I’ve never killed anyone before
"I’ve never killed anyone before."
Skye's voice is quiet, but Coulson can still hear the strain in it.
"It's not certain you killed Donnie," he observes. "May said you've been tracking the Moroccan police reports, and – "
She shakes her head. "They've pulled his body out. It was frozen."
He dares to step closer and touch her arm as she sits on the holotable. "I'm sorry, Skye," he says softly.
She looks up at him, biting her bottom lip, and he can see the shimmer of tears in her eyes, and he doesn't hesitate, though he is more than half certain he should, he simply wraps his arms around her and holds her tight.
She lets out a choked sob, and he feels hot tears against his neck as she loses her iron control on herself, and breaks down completely. He has to fight tears of his own at her reaction, knowing how much she must be hurting.
They don't talk, they just hold each other until she's all cried out, then she pulls back and scrubs at her wet face with the back of her hand. He pulls a handkerchief from his inside jacket pocket and holds it out, and she gives a watery gurgle.
"Only you, Coulson," she says, clearly going for light-hearted.
As she mops her face dry, he says, "If you ever need to talk about this, you can come to me," he says.
That earns him raised eyebrows, and he winces internally, knowing that he deserves the scepticism. "Really?" she asks doubtfully.
He nods. "I know I haven't been around a lot lately, and I'm truly sorry for that." I'm trying to keep you safe, he thinks desperately, but doesn't dare to tell her that because she'll want to know from what, and he doesn't want to discuss that with her: he knows there's no hope left for himself. "But if I'm here and not off recruiting, then yes, you can come to me and talk about this."
"Thanks," she says softly, then holds out his soggy handkerchief. "Sorry, it's a bit, uh, wet."
He smirks. "Keep it."
She rolls her eyes. "Oh very romantic, Director."
That makes him smirk more because she sounds much more like her usual self now.
"You're expecting romantic overtures from me, Agent?" he asks lightly. He's curious, though – he's not an idiot, he's been perfectly aware of the tension that's always existed between them.
To Skye's credit, she doesn't blush, or even look flustered. "It's usually a romantic gesture in fiction," she says. "When the guy gives the girl his handkerchief, then tells her to keep it."
He shakes his head, then reaches out to brush a strand of hair from her cheek. "Feeling a bit better?" He tries, but he's not sure he succeeds, to keep tenderness from his voice.
"Yeah. Turns out all I needed was a hug and the chance to sob on the Director's shoulder. Thanks."
"Any time," he says sincerely. He can't help thinking, though, that Skye needs – and deserves – far more than that, and a small part of him wishes that he could give it to her, that he could take her in his arms and make tender love to her, that he could kiss away the hurt and heartache.
But that's not an option. He's certain that he doesn't have much longer, and he's not going to taint Skye's memories of the time they have left together by letting her see him dealing with his horrible compulsion to carve alien symbols on his wall.
"Let's go and get some dinner," he suggests. "I think Trip's cooking tonight."
"Okay," she says, and gives him a soft, grateful smile that almost undoes his resolve not to tell her everything that's going on with him.
Almost.