Hey guys! This is just a little over 2,000 words about an idea I had about Coulson forcing Skye to visit a therapist a few months after Ward's betrayal. It's rushed and messy, but I'm really glad I got it written.
Patience everyone, for tomorrow night will come sooner than we think!
"The reason it hurts so much to separate is because our souls are connected." -Nicholas Sparks
"How do you feel?"
The words, uttered so softly, so innocently, punning tightly against her skull with ever intention of breaking in and letting her secrets flow into the echoing mountain that was sound. She shifts in her chair ever so slightly, but the widening of the other woman's eyes forces her to bite her tongue — because she sees her. The stranger sitting not three feet away from her, elbows on her knees (to promote a bond of trust, she remembers) with glasses perched casually on the edge of her nose. The office, once clearly firmly used as an old storage room — a large one, though, because there is, after all, three floor-to-ceiling glass windows and a heavy, metal door — now carried the scent of pine, a smell that caused her to wrinkle to nose.
Everything about this woman, about this stranger, sent goosebumps over her body. She didn't trust her; she didn't want to trust her, after all. She was only here on the account of being threatened by Coulson that if she didn't go, she would be forced to refrain from using her computer for a month (she loved that man like a father, but sometimes, she just wanted to scream) so she did go, unwillingly, padding to the little office in the corner of the building as if it was her doom.
The woman's eyes are boring into her now, trying to read her thoughts, her emotions. She sites nervously again, throwing up every guarded wall she had ever been taught, learned, to create. This stranger is not someone she would be willing to reveal her feelings to. Her fingers quietly on her slim, jean-clad legs as her knees pull up tighter to her chest, her head tilted slightly, meeting the woman's gaze.
The therapist clears her throat before leaning back, one elbow propping itself against the armrest. "Tell me, Agent —"
She must have shown some sort of emotion, some sort of tell, because the lady pauses mid-sentence, her eyes flashing with curiosity. "I take it you don't care for that title?"
She doesn't move, doesn't speak. But the woman, ever the mind reader, nods as if she understands. Understands. The word curled in her mouth, leaving a sour taste there. Because the only other being in the room with her doesn't understand; she never will. The only person who truly understands her, who will only ever be the one who does, is long gone, a traitor both to her mind and her heart.
Because she misses him, craves him, even after all they've been through; he's a part of her that she cannot seem to throw away, no matter how hard she tries. And that's what scares her. He's a monster; he's shot so many people, killed innocents, burned down entire families — yet even then, her wounded soul carries a piece of him with her, a piece that could not be separate even if her heart was torn from her chest.
She swallows, hard. The lady nods her head to the side slightly, pointing her chin in angle of the ground. "So, Skye," she continues, and Skye fights herself from reaching for the knife woven tightly into her back pocket. She can feel it pricking at her as she stares at the lady, trying her very best not to move. "Why don't you tell me a bit about yourself?"
She doesn't move, choosing instead to take this chance to study the woman before her. Get to know your enemy. The message, the symbol, flashes through her mind, along with the all too familiar voice of the person who said it. Her lip curls at this, unable to stop herself. The woman couldn't be younger than sixty, with clearly dyed brown hair and blue eyes, with blond roots peeking out through the front. She's dressed like Skye's old third grade teacher, a rather stern woman who had strictly worn suits to work every single day. But there's one noticeable difference between the teacher and the woman sitting before her; the S.H.I.E.L.D. logo is burned on her right jacket pocket, along with decorating every inch of the room.
Secret organization, she thinks, that has their logo everywhere? But then, it all comes crashing back down on her, and the barest of smiles that had begun to form on her lips disappeared, leaving a forced blank one decorating her features.
But the therapist was not deterred. "Well then," she says, the slightest bit of a British accent leaking through her tone. This startles her; she wasn't expecting to hear that. It's not little Simmons' though, with every word of hers practically bleeding pride of her country. No, this woman has worked hard to hide her true voice, a hint revealed only by the clearing of her throat when she speaks.
(She hates that she can see tells that she would've never noticed before.
Because he taught her.)
The woman pulls a file then, seemingly out of nowhere, with a large CLASSIFIED red stamp blazed across the front. Ignoring the red ink, the woman opens it, pulling out a single sheet of paper. The ink is so dark it bleeds through the paper, allowing Skye to see part of the fine print.
She grits her teeth when she sees her own name.
"So, this tells me you were raised in an orphanage," the woman says, scanning the white sheet with narrow eyes. "And when you were placed in the foster system, you were moved around a lot?"
The woman smiles knowingly, her smile rather empty though. "No one wanted you?"
Skye's eyes flash. "Shut up," she scowls, but this apparently amuses the lady, because she sets the file carefully down on her lap and smiles even brighter at her.
"Skye," she says, her voice slipping into Skye's ears, suffocating her as she tries to keep her breathing even. "Why are you here? Is it because you were left alone? Not loved?"
She can't take it anymore, not truly. Her feet hit the floor with every impression of stomping a hole into it, and as she walks across the room. But then the woman speaks again, her voice rather sharp this time.
"Is is because of former Agent Grant Ward?"
She freezes then, her heart pounding. She can't move; her feet are simply glued to the floor, her throat choking up. Bright, hot, heavy tears threaten to escape as she just stands there, her back to the woman who had just asked the one question that she had been pushing away ever since two months ago, when he left.
When she had been betrayed.
When she had put her trust in the wrong man.
When she was broken.
She shakes her head then, forcing the tears back. "You're wrong," she spits, still facing away. She knows she's acting like a stubborn child, she had been in the whole fifteen minute session, but she doesn't want to stop. "He has nothing to do with this."
"I think he does," the soothing voice responds, slipping over her entire being and forcing all the tiny hairs on her arms and legs to rise. "I think he has everything to do with why you're here — tell me, how does it feel to put your trust in a teammate, only to find out he is a traitor?"
"He was more than a teammate," she whispers, low, under her breath, keeping those words close to her. Because the moment they're released into the air, she knows it's true. Her fists clench in and out, forming little crescent circles in the rough skin of her palm, made rough by him.
"What was that?" the woman asks, as Skye remains practically stapled to the smooth metal.
It's then she raises her head high, turning to face the woman, keeping the bile down from her throat. "I said," she repeats, the lie already forming on her lips, "that I would like to end this session now."
The woman's eyes search her's carefully, but she is careful to keep her true feelings hidden. Eventually though, most likely against her better judgment, the therapist nods. "Alright then," she speaks carefully. "I shall see you next week?"
It's worded like a question, but they both know it isn't.
Skye smirks then, tilting her head. "No," she spits, before turning on her heels and swiping her keycard in the door. "I'm done."
But she isn't, unfortunately, because the next day, Coulson drags her back to the small, confining office, after finding out she skipped out early on her session. He personally sees her settled into the chair before leaving — but not before threatening to keep her from any missions if she turns away early again.
Sometimes, she wishes he wouldn't baby her.
"So, Skye," the woman says, her glasses a different color now, a light purple. "Tell me about your latest mission."
She bites her tongue, her mind flashing to gunfire. "It was a usual mission," she tells the woman. "Same as always." She begs that the woman doesn't have a file on that, pleads inwardly to whoever would hear her.
It doesn't work. The lady's smile stretches into a rather large grin. "But it wasn't — you saw your former teammate. I do read the mission files you know, especially the ones that involve agents who are nearly suicidal whenever they go on one."
She tries to sink deeper into her seat, but doesn't deny it. She's been more reckless that usual on missions, taking risks that normally would have gotten her killed, only to be caught by Coulson at the last minute. But she doesn't try and defend herself. She didn't care anymore, about anything.
"You take risks," the woman notes, her brow furrowing as she stares at the brunette. "Ones that are dangerous to your health and safely."
"I'm not denying it." The words slip out before she can help it and she swears inwardly when the woman cocks her head.
"I know," she says, placidly. "I know that you feel like your life doesn't matter — but it does, Skye. Agent Coulson has told me how fond he is of you, how he thinks of you as the daughter he never had. You have people who care about you, who don't want you to die."
Liar. "I'm fine," she tells the woman, her voice low.
The therapist frowns as she stalks from the room, but does nothing to stop her.
She dreams of him that night after the little session. Her mind flashes of images of his rough laugh, her smiling up at him; she sees, on the little silver screen, her lips slanting against his, tightly, kindly, lovingly. She can taste him against her lips, a rather strange mixture of pineapple and smoke, however weird that sounds. She sees his hand looping through hers, pressing their palms together as if he would never let her go.
But then that all fades to him slamming her against the metal of the raining, a searing pain shooting from her head. She feels the cold metal around her wrist as she struggles to get free. She's screaming inside as he steps towards her, after she accuses him of trying to kill her.
She wakes up screaming, tears hot and heavy, when he tells her that his feelings for her are true, that after everything they'd been through, that he truly cared for him.
Her heart is pounding as she slips over the edge of the bunk, her feet hitting the floor with a startling echo. She only sits there for a moment, her fingers gripping the wooden edge, splinters of wood forming under her nails. Her eyes flicker as she tries to regain her bearings, tries to keeping her breathing calm, the pain shooting through her heart down.
She can't.
She throws her head back, forcing herself to face the dim lights above her. Somehow, the sight of light seems to calm her and she moves one hand up, running it through her slightly matted hair, wincing when she hits a knot.
Only a dream, she swears to herself. Just a dream.
Only it wasn't.
She can't seem to forget him.
But that's only because she's not sure she wants to.
And that's the end...sorry I've been a little lax on posting in the past week. A lot's happened - my step-granddad passed away and tomorrow's the funeral. I'm skipping school and two hours away from home, but I got writing again, my writer's block slightly before lifted.
Hope you all enjoyed reading!