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Coulson’s lying in bed, Skye’s voice on repeat: I am, I can't make it stop. And the answering refrain unspoken by himno, no, no, please god, no. He wants to deny what she said, make it a lie, but he can’t; the truth of what she was saying was right in front of him, in front of everyone, and nothing can change that.
He gets up, thinking moving around might provide some clarity, some answers. As he walks through the hallways of the Base, his every move, from the swish of his sweatpants to the pat of his bare feet on the ground sounds impossibly, nightmarishly loud. As he approaches his office, he sees a shadow moving through the glass. He pushes the door open gently, and Skye turns to look at him as though she was expecting him.
“So, now you know, everybody knows.” Skye continues, her mouth twisted and her voice thick with self-loathing. “That mist, it did something to me. And this is who, what I am now.”
He just stares at her, bereft and anguished, because this is so fucking unfair.
Skye paces in front of the window, before turning to look at him again, her eyes wide and staring, as though she sees some vision, some horror he can’t, but her voice is quiet and reasonable, horribly reasonable. “So, you know, it’s time to eradicate me. Take me out. Maybe Mack should have the honors. After all, everything is my fault. It’s only fair.”
He finds his voice. “No, you’re wrong,” and his voice cracks, but he keeps speaking, “and no one’s going to eradicate you. No one wants to do that to you, Skye.”
Her reply is harsh. “Why? Because of who I am? Because I’m a member of the team? Because they like me? Why should that matter? Why?”
“Because you’re Skye. Because this isn’t your fault. Because you’re good.”
“No, I’m not. That was a lie, a complete fiction. I’m Daisy, I’m my father’s daughter, and I’m every bit as much of a monster as he is.”
She looks like she’s about to be violently ill as she brings her hands to her head, gripping her hair at the roots and pulling like she wants to tear it out. “I keep thinking how wrong you were. Trip didn’t die to save anyone. He just died. He was an innocent bystander killed by a stray bullet that should have taken me."
Coulson feels the blood drain from his face, and he’s chilled. His mind finally makes a connection which he should have made hours ago, “The obelisk didn’t cause the quake…”
Her eyes fill with tears, and she takes a deep, painful breath. He wishes he could unsay those words but that’s not possible either. And even if he could, it wouldn't change anything.
She walks over to sit on the couch, hugging her knees and looking up at him, as the tears roll down her face freely as she forces the words out of her mouth. “I knew you’d get there. Here you were thinking Trip saved us from a disaster, that he worked a miracle. No miracle. Instead, it was me who almost destroyed us all.”
She lays her head on her knees and looks out of the windows as he sits down carefully next to her. Her voice is very small and thin. “Simmons and Mack were right, you know, and they should hate me. Everyone should hate me. This is my fault; I should be wiped out.”
Coulson hesitates before laying a hand on her back, and he curses himself for putting her in that damned quarantine room. It was the correct call, the correct protocol, but Skye shouldn’t have been left alone, isolated, most of the time no one to speak to but herself, no one to touch her, to comfort her, with whom to share her fear and grief and anguish. Instead of surrounding her with warmth and love and concern, she had machines and haz-mat suits and anger.
She’s crying openly now, her hands fisted and pressed against her eyes as her chest heaves, ragged sobs ripped from her lungs. He pulls her against him, wrapping his arms tightly around her.
“Please don’t hate me, Coulson. Please don’t hate me.”
He makes shushing noises and tightens his arms further. “I could never hate you.”
“Why don’t you hate me? How can you stand to look at me, to have me near you?” She buries her face in his neck, and her wet eyelashes and cheeks force a sob from him.
“There’s nothing to hate about you. Nothing. Please don’t blame yourself. None of this is your fault.” He wants to tell her to blame him. He had had so much hubris, thinking he could call the shots, control everything. But she wouldn’t blame him; she’s too good. She’d try to comfort him, carry his guilt and shame, and he doesn’t deserve that. She’s been there for him too many times, shouldered his burdens, and now it’s his turn if he can.
“There’s nothing but good in you, Skye. You’re made of light, you’re the light in the darkness, and I can see you burning so brightly. Please see that. You need to see that.”
He can’t tell if Skye believes him or if she even hears him as she hiccups against him, but he thinks he feels her relax a bit.
“Coulson, I’m so tired,” she murmurs, her voice reedy and stretched, barely audible. He knows it’s been days since she’s had any real sleep, and he rubs her back, whispering I know, I know and he does know. He knows the bone-tired weariness, the absolute exhaustion she’s mired in.
He lays her down on the couch carefully, stretching out her legs, before lying down next to her and gathering her in his arms again, drawing her to him so that her head is tucked under his chin.
“Rest, you can rest. We’ll figure this out. Tonight, you rest.” She softens against him, letting out shuddering breaths against his breastbone that slowly, gradually become something more regular as he strokes her hair.
It’s some time before he’s able to close his own eyes, but eventually he does, hoping he can keep this promise to her, and that they can figure this out, starting tomorrow.