Hello, Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D fandom - I've been planning this for a long time, but only just decided to. You guys have read Comforting Nights, Drowning Sorrows, and many more, but here comes: before you, i was but an empty song. This will be a collection of one-shots! So follow, because there will many to come. Instead of just posting one by one, from now on I will be combining them into this. Enjoy!
"True love doesn't need proof. The eyes told what the heart felt." -Toba Beta
She could sing. Not at the professional level of course, but she could easily carry a tune; he had often heard her humming and tapping her fingers to the beat of a musical rhythm – the sound of her voice, often revealed only in the shower, was one that almost (but not quite) gave him chills. Her tone matched her looks in such a way that he almost couldn't stop staring, save the quick, silent moments when the two of them were alone. It was then, those quite times, that he practically drunk up her voice; it was the one memory that he could not get rid of anymore than he could do away with his own conscious.
And so, her voice continued – it echoed along the cold hallways of the bus, breathing life back into the stone black. She sang and hummed all sorts of music and tunes, whether it be something she heard offhandedly over the small radio or something she had stored on a rather primitive version of the iPod. Mostly he heard pop escape from her lips, something that matched her personality and went perfectly with how she felt that day.
He often looked forward to her singing; it was a sound of comfort that calmed him a way no one else could. At first, he thought she didn't notice him looking at her when she sang, or even when he slipped into the shadows of the corners if only to hear her voice. But slowly, carefully, he had begun to notice that she sang more when his mood was low and he fought, internally, against the world. Her fingers had brushed his as she hummed while the pair of them took their turn cooking dinner for the team, along as during movie night, Coulson's way of team bonding. He enjoyed her voice, almost to the point that he wished she would always be around to sing.
At least, that is, until the singing stopped. She was shot, point blank, by a man who now held a special piece of hatred in his soul. Her voice had been silence; and so his hatred for the world had grown.
After her accident, her singing was a null event to be heard – that is, not at all. It was as if she too had given up on the world. The melancholy sound was only listened to in the depths of his mind now, kept locked away in his soul. But eventually even that because lost to the winds, and he wished to heard her voice; if not for her, than for herself.
It had been three weeks since the accident and she was finally able to get out of the medical area that had confined her; he was by her side (had been since the moment Simmons had announced the anticipated date of her release) and helped her gently out of the bed, one of his hands falling to her lower back and the other slipped under her thighs, lifting her into the air with a sudden gentleness that he did not know he had. She squeaked as he did this, her arms flying instantly to link themselves around his neck.
"Hey!" she shouts, no doubt surprised by this motion. He only kept his face placid, his hands still against her smooth skin.
They walk along the hallway, meeting the eyes of no others; the rest of the team had left to only god knows where, giving him and Skye space. And for that, he was grateful.
His footsteps were light against the tile and his grip was tight, as if afraid he would drop her. They were almost to her room when a light hum reached his ears, and in surprise he nearly dropped her.
She yelped, again, but this time a little less urgently – she had only just began to get comfortable, he mused, as he regained his grip on her and slipped open the door with his foot. His hands loosed, only slightly, as he set her on the mound of blankets and pillows (courtesy of FitzSimmons) before retreating quietly, his mind storing at a rather quick speed the sound of her voice, heard, if only slightly, once again.
She crosses her arms, as stubborn as a child at the edge of a tantrum. "I want to walk," she muttered. "Why can't I walk?"
He was calm when he explained to her. "Just for a few more hours – Simmons needs to take her vitals before you are allowed to freely roam." With those words he turned and left, his heart beating much faster than it had when he had arrived at her bedside.
After that, her voice was heard rather freely again; the hallways were brightened, the air seemed fresh, and a heavy weight had been removed from his heart.
And so, the stories may spill onto the page and enter the minds of true readers.
