because after the last episode, i just couldn't help myself.

Love, I have wounds

Only you can mend

You can mend.

I guess that's love,

I can't pretend

-Can't Pretend, Tom Odell

Sleeping with Antoine Triplett was never a plan. She'd never ever thought she would even get to have sex after everything that had went down and her hectic training sessions and her constant worry over Fitz.

And her ever growing feelings for Jemma despite the fact that the woman wasn't around anymore.

But she and Trip trained together sometimes. He'd hold her hands and teach her how to aim properly. He'd give her a thumbs up when they've succeeded in another mission. They would drink beer together. He'd turned into her best friend – because as much as she loved Fitz, it hurt to see him like this.

And then Trip went and donned the general costume and Skye nearly punched herself when she found herself attracted to him. She didn't have those kinds of feelings for him. It would be better if she did. That way, she wouldn't be so hung up on a woman who just upped and left them without even leaving a memo or something.

(Her heart still felt like it was being stabbed whenever she thought about Jemma.)

So when they were flying back with the quinjet they'd just stolen and they were alone and it was quiet and there was still 20 minutes until they touched down, she made the move. She grabbed him and she kissed him and it was rough and they managed to finish just five minutes before touchdown.

The whole time, she imagined doing this with Jemma and she was surprised she didn't break down in tears because god, she missed that woman.

Skye held the ICER in one hand and a real loaded gun in another. She weighed both in her hands and surprisingly, the ICER felt heavier than the gun. Skye put down the gun next to her on the bed and held the ICER with both hands.

Her fingers skimmed over the crevices of the weapon – not so much a weapon as it was a tranquilizer (a very painful tranquilizer) – She recalled watching Jemma and Fitz tinkering with the prototype of this thing in the lab on the Bus. They would always banter over the name of the weapon.

Personally, Skye had preferred calling it Night-Night gun. It just sounded cuter.

But when Jemma would look at her with those imploring eyes of hers and those genuine eyes, Skye couldn't help it but be on Jemma's side, earning her an eye-roll and a few Scottish curses Skye couldn't quite comprehend.

Skye's harsh exhale was shaky and uncertain. She swallowed. Her grip on the ICER tightened slightly. She briefly wondered if shooting herself with this thing would be as painful as knowing that Jemma had left them through the absence of a coffee pot on the kitchen table.

Jemma used to make coffee every morning just for her.

Jemma had damaged her with her departure.

61 beat per minute.

Skye patted herself on the back.

Not so puny, as May had said.

She picked up the gun and brought up a fresh target board. She stared at the object for awhile and wished she could stick a picture of Ward's face on each of those boards. She would excel with that.

She was beginning to aim when someone tapped her on her shoulder. She swung around, gun in hand. Trip jumped back and held up his hands in shock. Skye sighed and lowered the weapon. She took off the earmuffs and goggles and glared at him.

"Really?"

Trip grinned. "Sorry." Well, at least he sounded genuine.

"What do you want?" she asked, though she could probably guess.

"Booty call," he said, without even a hint of embarrassment.

She smirked. She looked around her, scoping out the scene before she shrugged. "My room."

Maybe she could use this to distract herself from feeling so abandoned and betrayed.

When Trip's hands wandered over the scars on her stomach, she slapped his hands away.

No one had ever touched them except for one person. And no one would be allowed to touch them except for one person.

"I'm serious! I love her but her trying to lie? It's a horror show!"

How ironic it was that the first time she'd admitted to loving Jemma Simmons was to someone who was not Jemma Simmons.

Skye had nearly forgotten that she was supposed to covering for May and Hunter when she saw the back of Jemma's head from the sniper scope. Jemma may have cut her hair but Skye would never forget the tint of the color of her hair. Somehow, Skye managed to push herself into denial for half a second until Jemma looked up with that look in her eyes.

Skye lifted her eye from the view of the scope to look at the woman with her own eyes. Her face felt numb for a second. Jemma's eyes screamed trust and care and gladness. Skye was sure she was the same. Because she did; she trusted and cared for Jemma and she was glad because she finally got to see that Jemma was alive and well with her own eyes.

"I love her."

Her heart hit her ribs with a violent pang. She clenched her jaw and kept her eyes on May when all she wanted to do was to flee and have a panic attack in her own room.

May stared at her knowingly and Skye was glad that she'd elected to ignore the big elephant in the room, choosing instead to compliment Skye on her skills.

She was sure that May wouldn't be so proud if she'd known about Skye's minimal slip-up before she chose to intentionally miss.

Okay, she was panicking. She was packing her gear and she was putting on her suit and she was starting up the quinjet while panicking. She was sweating when there was air conditioner. She was gasping when there was enough oxygen. She hadn't been calm since half an hour earlier when Coulson ordered an emergency rescue mission for one of their agents.

Jemma.

"Her covers have been blown."

The second those words had left his lips; Skye was the first out the door to prepare everything. May, Trip and Hunter tried to calm her down but she knew that they knew that it was impossible. She couldn't possibly calm down when Jemma's life was at risk.

When she was loading up her sniper, she promised herself that she would tell Jemma everything when they find her.

Maybe barging into Whitehall's office with nothing but a pistol in her hand wasn't such a good idea. Maybe not scoping out the scene before taking action wasn't such a good idea.

Skye laughed. Screw it, they were extremely bad ideas.

But screw 61 beat per minute, Jemma's life was on the line and she couldn't care less about keeping herself calm or even keeping her own life.

Blood poured of her mouth as she coughed, retching in pain on the gunshot wounds in her chest. The pain was so excruciating that she didn't even bother to keep the tears and the whines of pain in. She just lay there, sprawled out across the floor.

And then she heard Jemma crying out her name with such anguish and Skye thought that maybe, maybe, Jemma reciprocated her feelings. Then gunshots rang out across the room. Two gunshots. Not two seconds later, Bashik's body fell to the ground a few feet from her.

She felt her head being lifted and Jemma's panicking and crying face filled her vision. Skye managed to smile. Jemma was whispering reassurances and stroking her hair and brushing her hair. Skye realized Jemma had her head on her lap.

"It's okay. It's okay. It's okay," Jemma kept repeating.

Skye believed her. Jemma was alive. She'd managed to save Jemma. It was okay. Everything was okay. Suddenly, the wounds didn't feel that painful anymore. But Skye knew they were still there. She was still bleeding profusely. Skye knew she wasn't going to make it.

"Somebody, please! Please help!" Jemma shouted.

Skye grimaced. She forced herself to lift her hand and reach up to cup Jemma's face in her bloody hand. "You're here," she whispered brokenly.

Jemma looked down at her, her tears dripping onto Skye's face. "Yes, yes, I'm here, Skye. I'm here."

"You're safe."

Jemma nodded avidly and she wouldn't stop touching Skye. It felt so good. "I am safe, Skye. And soon, you're gonna be safe too, Skye. You're going to be alright."

"It is alright," Skye insisted. She coughed again, tasting her own blood on her tongue. "You're beautiful."

"Skye," Jemma sobbed.

Skye tried to conjure up words but her brain was too muddled at the moment and she felt herself losing her own senses rapidly. She frowned and blinked a few times to regain her focus. She needed more time.

"Don't force yourself. Save your energy. You'll be okay," Jemma reassured. She leaned down and kissed Skye on the forehead. Skye laughed weakly. Jemma's lips were trembling, pressed against her forehead. "Manscaping," the British woman whispered.

Skye laughed again, her voice garbled. "Manscaping," she reiterated. Jemma cradled her head in her arms and pressed her lips to Skye's forehead once more. "Your boobs are awesome," Skye managed.

Jemma released a helpless chuckle and drew back to look at Skye. "You can't joke at times like this."

Skye frowned when she saw light. This place was supposed to be dark. Then she knew. It was almost time. She looked Jemma pleadingly. "Kiss me?" she pleaded.

Jemma frowned. "No, no, I won't kiss you. You'll be okay, Skye. I promise you. I'm not kissing you until you're safe and okay back at the Playground. Just hang on!" she rambled.

"Jemma," Skye pleaded. "Please."

Jemma whimpered and gasped. Then she leaned down and covered Skye's lips with her own. Skye smiled.

Perfect.

(I love you.)

Jemma held Skye in her arms. She stopped crying. She just kept her arms wrapped around Skye tightly, as if Skye was still alive and she was keeping her warm. She kept her lips pressed to Skye's head, as if by doing so would resurrect the woman she'd fell in love with.

She felt powerless and agonized. It felt like she was being ripped apart right down to her bone marrow. Every cell in her was burning with affliction. Every breath she took was a labor. She removed her lips from Skye's head when May and Trip and some other guy she'd never seen before bombarded in.

Their eyes were wide with fear and apology. Even May couldn't keep her face straight.

Jemma closed her eyes and leaned her cheek against Skye's head, feeling her hair brushing against her face. She'd imagined doing this under happier circumstances. Now, the Skye in her arms was just a barren shell.

Her voice was brittle and strangled when she said, "She's gone."

(It meant:

You're too late.

I'm too late.

I didn't get to tell her.

I love her.)

i'm sorry?