She woke up not eight minutes (eight minutes?) ago with no idea of her idenity, her memory, or anything else. It was as if she was a blank slate; but then he had burst through her door, guns blazing.
She waits until she's outside, alone, to break down.
She can feel her heart beat elevating; she wants to scream but she can't, his hand preventing her from crying for help. But then he speaks, his voice low. "Skye, you gotta run," he says urgently. "They're going for the team; they're gonna be looking for you but you have to hide as far away as possible. Please Skye," he's begging now. "Please, you have to stay safe."
It's when she finally takes a sip of water, on the seventh day, that she finds out she's pregnant.
But then he speaks finally, his voice littered with something dangerously close to disbelief. "You're - you're pregnant." She meets his gaze, challenging. "Aren't you going to kill me?" she spits, her voice slightly wavering. The sight of him angers her. "Well, aren't you, traitor?"
And he does, peeling the white tape off her hands and brushing his thumb with hers. Their pinkies link for a moment and she catches her breath, her heart skipping a beat.
But her eyes, however, tell more - they tell the tales of her soul, something that he knows has been stained a thousand times with a color deeper than red; no, the color is a deep crimson, one that has bled from the skin of hundreds. She isn't happy - he can tell just by once glance, one look.
And that mere thought, one that had only come from the darkest parts of her mind, causes her to move. She takes one hesitant step, then another, before slowly and surely coming to rest before him. Her knees bend almost against her own will and her hands reaches out, cupping the glass and brushing against his fingers.
She never really belonged. Not truly.
The sounds of her sobs and tears running down her pale cheeks and around her softly spoken lips had quickly become the background to the soundtrack of his beyond messed up life.
She pretended that she did not love him.
He should've seen the signs; he should seen the way she looked at him.
He remembers dark hair, dark eyes, and olive-colored skin; his mind flashes to a brilliant laugh, white teeth, and the feeling of her lips against his.
His eyes flash, once again. "I never screwed around with you," his voice cracks. "You were the one thing that kept me anchored to this crazy, screwed up world; you were the only thing that kept me sane, and I feel in love with you."
When she wakes, it isn't pretty.