A/N: Okay, so the original prompt was "Ward isn't Hydra. Ward finds out Garrett was Hydra the whole time. He doesn't go with the transport team. Him and Skye have that drink and extreme fluff ensues", but there are some cases when the fluff just wouldn't work. This is one of them.

Shot Through the Heart

Ward has been shot a couple of times – bullet wounds hurt, he knows it all too well. But still, his injuries have been only minor so far – more like inconveniences than real concerns. It's not like he knows how it feels like to be shot through the heart.

Correction: he hasn't known it until now.

Because as he sees John being led away in handcuffs, it feels just like that – there's a point of intense pain in the middle of his chest, and the whole world seems to be concentrated to that point, while his vision blurs, and the voices around him merge together. He is breathing hard, yet it feels like no oxygen gets into his lungs.

It can't be…

The man who all but raised him cannot be HYDRA, he simply can't…

He can't stay here. He just can't – so protocols and all shit to be damned, he turns around – his back to his former mentor – and strides away.

He has no idea where he is going until he gets there; it's some kind of a break room in the Hub, deserted now, the tables turned over, the door of a cupboard turn off. There have been a fight here – a fight between S.H.I.E.L.D. and HYDRA.

Before he could comprehend what he is doing – before he could tell himself to stop –, he lashes out, hitting the wall with full force.

He welcomes the pain as he rests his forehead against the wall, breathing heavy.

He just doesn't understand it – how? Why? And…

He wonders briefly how many missions John gave him were for HYDRA – how many times did he assist an organization he detests? And when John called him, asking causally about the team, about his life, about Skye… How much of that was just a play, an act to gather intelligence?

He lets out a bitter laugh.

He might as well have been a HYDRA agent all these years, and he didn't even know it.

He hears the door open, but he doesn't even move to acknowledge the newcomer – at least not until there's a gentle hand on his shoulder, carefully pulling him away from the wall. He doesn't even have to see her to know it's Skye – he recognizes her scent, her presence right away.

So he doesn't protest as she turns him around and takes him in.

"Oh, Grant…" he hears her sigh as her fingers touch his face, then wander down to his injured hand, her fingertips running over the bleeding knuckles. "Let me help with these," she tells him, then helps him sit down on the floor, by the wall. He lets her, numb.

She disappears then returns a couple moments later, having produced a first aid box from somewhere. He sits still, staring at the opposite wall as she gently wipes the blood away, applies antiseptic to his wounds and dresses them. He doesn't even feel the pain – he doesn't even feel anything, just the acute sense of loss and betrayal.

When she's done, she doesn't force him to talk; she simply laces their fingers together, and sits with him on the floor. Strangely, this is what draws him back to the real world – because he has to know. He has to know whether the girl who kissed him…

"Skye…" he starts, and his voice is so hoarse it sounds alien to his ears. "You're… You're not…"

"Of course not!" she cuts in, upset more for his benefit than out of being insulted. "No, no, I'd never."

"No secrets?"

"Not anymore, not for you," she assures him. "You can trust me."

"Good," he nods. "Because I, I couldn't, not after John and this whole mess, I just don't understand, how could he, and why me, Skye, why did he do this…" he rambles, voice raising, making less and less sense with every passing moment.

"Hey, hey, hey…" Skye chants, taking his face between her hands. "It's okay, it's okay, I got you. I understand. I'm here for you, It's okay…" she murmurs, pulling him down until his head rests on her lap. "Just let it all out."

But he doesn't – he doesn't know how. So he just lies on the cold tiles, his head in her lap as she strokes his hair. It doesn't lessen the pain – just makes it more bearable.