Shock
Grant Ward was famous for his tidiness and how he kept things around himself in order, which all came with the territory of being a specialist.
Maybe that's why he was simply refusing to admit that he misplaced the sensor he and Skye used on an undercover mission the previous day–the one Fitz wanted back ASAP.
Cursing under his breath, he turned the pockets of the clothes he had worn the day before inside out–for what felt like the fifth time–, upended his backpack on the mattress, and even knelt on the floor to look under the bed. So far–nothing. And he kind of blamed Skye for this.
There were many upsides of bunking with Skye–going to bed with her, waking up with her in his arms, feeling her scent on the bedsheets, having her all to himself for long hours every day–, but dealing with her mess (which she called "organized chaos") and its influence on his tidiness was not one of them.
He ran his fingers through his hair, then turned towards the top of the dresser, where her little knick-knacks–everything and anything from lotions through spare batteries to her hula doll–were lying, and, as last resort started to dig through them.
"Skye!" he called towards the bathroom where she was, based on the sounds, just getting out of the shower, as he reached for her purse, sitting on the corner of the dresser, open and almost spilling its contents. "Have you seen the…?" His hand collided with something in the bag, something that made him freeze right away. "Oh…"
"Have I seen what?" Skye asked casually, as she came out of the bathroom, wrapped up in a bathrobe and toweling her hair. And then she saw him, standing by the dresser, eyes wide open in shock, a small, pink box in hand, and she froze, too. "Oh…"
"Skye…" he started, his heart beating in his throat. "Do you… I mean… do you want to…?"
"I wanted to tell you, I swear," she said in a small voice, her lower lip trembling. "I was going to…"
"Are you?"
She let out a strange sound that was between and exhale and a sob. "I don't know!" She stepped to the bed, let the towel fall to the floor, and plopped down on the mattress. "I've been feeling off for a couple of days, but I just couldn't…" she trailed off, rubbing her eyes with the heel of her hand.
Taking a deep breath, Grant put the box back on the dresser and walked over to the bed, sat down next to her, and pulled her to his side; she let him. "Talk to me, sweetheart."
She let out a strangled sob. "It's like Schrodinger's cat."
He chuckled out of sheer frustration and at the ridiculousness of it all. "What?"
"Until I open this box, I can be both pregnant and not pregnant." She wiped a stray tear from her cheek. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you. I just… I just…"
She was afraid; he could understand. It wasn't something they had talked about, and their situation wasn't the best–far from it–either, and she was afraid… she was afraid he'd be mad, that he wouldn't want it, that he would leave her (how many times could she have seen that happen?).
Not that he'd do any of that, ever.
Gently coaxing her, he pulled her to his lap, tucking her head under his chin and wrapping his arms securely around her. Even if just slightly, but she seemed to relax in his embrace.
"I've got you," he whispered, kissing the crown of her head. "I'm not angry. I wish you told me sooner, so… so you didn't have to go through it alone, but I'm not angry. And whatever that… thing says… whatever you want… I'll be right there with you."
She hiccupped, clutching the material of his fist in her hand, pulling herself as close to him as physically possible.
"Promise?"
"I promise." I'll be the best father any child could ever want, he wanted to say, but he didn't; he didn't want to say it out loud just yet.
She was completely still and silent for a moment, then raised her head and lightly, just like a feather's touch, kissed him. "Thank you."
