead of eye-opening. Whatever that one story he was thinking about now was called... He could not.

It was about Alaska of all places. About exploration and gold fever. A guy who had to get somewhere, and somehow had decided he'd go alone. Some centuries ago, no GPS in sight. No fancy hi-tech Antarctic clothing. The entire story had been about walking and about cold. Ward had still liked it a lot for the primitive, man-against-elements survival angle. He even remembered saying so to John, even if he couldn't for the life of him remember the title. But then, it could just be the cold - the one around him - getting to him. Cold made people do funny things. Want to lie down and sleep. Undress, even. Ward could not picturing himself wanting to undress right now, not with the way all his muscles hurt from shivering. Lying down, on the other hand, was slowly acquiring a frightening appeal.

He moved his hands experimentally to make fists, but still could not tell if he was successful or not without looking. Feeling and movement in his limbs was a long forgotten story. He could still stand up and walk, though. There were no hills, just the white, snowy forest that erased any sense of distance or direction from his already slow mind. He could do a hundred steps more, would that be alright? And then maybe another hundred, but he wasn't going to think about it right away because it made the entire plan seem insurmountable. A hundred steps, he could do. If he stopped carrying her in the bridal carry. It just wasn't feasible anymore, not with the way he needed to look down to avoid stumbling and the way his arms felt dead even now, when he wasn't clutching her to him anymore. She would just slip from his grasp again, sending them both to the ground.

"After fifty below, a man should travel with a partner." It had been the story's catchphrase. It wasn't fifty below, not even the night had come close to that, but the problem was the time they had already spent outside.

If he had a partner, he'd... Well, he'd send him for help, and he'd stay with Skye. Or they'd take turns carrying her. At the very least, he'd be able to discuss strategy with him... Or her. Instead of wondering if he was slowly going soft in the head from all the cold and silence around him.

Ha hadn't wanted to do the fireman carry because he hadn't been sure if there could have been some internal damage after the crash. If there was, he'd definitely make it worse by putting her over his shoulder, but there was no way he could make his arms flex and hold her weight anymore. And she hasn't been awake for hours, she didn't seem in pain. Maybe because of the cold. Maybe because she had been bleeding inside? Maybe she was already dead? He would not search for a pulse, for he would not notice one under his dead fingers anyway and didn't want to make her colder. Actually, he would not think about that anymore. He would think about the hundred steps. And getting up from his knees before that.

Screw everyone who ever said compartmentalization was unhealthy.

Ward bent down and slowly moved Skye to lie over his right shoulder. Once done, the next step of straightening his knees seemed impossible for a while, because he could not use his hands to get impulse and how was this a good idea? He did manage, somehow, and once he was upright and not rolling around in knee deep snow he found he could lock the knees and make a step. And then another one. When he counted nine, he was completely sure he'd never get to hundred. By the time he got to thirty, his heart was beating so loudly in his ears, he could not hear anything around him.

The forest had been eerie silent yesterday already, when Skye was still able to walk slowly by his side and talk about wild animals and their chances to reach the Providence before nightfall. The chances had been less than zero, Ward had known, but he could not tell her that. She had been in pain from the beginning, but had insisted it was from being thrown to the ground and getting her ribcage bruised. Skye had grown silent as the sun went down, and could not keep walking way before the midnight. He had tried to talk at her instead for a little while, but then, he had never been any good at that. They had no hope to build a fire, that without any lighter in their pockets and any access to the helicopter that had rolled down a small ravine after they had jumped off it. Ward had simply picked her up and walked through the night.

Now morning has come, and everything was silent. Jack London had a story named The White Silence, and wasn't it the perfect description of what was going on? It was a different story than the one he's been thinking about earlier, even if he could have sworn people ended up dying in both? Which was depressing. Still, Ward had loved most of Jack London books since he had been a kid. He did write awesome dog stories.

He remembered the he had meant to count his steps then, and wondered if it would be alright to say he had done fifty steps all in all. He had been moving, surely he had done that much? Or maybe even sixty? More than halfway there, then. It had to be?

He gritted his teeth, and labelled the next step thirty one.

Funny how he wasn't even cold anymore. There had been a time when he could not stop shivering, and damn that had hurt, but now he wasn't anymore and that was good. Training said it was a damn red flag, but what did these people know anyway? He could hold onto Skye more securely this way. Not shivering was a definite win. Resting... Resting was forbidden. He did know that. And look. More than a hundred steps - and he was still walking.

Something seemed to shut down in his brain after that, because he couldn't quite remember what he had thought about or what he had done (walked, walked, walked) in a while. He hadn't been resting, he was sure of that, and looking back he could tell that he hadn't been deviating from his route. Everything hurt, but not in a bruised, beat down kind of way. It felt like being very ill, but not really, and weak, and not quite sane in the worst way, since it reminded him of his post- SHIELD downfall brush with torture by sleep deprivation. For an illegal organization, they managed to do quite well for themselves - and quite badly by their prisoners. What he hated most was not being quite sure if all the limbs were still attached, though, and having to look to know that Skye was still slumped on his shoulder.

She was completely white. Whiter the before? And were these snowflakes on her lips?

He stumbled and fell. There had been something on the ground. A branch hidden under the snow. Or maybe not. His right arm felt weird - not painful but weird, and maybe the angle of his wrist wasn't quite right either. He really could not tell. He had tried to break the fall with it and avoid rolling on top of Skye, so if it got twisted, he wasn't really surprised. The important thing was that Skye had had snowflakes on her lips. It had distracted him, because it shouldn't have happened. It hadn't been snowing since sunrise. She couldn't be that cold. She couldn't. Couldn't.

He dry heaved several times, and had a vague recollection that it had something to do with the not-pain in his arm, and then... Then he was choking, fighting to suck in big agonized breaths that made strange, broken sounds when they reached his lungs. His eyes were burning, and it was not a figure of speech. Tears felt burning hot on his skin, even if they froze really quickly.

He had never been afraid of the wilderness and the untamed elements of nature before. Well. Never was a lie. Of course he had been afraid once. His first day alone in the woods, he must have been terrified. It had rained and it had been terribly cold. Ward remembered that it had happened, even though he could no longer recall the sensations of it. And now, crawling to the coordinates that might or might not offer them a fighting chance, he still hadn't... Hadn't really been afraid. He had known that he wouldn't die there, and he wouldn't let her die. It had seem impossible.

But that had been a lie, hadn't it? Because whatever he could do wasn't going to be enough. No training, no handy gadget would get them out of this snowy forest in time. The cold would get them just as surely as a bullet would, because there had been snowflakes on Skye's lips, and that image was somehow worse than the bloody stomach wound from when she had been shot by Quinn. Maybe because then there had been nothing he could do, and now...

He didn't dare look again. He also didn't dare try to pick her up, because this time he simply knew he could not do it. It took all the strength he had to simply pull her against a tree where the snow was thin and the ground was somewhat visible, and where other bushes would protect her from the wind somewhat, raise his arm and check that the fracture wasn't an open one, and then to messily take off his own jacket and wrap the extra layer tightly around Skye's upper body, making sure she was isolated from the ground. By the time he had finished there was a thin layer of ice on his face that he impatiently shook off, but overall, he was almost hot from all the physical activity. The jacket didn't feel like a loss, and he also felt calmer. It looked like he didn't have to choose what to do anymore. There was literally only one thing left. Only one.

He rolled the long-sleeves of his shirt up for extra comfort and staggered on. He would have cried, had that helped anything. He would have felt terror and panic and dejection at leaving her behind, and he guessed he did. But much as he wanted to lie beside her and try to wake her and share what was left of their body heat... That would be a true death sentence if he did.

Had he been counting, he could maybe figure out how far away for the base he was. But he hadn't been. And he didn't know. Starting now would not accomplish anything. He would walk until he wouldn't anymore, and hope that there would be someone in Providence whom he could convince to bring Skye help.

The sound of shots being fired woke him up. Brought him back. Whatever. He could never master the art of sleeping on his feet. John said it was a myth. John also said that a bullet was the best solution for when there wasn't a way out. But that didn't quite apply here, since Ward still had to accomplish something, and so he held his hands up. Tried to. He couldn't figure his limbs out anymore. And he kept walking, even after the second warning shot, because there was a shelter in here somewhere and he had to bring back help.

Next thing he knew, there was a hangar door opening in front of him, and people coming out with automatic weapons. They wanted him to kneel and he did, because standing and kneeling was the same and he was way too tired. His hands were up, weren't they? No, they weren't. No wonder Coulson sounded so angry. Ward pressed them to the ground instead, it was easier and it might make them happy. The problem was, he didn't seem to have enough balance left even for that. The ground swam and came rushing at him, and that was... And...

And...

Weapons? No, he wasn't there because of that. Why was he on the ground, anyway? Lying down was The Big No.

"Skye," he managed. He got rolled over in the meanwhile, which made sitting up somewhat easier. Pointing back, in the direction he came from, was still an impossible task. On second thought, maybe the problem wasn't only in his lack of strength. Coordination also seemed off. "Skye".

They talked over him, while he just laid there and tried to make out the sounds. The rifle made its presence in his field of vision once more, but ended falling to the ground to the right side of him. Someone's hand was on his shoulder, shaking him.

"Where, where is she?"

"Just follow his trail, man."

"It hasn't snowed at all today."

"Ward, is she far?"

Far? He didn't know. Couldn't remember. If she was too far, would they not go after her?

"No. No. No."

Full sentences were an impossibility. Someone left. Coulson? The reality became tunneled and bleak, then went away for a while until a sharp pain behind his ear made him open his eyes again. Simmons' face was floating over him, her eyes hard. When he failed to lock his eyes on her, she pinched him again.

"What is your name?" She asked, and when he didn't answer outright she made a move to pinch him for a third time. It did help, a little, at least with the swimming in his eyes. "What is your name?"

"Grant Ward."

"When were you born?"

He stared for a second, unable to care and not quite sure he remembered. Now that he was lying down, all he wanted was to sleep. Not being able to was a punishment much worse than any pain Simmons could unleash on him. And...

"Skye..."

Simmons' eyes changed at that, or maybe he was making things up at this point. She moved her hand, not to pinch but to hover over him. She finally settled at running her fingers over his hair and shaking the icicles away almost gently.

"Coulson and Fitz are bringing around the sleds. We will find her. Now I need you to look at me. Can you tell me how old you are?"

He had finally figured that one out. "Eighty three. Nineteen eighty three." He hoped she would not want the exact date. It was somehow erased info, and he could not concentrate enough to remember it right. There had been a birthday in May, but he wasn't quite sure it was his.

"Are you cold?"

"Not anymore."

He would rather she went with Coulson already then stay here by him, asking pointless questions. He'd just sleep this away. He wasn't cold and he wasn't in pain, and all he needed was a hole to hide in and be left alone for a while.

"He is severely hypothermic and..." Was that Trip talking? Simmons made to take his gloves off, but stopped when she couldn't manage it immediately. "He probably has high degree frostbite."

"You need to be very careful removing his clothes."

"I'll get him under hot shower, immobilize his hands and supplement glucose and liquids."

"It won't be enough," sentenced Simmons. "He is very slow and obviously confused. Getting rid of one's clothes is paradox behavior. You have to start him on a warmed up saline solution and keep an eye on the possibility of circulatory collapse."

He got that she was upset about his lack of jacket, but did not have the loquacity to explain further beyond muttering another "Skye."

There were hands under his head and under his shoulders, and Trip definitely wanted something from him, but when Ward tried to help by pushing himself up, the man just hushed him and told him to stay put. He was happy to comply, and since that was the first opportunity to close his eyes in peace, he gladly allowed himself to do just that.

Next thing he knew, something very loud was happening over his head and May was cutting away his t-shirt with a pair of kitchen scissors right at his neck. It scared him badly enough to try and get away from her, even though the scissors were right in his face and he should have thought better of it, shouldn't he? Studied the situation and the environment before acting. Because as soon as he moved, he found out that his right arm was immobilized in a makeshift cast and wouldn't move at all, and his left was being worked on by Trip. All in all, it made him flail badly and hit his head against the wall when the floor proved to be slippery and full of water. Still, his legs were free and worked beautifully. May got thrown off him and into the opposite wall, but before he could stand up Trip locked his left hand in a mean block and pressed him back against the wall. Ward found had no way to fight him, not really. And why should he? He had always known they would be pissed at him. He didn't come here to fight them. He only ever came here because of...

"Skye. I couldn't carry her. I couldn't... " he chocked and suddenly there were snowflakes on blue lips and all fight was gone from him. There was no air and the water was getting into his mouth. Why was there water falling over the three of them? May and Trip were soaked, and the floor tiles were wet. Not snowy. Wet. That made no sense.

"We found her." And that was May again, fingers gripping his face to make him look at her. "She will be OK. She is made of stronger stuff than you. Then any of us."

He... He had known that, hadn't he? But had they? Or were they trying to lead him on and make him spill his guts about her? It wasn't going to happen. She had run away from SHIELD for a reason. Not a very good one, but still her own. Ward might have wanted to take her back to Coulson the minute he saw her, but he would have never done so against her will had there been any other way to save her.

"Simmons is with her right now. Will you be quiet?" asked Trip. "Please be quiet. I don't think your body can stand a sedative right now."

He nodded and slumped back against the wall telling himself it was alright. Surviving this while Skye did not had been the only thing to be afraid of, and he didn't need to worry about what SHIELD would decide to do with him next. The water was nice, and hot, and it somehow made sense, but for some reason Ward was beginning to shiver uncontrollably, which had not been the case before. Trip started him on an IV drip that burned, he literally could feel the heat go up his arm and inside his chest. The shivering only got worse after that, to the point where he couldn't keep his hands steady enough to let Trip work on his fingers. His waxy, dead looking fingers. The man run his hand up and down, very careful and very frowning.

"Does it hurt?" He asked.

Ward did not answer. In truth, he could not feel the touch at all. Trip smiled a perfectly false smile, and went on to help May work on removing his footwear.

Moving from the shower stall to the medical area was a surreal affair. Trip was adamant that he wasn't allowed to walk, and telling him that he had walked for over 30 hours already, with Skye in his arms for the most part of it, didn't quite bring the result he had expected. All it led to was a short, messy and wet transfer to a stretcher, after which Ward got a handful of towels that he wasn't quite allowed to use himself, and a standard issue SHIELD gym shirt and pants that he only managed to get on thanks to May. The right sleeve had to be cut in order to fit over the cast and the IV line. All this was topped by two thermal and a bunch of normal blankets.

All procedures aside, he seemed quite unable to stay awake for long, because before he knew it, May was rousing him again and instructing him to move over to a standard bed. He complied, taking the blankets while trying to appear like he didn't care. He was getting progressively colder instead of warmer, how was that even possible? And his arm hurt. If fact, once he realized that it hurt, he seemed unable to let go of the sensation. Which was absurd. It wasn't like he hadn't had broken bones before. But it wasn't only that. His entire body hurt. The worst was that he was still completely numb, to the point of not quite realizing that Simmons was putting a second IV line into him until he actually saw her doing it, but the pain was licking at his skin anyway. His hands and feet felt on fire, making him fidget desperately wondering if changing position could help.

Simmons hung the second hot IV bag over his head and pressed her lips together in a way that signaled just how upset she was with this situation. Everything she said - mostly to Trip - sounded clipped. Ward followed her with his eyes, feeling increasingly miserable at hoarding the time she would probably rather spend on Skye. When she attached the EKG line and the arterial pressure sleeve and shook her head at the results, he could not stand it any longer.

"I am sorry," he muttered under his breath. She froze.

"What was that?"

"So... Eh... Thank you."

Was that better? She smiled, but it wasn't a happy smile. Now that Ward thought about that, she never looked quite happy when she had to patch him up. Had she always been suspicious of him? He felt strangely upset about that, to the point where he didn't feel like he should ask about Skye anymore, even though Simmons would know for sure. The fact that she was by him and not by her, or crying on the floor somewhere meant that Skye was out of danger, surely. He still wanted to hear the words. He had no way of knowing just long would it take for them to decide he was fit enough to be transferred to a cell somewhere. Would they let him see her before then?

"It's alright. Try to be quiet," Simmons admonished, but the tone was gentle. Ward nodded in agreement, but somehow she frowned anyway. "Are you in pain?"

"It's alright," he shrugged, which only seemed to make her angrier. It also made her disappear from his bedside for a while, and come back with a needle in hand. She reached under all the blankets and injected something under the skin of his biceps.

"Morphine," she announced curtly. "You can have another shot whenever you want. And you will speak up the moment you need something, because this is going to be hell, Ward, and you could lose you fingers and your toes and your entire feet, do you understand that? You arterial pressure doesn't go over hundred no matter how much liquids I put into you, your heart rate is that of a dying man, your core temperature... Well, I don't have that data, because you are a colleague and you are awake and I am not going to put a rectal thermometer into you... Not to mention that I don't have one here. Ah, and your glucose is borderline low even on a glucose drip. Oh! Would you like a cup of hot cocoa?"

"What?"

"Hot cocoa. Do you think you could stomach a cup? You aren't getting a third IV from me, but oral intake might help. Trip, would you get him one? Don't worry if you can't quite manage it, Ward. Just take a look and then decide."

"Wanna marshmallows in that, snowman?" Quipped Trip, and somehow that was it. The last drop. Because Ward was very much trying to hold it together, and frankly, this was not quite the safe house he would have chosen to recover from a rather nerve wracking and tiring ordeal. It was enemy territory, a hostile environment that he'd walked into exclusively for Skye's sake. He would not have attempted the trek to Providence had he been alone, would have just shrugged and stayed put and maybe taken John's advice on hopeless situations. Upon arrival, he'd fully expected them to throw him into some dark little cell and leave to care about Skye. But Trip had carried him to the shower and May had toweled him off and Fitz had brought the warming pads that were now carefully tied around his feet. From the weird look of them, Ward was sure he had just made them from whatever was on hand.

He would not be able to stomach any of this on a good day - forget enhancing interrogation techniques, his worst everyday fear in detainment had been to find anyone of them waiting for him in the interrogation cell.

And now, they were somehow all there: Simmons and Fitz and Trip and May. Even Coulson was perched on an examination table in the corner, looking his bland but inscrutable self. All eyeing him, laying there clad in clothes and blankets with little SHIELD symbols on them. He shivered, not able to hide just how uncomfortable he was. Part of him still very much hoped they would think things through and throw him out to fend for himself. The White Silence out there seemed like a good metaphor for his entire life anyway, he'd probably be more comfortable there.

But not before getting to see Skye.

He looked away. He would have turned his face away for good measure, but it would not really hide anything, would it? John used to say... Well, he actually used to say that not looking at the fist wouldn't soften the blow, but it was close enough, wasn't it?

"Maybe later," said Trip, and it took Ward a second to realize that he was still talking about the damn chocolate drink.

"Yeah. He needs to rest. Let's go."

People filed out, Simmons after fidgeting with his drips and Fitz after checking on the heaters (drip heaters, foot heaters, and thermal blankets, all plugged neatly into a wall one next to the other for easy control and access). All except Coulson. The new Director of SHIELD drew nearer, and for all Ward wanted to just curl up in a ball, he made himself look at him squarely. It was as hard as it had been the last time he did it, just after John's death. Ward had spent weeks in what someone had told him was shock, once they figured out he didn't know squat about Hydra and started talking to him with reasonable indoor voices, and in hindsight it might have been exactly that. There were entire days of it he didn't quite remember. But that moment, having been dragged in front of Coulson by May, he remembered clearly, for it had been one of the rare instances of clarity in an otherwise confusing, miserable mess. He might have suspected it strongly before, but when Coulson of all people had sent him away without a second look or question... It had been the moment he understood exactly how terrible a monster he had become and just how impossible any hope of ever coming back from it was and would forever be.

"What happened to her?" Asked Coulson, and Ward kicked himself a little for not expecting that question, and thinking the man could be angling for something to do with Ward himself.

"You will have to ask her yourself," he answered quietly. Skye hadn't wanted to come back to the team, but it had had more to do with her being angry after discovering some selected SHIELD procedural "policies" than real concern for her safety after her special power reveal. Trust Skye to give up everything she ever had for a question of morality.

Coulson nodded, curiously satisfied with that answer.

"You came all the way back from the crash site?" Ward nodded. So they had detected the crash. Didn't come to investigate, though. He'd known they wouldn't. The new SHIELD simply didn't have that kind of manpower anymore. "Carrying her."

"Not all the way."

"Only half of it, then." Apparently the remark had been deemed funny. The Director smiled briefly, and came closer to Ward. He wished he'd at least be able to sit up. Being interrogated in a bed was somehow more difficult than doing it strapped to an interrogation chair.

"That was very brave of you," said Coulson. His hand came up and settled on Ward's splintered arm briefly, probably for lack of any other part of him that was uncovered and within easy reach. He then pressed on before Ward could as much as blink. "You can be a surprisingly good man when you put your heart to it, Ward. We will talk about it later. When you are on the mend. How does that sound?"

It sounded terrifying in how much he didn't want it. How much he wished he'd get no new "conversations" from the man and just get to hold onto their previous one - better defined as verbal extermination. He'd needed a lot of time and work to come to terms with what he'd heard from Coulson then, because to fully accept that he had completed his own metaphorical grave at his first try and whatever he did now, there would be no chances to make it right, ever, hadn't been exactly easy.

"Yes, sir."

The man didn't correct him, for which he was thankful. He was even more thankful that he was gone shortly afterwards. Ward gave up any presence at stoicism after that and curled miserably on his side, trying to fight for warmth that still wasn't there and against the nausea and pain that was again awakening in his icy limbs. They had all come and gone and they had even been undeservedly nice but they had still not allowed him to see Skye. Were they using a carrot and stick approach on him? Or was it her? Did they have her under surveillance? The idea of it made him sit up and experimentally wiggle his feet. Not much feeling at all, but he had done more than slink through a base with much less. At least there wouldn't be any bloody footprints marking his position.

He was in the process of figuring out a way to stop his drips when the door opened again. He froze, only to see Skye saunter into the room and perch onto his bed not five inches away from him.

"Another prison break. Really?" She must have noticed his reaction, because she smiled widely at him. "Hey there, arctic ranger."

Ward studied her sideways, looking for IV drips or bandages or at the very least multilayered socks as proof of their ordeal. There were none.

"You are awake," he said stupidly, and then his mind did a little side trip thinking about powers, abdomen wounds and miraculous recoverings. He wasn't about to mention it where SHIELD could overhear, though, because he still had no idea what had gone down between them and Skye to make her go away.

"Literally, it seems. Simmons said I was unresponsive, like in a deep sleep, when they found me, but that I woke up as soon as they brought me to safety. No side effects. No frosting. Nothing." She stopped then, taking in the sheer number of medical paraphernalia at Grant's bedside. More then that, she seemed to take in his face. He still didn't feel it much. Was his face also frozen? "Freaky, right?"

He hummed noncommittally until he realized Skye was still looking at him with question in her eyes.

"Sorry, what?"

"I said, it's pretty freaky. How I survived unscratched when you had almost died. Right?"

There was a current of something underneath, like it was a pretty important question that he had to answer just right, but he just didn't understand why, and so he answered the only thing that occurred to him.

"I think it's cool," he looked at her sideways, readying himself for a possible falloff.

A tense second passed, and then she burst out laughing. "Cool... Hey look at you. Mister No Fun has made a pun! A truly bad one. I am so proud."

He didn't think it was that funny, and he could have pointed out that it was unintentional, but she was laughing so happily he also sort of wanted to, with her.

"So, I hear that you carried me. Was that a romantic bridal carry? Where you flawless with it, or did you let me fall on my head a couple of times when nobody was looking?"

He fidgeted, unconsciously testing his right arm, and looked down. He should be glad, he told himself. It was all he ever hoped for - to save her. And that was done, so nothing else should matter anymore. He truly should be happy.

Except the frozen terror that had taken residence inside him right after he had understood he's have to leave her had not let go. It was still there, still gnawing at him, the snow falling on his head and the silence pressing on him as soon as he closed his eyes. The night he had spent carrying her was still clinging to him, and so did the cold. It all seemed even more terrible in hindsight, thinking about everything that could have easily gone wrong. About losing his path, or not getting up that last time, or getting shot by Coulson on the steps of Providence, or Skye freezing to death while he was gone, or... He felt so terrified of the what ifs he felt like curling up again and whimpering, and if this was what getting attached did to him, then maybe John was right. It didn't simply make him weak, it made him outright non functional.

"Ward?"

"Yeah?" He wasn't faking calmness very well, was he?

Skye was patting around his bed, moving his blankets and looking under them as if she had lost something underneath. He shifted a little away, bewildered but willing to let her do whatever she wanted, until it became clear that she was simply trying to figure out where his feet were as to not put any weight on them as she completely climbed onto his bed.

"Come here."

She took his hand - the not that badly injured left one -, and pulled it over her shoulder. The next thing he knew, she was burrowing into him, pressing her entire back against him with urgency, warm and solid and alive. Ward brought his arms to the front and hugged her to his chest, being extra careful with his respiration as to never let her feel the unevenness of it. It was OK, though, and he felt himself relaxing after a little while. He even gave into the temptation and closed his eyes. This was exactly the opposite of what his last memory of her had been, and he could feel the cold in his chest finally retreat when he held her there.

"Damn you are an icicle! You were trying to break yourself out in order to break me out, weren't you?" Skye said, and though he could not see her face, he could hear the smile in her voice. "It's all right. You don't need to. I told Phil I was ready to have a long talk with him as soon as you were better."

"I would. Break you out. If you needed me to."

"I know," she answered, and her hold on his arms tightened a little. It hurt, truth be said, but he wouldn't tell her that for anything. "Were you scared?"

He wasn't going to answer that, because it was enough that he had been - she didn't need to share that nightmare, or know just how close they had come to not making it today. It was enough that she would think to ask. It was much more than anyone else thought to do for him, ever.

He still ended nodding curtly into her hair once, and receiving a gentle squeeze in return.

"Come on, you shouldn't be up. Lie down carefully. I'll help you."

She did, without disentangling from him once. When he was settled, she settled too, eyes closed and breath even. It was a good thing that she had gone to sleep so quickly, because Grant's breath was becoming more and more hitched meanwhile. He was so happy she was alive, it was overwhelming him. It was much later, after he had drifted away and woken up and drifted and woken up again, and Skye was still lying curled near him, still holding his aching hands against her warm ribcage, that it had occurred him that not only he was glad that she was alive. He was also glad that he was, as well. That they were both safe, both there.

He moved a little, testing the feeling in his feet and grimacing when blood came rushing into them. That settled it: feeling of pain was definitely coming back. His hands, he tried not to move too much move for fear of waking the curled up bundle of limbs still pressing itself against him. Between the blankets and them being so tightly intertwined, he could not tell where he ended and Skye begun.

Despite his best efforts, she still stirred and opened her eyes.

"You want another morphine shot?"

He did consider lying, but that wouldn't really accomplish anything and he was feeling nauseous with pain and generally way too shitty to voluntarily choose to stay that way. Skye climbed out of bed much to his chagrin, but was back at his side with the syringe shortly.

"Thank you for saving me," she smiled again after giving him his shot, but her eyes were solemn and her hand on his strong and never letting go. "I should have said it yesterday but you were too out of it before. And sorry for being such a useless burden at your kickass expert in extreme survival side."

...Yesterday?

"After fifty below, a man should travel with a partner," he said. "Thank you for being there for me."

Because she had saved him just as surely, as he'd have never fought so long for just himself. He'd have stayed down one of the times he had stumbled and fallen, like the guy from the story did. Most probably, he wouldn't tried at all. He'd never come to Providence, and never... He still didn't know what to think about the team's collective efforts to not let him die on them despite his best efforts to the contrary, but he felt that the biggest clue was Coulson's offer of another conversation. It couldn't get worse, that much he knew. And this time, though he was still rather terrified, he felt a little hope that maybe, just maybe, the man would tell him that there was something he could do to make it better. He didn't feel like he could explain it, though, and after a while he didn't feel like he had to. Skye climbed back into his bed, perfectly content to burrow into the blankets and just stay there forever - until an arrested, wait-a-minute look crossed her face.

"Wait a minute, wait a minute. Trip and Fitz had promised us hot cocoa with marshmallows. How could I forget?"

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The White Silence and To Build a Fire (the story Ward never remembers the title of) are short works by Jack London about people surviving (or not) extreme conditions during the gold fever in Alaska. Rather sad, but still very recommended reading. Also, it is now my headcanon that Ward loved White Fang and The Call of the Wild as a kid.

In other news, Underwater is proceeding at its usual speed. I wanted a change of pace and to write something short and cuddly for once. Please leave me a review to let me know if I've succeeded!