Contains spoilers of season two, episode one of Agent of SHIELD.
Oh my god. That was horrifying. Ward - I wasn't expecting that. And Skye, oh my god, Skye - she's like a mini Melinda. She's closed off. What happened to the girl we all fell in love with? This is just a little scene from Ward's perspective. It's not much, but the start of season two; I don't know what I expected. I really don't. But I didn't expect it to hurt this much.
Ward is so dark. He's so dark and lost and in pain. Oh, Ward.
"It's so much darker when a light goes out than it would have been if it had never shone." -John Steinbeck
Darkness. It was all blended into the shadows, the flickering lights above his only company. He shifts slightly, feet brushing against the cold tile that his too-short sleeping pad brought. Grunting, he shifts to the side, hands folding underneath his head as if to make a pillow of some sort. It's what he's always done in the seven months he's been confined here; victim to the dark. Prey to the voices.
Because he does hear them — the voices, that is. Sometimes, it's his brother, whispering words of terror. Other times, it's his father, the image of the looming man snapping a belt by his side; or his sister, with her arms littered with scars that now matched his own.
They'd removed the button on his pants and he wasn't allowed to have anything sharp, not anymore; he didn't know what had drive him to start. But he knew that he was the cause of the downfall — he was everyone's problem. He was the reason that everyone around him had turned to dust or fell to the darkness. He was the reason that his sister was dead, buried in a casket worth nothing short of a thousand empty promises.
I'll get you out of here.
Everything's going to be alright.
I will keep you safe. I swear.
He'd cry, only it's been a long time since he's been able to.
But then, there's a noise, a new flicker of light; he tenses, drawing a thumb underneath his fingers, his elbow propping him up below him. It's still mostly dark as the footsteps descend and he rises. Too light to be Coulson's, he muses. Even after so long, he still knows. But not that heavy. Clicking sound. Heels?
No. It can't be.
But it is.
He swallows thickly, stepping forward into the middle of his cell as the light floods the area. Her eyes — oh god, they're dark, so dark, too dark; oh Skye, my darling, what have they done to you — are blank. Nearly empty, except they all seem to forget one thing: He knows her. He knows her better than she knows herself sometimes, as much as she'd swear otherwise. He'd trained her. He'd cared for her.
He'd fallen in love with her.
But now — she was broken. Empty. Dark. Couldn't anyone see?
He crosses his arms over his chest, almost instinctively trying to hide the marks. (He needs to protect her at whatever cost, protect her from the darkness, protect her from everything — protect her from him.) But her gaze meets his, unwavering. Sharp. Too sharp.
"Skye," he murmurs, her name slipping onto his tongue as if it had always been there, waiting. The word evokes a stir in his throat, threatening to choke up. "I've missed you."
She stares at him, unblinking. He can't help it — he reaches for her, fingers curling in an almost desperate motion. But he forgets, and freezes; because he can see the moment she realizes, the moment her gaze flickers to his arms.
If he had been anyone else, he wouldn't have noticed how her breathing stilled. He wouldn't have noticed how her right pinky jerked sideways, unable to keep the peace it had been instructed to. He wouldn't have noticed as her eyes stayed closed a moment too long.
Coulson hadn't told her. He should've known. He takes a breath — the first one, it seems, since she'd stepped into his prison.
"Didn't Coulson tell you?" he asks, voice soft, on the verge of being bitter. He can't help it; he watches her face closely as he tells her the story, the terrible, terrible story — it hurts him. It hurts him to do this. But Coulson knows; he already knows that he'll only talk to her. The Director knows that she can be used against him.
That's dangerous.
John Garrett used that as an advantage. Garrett — oh, the man had tried. And failed.
He swallows again, fingers twitching. "Skye," he whispers. "Oh Skye, what have they done to you—"
"Stop."
He stops.
She's glaring him with a hatred that he's never seen before; it hurts. It hurts so badly he wants it to stop. He wants everything to stop. She hates him — she thinks he's a monster.
But, the voice inside his head insists. You are.
She's shaking her head — his Skye, his beautiful, brilliant, broken Skye. She's shaking her head and he can't help it. He's desperate. He reaches for her, fingers stretching outwards, like he used to. He used to be about to touch her, to run the pads of his fingers along the smooth skin of her cheeks. He used to be able to run his hands through her hair, whispering her to sleep after endless days of training. He used to be able to slant his lips over hers, slowly, carefully, beautifully — those days, he had (almost, because there was almost an almost, always would forever and ever be an almost) thought that he could escape the madman's grasp. With her, it would have been the start of something new. A fresh start.
Only, it hadn't been.
His hands touch the electrical barrier, because he forgets; a shock goes through him, piercing his eyes and ears and skin in such a way that he jerks back as if he's been shot, feet stumbling backwards.
She's staring at him when he looks up again, his eyes pinned on her. "I trusted you," she hisses. "We all did."
There's an aching feeling in his chest, in his middle — it's everywhere. He's missing something. He's missing —
"I will never trust you again."
— her.
The door slams shut behind her.
He steps back, hitting the wall. His feet go out from under him and he crumbles to the ground, palms slamming against the concrete.
Skye, he thinks as wetness forms in the backs of his eyes. Oh, my darling Skye — what's happened to you?
What've I done?
Thoughts?