Summary: "Her heart hurts." Everyone copes differently.
Warning/Spoiler: Spoilers for "TRACKS" and lots of mentions of blood.
Rating: T/PG+13
Character(s)/Pairing(s): Everyone, everything.

Author's Note: Not an original idea by any means, but I've been writing it this since Wednesday so might as well.

Thanks to Tiff for beta-ing.

For my fellow Gangsters. Also Laura and Grace because they put up with me. Actually for all the lovely people that have followed me in the past two months. Plus all the lovely people who were following me before and have stuck around. (You're the true heroes.)

heart

He hates this.

He hates that his nails dig into his palms; he has to keep them clenched to stop the shaking, because his teeth are still grinding together and he can barely stop himself from punching the cryo-chamber. Ward knows that's one thing he can't punch right now – instead he wipes a hand down the glass, watching the tiny patch of fog fade in and out with her shallow breaths.

She looks so pale.

Ward isn't sure how long he's been watching; her lips are purple and her hands are caked in blood. Even without her eyes open, he can imagine them: lifeless and dull, missing the sparkle and the fire.

He wishes he could give her the fire that envelops him. The fire that licks against his wounds and stings against bruises; it's the fire that burns his fingers every time he leaves another dent in their SUV. Ward sees only fire too; he sees twisted contortions of the bastard's face, smug smile broken and perfect hair twisted away. Ward sees guns and bullets and blood: he sees pain.

He wants pain.

Ward hates this: he hates that Skye takes tiny breathes underneath the thin glass keeping her alive, covered in blood and face blank of all emotion. That's his face: blank and emotionless – it's unnatural on Skye and Ward hates it.

"Let me wrap up your hand."

Ward's neck snaps when he turns, but Simmons' small smile is nowhere near warm. "I'm fine," he says, letting his knuckles rap once more against the glass before stepping back. "I'm not the one – " he stops because Simmons flinches. "Are you okay?"

Her smile is wider this time, but her eyes echo the lifelessness he imagines in Skye's. "I'm not the one dying," she says. When she takes his hand and runs a finger along his bruised knuckles, Ward does his best not to shiver. "Let me wrap up your hand."

Sighing, Ward nods.

While she twists the bandage around his palm, Ward searches Simmons. He's been staring at a body he barely recognizes, but sitting before him is not his teammate. Her pulled-back hair is fraying and her teeth bite down on her lip constantly and there are dried flakes of blood embedded under her nails. When Simmons steps back, Ward frowns. "Coulson is putting too much pressure on you."

Simmons stiffens. "I'm the biochemist. It's my job to – "

"You're still a person. And Coulson should know better – he's supposed to know better," says Ward. He only notices the volume of his voice when Simmons steps away from him, wincing when his hand slams against the table.

Closing his eyes, Ward only sees fire.

"I have to do this," says Simmons, her voice barely a whisper. Opening his eyes, Ward sees her glancing over to Skye. "I – she needs me, Ward."

"She needs all of us," says Ward, following her gaze. He always liked Skye in purple, he muses absently; but the red is blood and the blue is death and Ward hates it. Simmons maybe nods, or maybe she doesn't, but Ward only sees the death and blood and fire; gritting his teeth, he lets out a slow breath.

Simmons slips towards her side of the lab, tinkering with gadgets Ward doesn't hope to understand; but Skye is still barely breathing and Coulson is hidden away in his room and Ward needs to punch something again. He wants to punch someone – preferably Quinn but maybe Coulson will do. It's Coulson who brought Skye in, who put in her in the field with only Fitz, who encouraged her and showed her what SHIELD could be –

The voice in the back of his head is screaming, of course – he's her supervising officer, he's her protector, he's her mentor: he should have taught her better, he should have been there, he should have punched Quinn. But the fire continues to climb through each nerve and vein, leaving behind the ashes of his every failure – from a well to a cyro-chamber: and now the voice just sputters and chokes and coughs, spitting out words and doubts and guilt. But the anger is too much.

Ward leaves the lab in silence.

But on his way past the lounge and towards the spiral stairs to Coulson's office, May intercepts him.

"I don't think that's a good idea," she says. If Ward is the flame, then May is now the ocean because he's wondering if he's drowning. Her hand is steady on his arm, but he barely feels it. Even her skin on his leaves him numb; he wonders if she stays with him for too long if she'll burn too.

"He's putting too much pressure on Simmons," says Ward. His arm opposite to May is tense; Ward forces himself to stretch out each muscle. "I just wanted to tell him that."

"Let me handle Coulson." The fire is turning blue now, hotter and more dangerous and Ward is glad the others can't see him: they'd see his eyes and know. "Get some rest. We'll be landing soon."

Her voice is flat, but Ward imagines there's softness in it. That warmth masked as a command that cuts though him, even despite the uneasiness lingering in his chest when she talks of Coulson; Ward lets out a breath. "Shouldn't you be flying this thing?"

May smiles. "Shouldn't you be punching something?"

Ward lets her climb the stairs alone. He hates this.

His palms cradle his eyes, but the darkness is tinted in the icy visions of her deteriorating body. All he sees is Skye balancing everything and nothing, a strange smile teasing her lips; it's as if she knows.

Coulson refuses to let Skye die.

"Sir?" Coulson looks up to see Fitz, still in disheveled casual clothing; Coulson doesn't want to know whose blood is sprinkled on the gray hoodie. "I know you're – I just wanted to – "

"Spit it out, Fitz," says Coulson, leaning back in his chair. His shoulders ache; something about burden and weight and worry.

Fitz bounces slightly, eyes on the floor before they finally snap to meet Coulson's. "It's about Simmons." As Fitz rubs the back of his neck, steeling himself, Coulson straightens. "You're putting too much pressure on her. It's – she's a person too. Sir." The title is tacked onto the end, but Coulson barely processes it. He's already thinking of Simmons, the red on her hands matching the hole in Skye's stomach; shaky hands holding knives and sore wrists pushing back hair and tears. Coulson frowns.

"She's strong," says Coulson. Skye is strong too. "We should be landing soon."

Fitz stares at him for a moment. "Right." Coulson looks at Fitz but only sees Skye. "Is there anything else, sir?"

Coulson raises an eyebrow. "You were the only who came to me. But – tell Simmons it's not her fault, okay?" Fitz stiffens when Coulson leans forward. "She's trying and I wouldn't trust anyone else more." Because Skye is dying and Simmons is the best; Coulson needs to fill out the paperwork and get this plane to a hospital. Nothing else matters yet – then, he can worry about the prisoner in their cage and the sinister voice that cackles in his head.

Even though he nods, Fitz remains quiet. It's unnerving – there's little twitching and a steady gaze and Coulson can hear Skye calling him out on it. She's that ghost on his shoulder laughing and Coulson will not let her die.

But Fitz doesn't move. "Is there something else, Fitz?" asks Coulson, fingers tapping against his desk. He stops when they sound too much like bullets. "I need to get back down – "

"No, sir," says Fitz. He bites his lip and looks down and shakes his head. "Nothing."

Fitz leaves with heavy feet and Coulson sighs. The silence is suffocating; the lingering laughter and teasing haunts him, whispers sounding too much like Quinn crackling on a vinyl on repeat. Leaning into his hands once again, Coulson sees Skye with her eyes open and an empty smile; he forces himself to scan the next document, circling answers and wincing at all the unknowns – date of birth, sir name, place of birth –

May enters when the impulse to tear the papers in front of him becomes too much.

"We'll be landing soon," she says, casually closing the door behind her. Her slight limp is hidden in her straight back and tight steps; but her shoulder twists against her, her hard eyes swirling with memories Coulson doesn't dare wish to see. "Have you already reported – "

"Yes," says Coulson, cutting her off and ignoring the edge in his voice. Somehow talking to May is worse; he can't bring himself to look at her face for too long, worrying he'll see pale skin and bloody lips. "How's – "

"Stable," says May, and while Coulson is staring at blurry papers again, he knows she's stepped closer. "Ward is – " she stops and Coulson imagines that she's rolling her eyes. "He's her S.O. He's not taking it well. Neither is Simmons."

Coulson closes his eyes; he only sees Skye and he wonders if she'd be upset that Ward is creating dents in cars and that Simmons can't seem to leave the lab. "I should - "

"No, you shouldn't," says May, and he bets her hands are gripping the desk tightly, her gaze cutting into him. "Ward blames you."

He smiles with his eyes still closed. "He probably should."

"Is that why you're up here hiding?"

And he has to look up at that; May, for all her faults, knows him too well. Coulson isn't sure he likes that. "She's dying," he says as he drops his arms and when he looks at May, he sees Skye barely hanging onto life in a glass tube. He hopes his voice isn't shaking too much. "And I know if she does, I can still save her."

So he refuses to let Skye die.

When he passes May on the staircase, she makes him stop, hand on his shoulder, eyes narrowed. Fitz finds it difficult to breathe in that moment and he wonders if it's finally coming – if May will see what everyone else seems to be ignoring.

It's all his fault, after all.

But May just nods, stepping back and letting him go, and Fitz doesn't understand.

It's in this haze of confusion, with echoes of previous conversations repeated in his head and hands stuffed in his pockets, that Fitz runs into Ward, standing before his bunk and just – staring.

"Something wrong?" says Fitz before wincing. Ward turns to him slowly, but even though his face remains blank, his eyes burn. "I mean – other than – I – "

"Is he hiding?" says Ward and Fitz blinks.

"What?"

"Coulson," says Ward, his focus completely on the empty staircase, "is he hiding?"

Fitz frowns; he knows that Ward is angry – the clenched fists stuck roughly to his sides are indication enough – but he doesn't understand. It's all his fault. "Coulson? No – he's just – you know – "

"Upset? Guilty?" Ward looks ready to punch something and Fitz wants it to be him, frankly. "Skye shouldn't have been there alone in the first place."

"She wasn't alone," says Fitz, snapping; she wasn't alone: he was there, and he let her go, and she was shot – "I was there."

Ward blinks and Fitz wonders if he really would punch him. "You and Skye were doing your job. She – you were both just doing your job." There's something breaking in Ward, just as his voice cracks, and Fitz doesn't understand. "This is not your fault."

Fitz wants to laugh. Instead, he watches Ward shake his head and throw open the door to his own bunk. Instead, Fitz drags his feet back to the lab and barely registers Simmons half-hearted smile when she spots him. Instead, he sinks into Skye's chair, watching her body struggle to stay alive.

Be careful, okay? He can still hear the click of the gun as he adjusts it, can still feel her gaze lingering on him. You too.

At least he kept his promise. But she didn't and she was shot and Fitz hates blood but he finds he hates human blood – blood caked under fingernails and blood oozing from mouths and blood belonging to people he cares about – even more.

Stomach rolling, Fitz spins the chair around so he's no longer facing the chamber. Skye's twisted scrawl covers a pad, notes about Ian Quinn and Cyberteck having the beginnings of a plan. Fitz frowns at it before spinning back to see the body again.

Be careful, okay? You too. And he stayed beneath the bloody car, waiting safely, while she rushed in and did what she needed to do – and he's left staring at the price. Skye confronts the target, Simmons jumps in front of grenades and out of planes – and he fidgets with his bare, useless hands.

It's all his fault.

"Fitz?"

Be careful, okay? You too. "Yeah?" he says, rubbing his arm.

"Can you help me with this? It's too heavy for just me," says Simmons, indicating a box lying on the desk. Fitz thinks it may hold vials of chemicals, but he really doesn't care. If Simmons needs it –

He nods and moves towards her. Be careful, okay? You too. Simmons may be muttering something about reactions between acetylcholine and the dendrotoxin, but Fitz can only hear the echo of a shout and a bullet and a body falling and be careful, okay? You too. His fingers slip momentarily and Simmons just barely catches the box. Wincing, Fitz wraps his arms around it completely, pushing away the image – Skye alone in that cellar, blood oozing through her fingers – and lifts the vials back up into the cabinet.

"Sorry," he says, not looking at her. Skye's blood is still on his hoodie. "It's my fault." Her hand resting on his arm isn't a surprise: the gentle squeeze is. Turning to look at her, Fitz feels himself break at her pale face and restless eyes. "I'm sorry," he says again, voice cracking now against the broken glass that should have sliced him instead. "It's all my fault."

This time, Fitz clings to Simmons; she whispers in his ear but all he hears is be careful, okay? You too. He doesn't hear his own cries: "it's all my fault."

Leaning against the door of Fitz's bunk, she closes her eyes and lets out a deep breath.

The acid in her stomach still churns.

Simmons pauses near the couch, letting her fingers linger over the plush fabric; she can remember shaving cream and aglet and Skye's bright laughter. But the overpowering sorrow crushes her quickly; biting her lip, she heads straight for the spiral staircase.

So focused on steadying her hands, she practically falls into May.

"Simmons," she says, letting her hand rest on Simmons' arm for a moment before falling. Simmons looks back; those dark eyes are searching her, looking for something – May's frown is unknown and Simmons doesn't like it. That frown could be disappointment or anger or urgency – or worry –

"She's still stable," says Simmons, answering the unspoken question. Glancing down at her fingers, she tries to rub away the flakes still sticking to her skin. Absently, she wonders how long it's been now – an hour? Two? – because the blood looks brown. "She should make it until we get to the medical facility." Steeling herself, Simmons forces her gaze up. "How much longer – "

"We'll make it," says May, her voice oddly low – but Simmons still feels the cut of its edge. May nods once. "Will you?"

Simmons bites her lip, forcing her stomach not to growl. Her tense shoulders are sore but she manages to roll them back to straighten. "I'm trying," she says and because it's the truth her voice stays flat.

And May seems to understand that.

"I'm here," says May. She walks past Simmons, probably to the cockpit, and Simmons just stares at the metal banister. Tall lines stand steady, holding up the railing – Simmons wonders if they ever lie down to take a break.

But a railing is an inanimate object without a friend's life in their hands; Simmons knows better.

She climbs the stairs in silence, still rubbing off brown flecks. The acid in her stomach gnaws at her inside, leaving scratches in the lining. Her hands shaking, she knocks twice, waits for the "come in" and pushes back the tears when she enters.

"Simmons," says Coulson, wrinkles so pronounced detailing his face. A hand knocks gently against his desk. "Is Skye – "

"She's still stable," says Simmons again, her hollow voice on repeat. Maybe Coulson hears this, maybe he doesn't, but she really doesn't care. Skye is stable and she has limited time before she needs to rush back downstairs. "I'm just – Fitz told me – "

"I'm sorry," he says, but Simmons sees blood in his eyes and shadows crawling across his skin. The apology hovers between them for a moment before Coulson shakes his head. "You're doing everything – "

"But not enough," she says nodding, her eyes dull. "I should get back."

His eyes boring into her, Simmons steps back to leave, but he stops her. "No," he says, voice cracking and while he's looking at her, a cloud wraps around him. "You're – it's not your fault. She's not dead."

And Simmons smiles, heart heavy and stomach churning and tears of acid crawling behind her eyes. "I know."

She tries not to, but all she can think is: not yet.

They are thirty minutes away and May should be gearing up for landing.

Instead, she lays a blanket around Simmons, who is asleep in the lab, a stray hand resting on glass.

Leaning against the opposite table, May crosses her arms and watches. Simmons is breathing normally – deep movements of the chest with temporal spacing indicating a state of unconsciousness. But Skye – the only indication of her shallow breaths are the tiny circles above her mouth, steaming up the glass every few moments. May frowns.

She's consciously rubbing her shoulder; with every other person in various states of unawareness – her eyes remain firmly on Skye, her tiny blood-soaked fingers still interlocked together – May knows she's alone. The haphazard stitches itch against her skin, but May is more concerned with the deep ache in her chest. It's been a while since the demons haunting her dreams manifested in physical responses; but now, with Skye only lingering in life, all May feels is dread.

Melinda May became the Cavalry so people like Skye could live. And now, with the team she's supposed to hold together falling apart, she wonders if maybe death does really follow this girl. May closes her eyes, letting the black take over in that moment; somehow, Skye managed to mend together a team of broken pieces, and now with her own heart broken, Skye manages to stretch them apart too.

May rubs her shoulder again.

After several moments of silence, where she stares at Skye some more, hoping for movement or a smile or a roll of eyes, May sighs. Glancing at her watch, she knows she needs to be landing soon; but she debates waking the others. Simmons lets out a tiny cry from her uncomfortable position and May decides to let them rest.

Skye doesn't need them now. She needs doctors and facilities they cannot provide.

May walks away, smiling at the clicks of her boots on the metal cargo-bay floor; she can almost imagine Skye dancing behind her, laughing with stars in her eyes. May rubs her shoulder.

The meadow is very green.

The high grass tickles her bare calves, but it's the hot sun baring down on her neck that forces her to constantly wipe away sweat. Beside her, Fitz groans. Skye laughs at him and Ward rolls his eyes and Simmons ignores them in favor of carefully running her fingers down the spiny tree. Coulson whispers something to May who nods and glances around before catching Skye's eye.

Skye smiles.

The tree warps and suddenly it's crying tears of blood and Skye is alone, fingers tainted in red. The dark sky thunders loudly. Before she kisses the bark, her hair tangles in the branches and twigs snap beneath her feet. Her hands are left with scratches and her eyes fill with tears.

Her heart hurts.

The tree disappears and Skye steps over bodies in darkness. Fitz closes Simmons' lifeless eyes, shadows hidden in his shoulders. Ward punches a wall and it crumbles into dust; the dust scatters, settling over Coulson until his usual pristine black suit is a dark gray. A bloody May steps before her; the slap is loud and vibrates against her cheek even as Skye blinks. When her vision steadies, she's alone.

She curls up against the trunk of an oak tree; the clouds pass, leaving behind slivers of sunlight that glitter against the morning dew. Her pale pink nail polish matches her skin but her jeans are caked with mud and blood.

Coulson takes her hand and helps her stand. Wrapping an arm around her waist, Ward steadies her and Skye laughs when Fitz mutters something before leaving a wrapper in her hand. Simmons rolls her eyes but her arm is intertwined with Skye's, her head resting on her shoulder. May stands behind them, watching.

They trudge forward.

Skye smiles.