Hey guys. Hope you all have a splendid Christmas/whatever holiday you celebrate! Here's a little Skyeward oneshot. I don't own the characters. They might be a little OOC... You'll have to decide... Don't forget to review!

She initially sees the little poster up on the coffee house cork board, poorly thumb tacked so one side droops pitifully below the other. Neon green and hand-written in silver Sharpie. She squints to read it, her attention drifting from the coffee she's pouring the customer.

And spills the boiling joe on to her not-so-white-anymore blouse.

"Aw, damnit!" she hisses. The mother at the next table over glares. "Sorry!" she says to the man, but at this point, he's oblivious, his cup mostly full and his nose buried in the newspaper.

Stuck up bastard.

When her shift's over, she rushes over to the board.

And it's absolutely worth the first degree burns from that blasted cup of coffee.

She signs up immediately.

Caroling. Door to door Christmas caroling. Hell yes.

She shows up to the rehearsals which are held in a little tiny apartment, the plinking of the melody bouncing from the keyboard.

And of course, the director's an asshole.

"No, no, no! Tenors! You have a D flat on that third note! A flat!" He's a shorter man who demands nothing short of perfection and insists that everyone call him Director Coulson.

(Which Skye this is ridiculous because there are way too many syllables, which makes it hard to whisper, "Fuck you, Director Coulson," without being heard.)

Sure, it's hell. But she adores Christmas too much to really care.

Christmas Eve arrives, and she's barely wrapped all her gifts and strung all her Christmas lights.

It's snowy out as they trek through the streets, the flakes soaking into her suede boots.

They enter in through the doors of an apartment building. She holds the door open for Mr. Lee, the older, but drunk off-his-ass tenor, and as she turns to enter herself, slips comically on the ice, scratching her ankle on the pavement.

"Are you alright?" Mr. Lee, asks, extending his hand out to her to hoist her up.

"Pshaw," she says, "Not much more than a scratch."

They round the first floor quickly since there's only a few apartments.

On the second floor, when they knock on the door she feels the excitement bubbling in her gut. Waits for the look of surprize on the unsuspecting resident's face...

When he opens the door, (and fuck he's attractive) he only has to show a quarter inch of his nose before they start singing.

"We wish you a merry Christmas..."

And the door is slammed in their faces.

"That's alright, people!" Director Coulson shouts. "Some people refuse to participate in Christmas." It's what he says after every door slam, and Skye's starting to roll her eyes.

When she looks down.

And starts screaming.

She's bleeding. Everywhere, the scarlet liquid staining her boots and beading on the carpet.

The guy who slammed the door in their faces yanks it open. "What the hell?" he asks.

"Grant?" asks May, the alto who stands next to her.

"Hey?" he says back, still obviously confused. "It's been awhile."

"Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit," Skye swears. "Ah fuck, that hurts."

She peels off her boot and sock, the stickiness clinging to her fingers. The gash is at least an inch wide.

"You're gonna need stitches," Coryn, the obnoxious girl who stands behind her comments, stating the rather obvious.

"Is someone going to do something?" the guy at the door asks.

"Is it really that bad?" Skye gulps, veering her eyes away from the blood.

"Don't you have paper towel we could use to clean this up?" Coryn asks in her ridiculous voice.

"Oh, yeah, yeah," he says disappearing into his apartment, the door swinging on its hinges behind him."

"I feel horrible about this," Skye says. "I didn't mean to ruin this all for the rest of you."

The guy swings the door back open with his foot, a roll of paper towel in one hand, and a box of band-aids in the other. He hands them off to Director Coulson who blots recklessly at the oozing flesh.

"Ayaheh!" Skye screams, muffled by her hand. "Oh jeez. I really don't want to keep you guys from caroling. Especially since it's Christmas Eve."

"Skye," Coulson says. "You need to go to the hospital for some stitches!"

"I can take her," guy at the door says. He looks uneasy, though, biting his lip as if he wishes he could suck the words back into his mouth.

"You'd really do that? For a stranger?" Skye asks.

"Wait a second," Director Coulson interjects. "This guy's a stranger! He could be a rapist!"

"Hey-!" he tries to say, but May interrupts.

"This guy's an asshole, but he's no rapist. I went to college with him. We... knew each other."

"Oh, um..." the guy tails off. "Yeah, that's fine. I'll take you to the hospital."

The rest of the chorus re-gathers themselves, and Skye waves as they ascend the stairs to the third floor. "I'm sorry," she says, "for the inconvenience."

"It's alright. May would have skinned me alive if I had tried to back out of it."

She sticks nine bandaids over the gash, the little white pads instantly turning crimson. "You don't happen to drive a crappy car, do you?" she asks.

"2005 Ford Escape. Why?"

"I might get blood on it."

He runs in to grab another roll of paper towel before they head down the stairs.

His car is parked on the outskirts of the parking lot, and she has to bounce sort of one footed so she can keep the bandage in place with her hand. It's super awkward, and she's sure this guy is laughing at her.

Which is unfortunate because he's really hot.

Fifteen minutes later. "So," she says, breaking the awkward silence that hangs over them. He had been completely silent thus far, only opening his mouth to tell her she needed to buckle because he was a cop, and he really didn't want to pull himself over.

"You're really a cop?" she had asked. Not that it surprised her too much. He's extremely well built.

He only nodded in response.

Now her feet are propped on the dashboard (because she know's it's pissing him off.)

"So... what?" he asks back, responding to her previous monosyllable.

"I don't know. I guess this is just sort of weird."

"Yeah."

"What's your name again?"

"Grant."

"Do you only talk in one word sentences?"

"Whenever possible."

"Ha! That was more than one syllable!"

He looks over at her.

"What?" she asks defensively.

"I think the blood loss is getting to you."

"Nope, I'm always like this.

They get to the emergency room as the sun starts to set behind the trees, Christmas lights popping out in the twilight.

"I'm going to drop you off at the doors," Grant says. "And then I'll come in and wait with you."

"You don't have to wait with me."

He hesitates for a second. "You'll need someone to drive you home."

"I can take the bus. Or a taxi."

"Hospitals usually want someone there with you. They probably won't let you go home in time for Christmas if they think you're going home alone. Especially if they put you on pain killers. I'll come in. Really, it's no problem."

"Alright. I'll see you then." She opens the car door, and limps up to the revolving doors, careful not to step on the shiny ice patches. She doesn't need a repeat so soon.

She checks herself in with the receptionist who looks extremely frazzled. Sits down in the seat on the opposite side of the room as the dude who's obviously high, but claims he has ebola. Why the hell he isn't being quarantined is beyond her exhausted brain.

Grant pushes his way through the doors, scanning the room for, presumably, her. Juts his chin out in a half nod when he spots her. She smiles back.

He takes the seat next to her, the last groaning beneath him.

"There's a crazy over there," she says, pointing at Ebola Dude.

"I'm a policeman; there's crazies everywhere."

She laughs, the sound filling the space between them.

"I'm sorry you're spending Christmas Eve in the ER," she whispers.

It's two and a half hours before there's a doctor there to give her stitches. Screw the health system. She winces a bit when he sticks the needle into her ankle, but she prides herself that she doesn't cry.

Especially not in front of this gorgeous man.

Who reaches for her hand as the needle disappears into her flesh.

She hates that her hands are clammy.

But doesn't really care once they giver her a dose of Vicodin.

She has to go home with him. They apparently think that she's not mentally fit to take care of herself.

Bastards.

Except that means she can spend more time with Grant.

The ride home feels like fog.

"You doing alright?" he asks, glancing over at her as he veers on to the highway.

"Mmmh, sure."

"Feeling loopy yet?" He grins lopsidedly at her.

"That snow bank looks like a bunny."

"Are you being serious, or are you just fucking with me?"

She looks over at him, trying to give him a sensual smirk, but she figures it probably just looks creepy. "I'll fuck you."

"Yeah you're definitely loopy."

The road is slick with the residue of sleet, freezing to ice when it pummels the concrete. He pulls into the parking lot of his apartment building, being sure to go slowly to avoid skidding into a snow bank.

He parks in the handicap spot. "Wait a second!" she slurs, "You can't park here. It's blue."

"You get out now, and I'll park over there. I don't want to make you walk farther than you have to. Otherwise, I'll have to carry you."

"Oh, well..."

"Get out, Skye!" he jokingly yells, handing her the key card to the front door.

"Fine," she pouts back. She clicks open the door, making sure her ankle is stable enough to lean her weight on. Slams the door, and glares at him. She stands on the sidewalk waiting for him to pull away into a non-illegal spot.

But he doesn't move, just rolls down his window and sticks his head out. "What the hell are you doing? You're going to freeze your ass!"

"Hurry up!" she yells back.

Four minutes later, he's opening the door so she can hobble in. "Didn't they give you crutches?"

"Crutches are for pansy asses."

"How are you going to climb two flights of stairs?"

"Isn't there an elevator in this building?"

"Nope, it's out of order." He smirks at her.

"I don't believe you." Folds her arms defiantly over her chest.

"Have I given any reason for you not to trust me?" And then he's hoisting her over his shoulder in a fireman's carry, her legs flailing commercially.

"If you kick me in the crotch, I will murder you," he growls, but she's laughing so hard she can barely breathe.

He sprints up the stairs ignoring her pitiful protests. (She is staring down at his fine ass; she can't argue too much, or he might actually put her down.)

He sets her down to get his keys to unlock his apartment, and she averts her eyes from his so he won't see her cheeks flushing.

"Come on in," he says.

"Thanks."

He disappears for a moment leaving her on the couch that looks like it's been eaten by mice more than once.

"He comes back with a t-shirt and a pair of sweats. "They probably won't fit you, but you can tighten the drawstring and sleep in them."

"Thanks."

"The bathroom's on the right. I got out a toothbrush for you."

She smiles and then disappears into the bathroom. It's small, and surprisingly clean for a single guy.

Except she doesn't know if he's single.

He's a bastard, if he's got a girlfriend, for flirting with her like that. He fucking carried her up the stairs.

She pees quickly, changes, brushes her teeth, ties her hair in a messy bun, and folds her clothes before walking back out.

"It's bad out there," he says.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, the snow just keeps falling."

"Hey, if it's alright with you, I'd like to sleep. The painkillers are fucking with my brain."

He laughs, "Yeah, sure. You want the bed?"

"No, that's alright, I can take the couch."

"I insist."

"You've had enough trouble."

"I'll get you a pillow and some blankets."

And twenty minutes later, she's fading off into dreams.

Only the barest hints of the sunshine push their way through the clouds the next morning when she wakes up. He's making coffee in the kitchen, the smell luring her to the kitchen table. The little TV on top of the fridge mumbles the news softly.

"Merry Christmas," she says

"It's Christmas?"

"That was sarcasm, right?" she asks.

"Mostly."

"What with your Grinch vibe? You slammed the door in a bunch of caroler's faces, you didn't care about taking me to the ER on Christmas Eve, you have zero decorations in your apartment... You don't seem Jewish. Are you?"

He raises his eyebrow at her.

"You're Jewish! Oh gosh, I'm so sorry, that was completely-" He's laughing so hard that she has to stop mid-sentence. "You aren't Jewish! You fucking bastard!"

"The look on your face is priceless."

She's sure it is. "I want to slap you!"

"Will french toast make up for my assholery?"

"Depends. On how good it is. And the quality of your toppings."

Eight minutes later, she's convinced she bled out last night, and this is heaven. "Grant, this is incredible."

"The master chef strikes again."

"So... you never answered me. Why do you hate Christmas?"

"I don't know. When I was little my parents were super rich, so Christmas was always about throwing a bigger party than the one the neighbor's threw. I mean, sure, I got presents and shit, but it wasn't about being a kid. It was about being well-behaved to impress all the political guests."

"So, you just don't even try any more?"

He shrugs. "My parents died in a fire when I was sixteen, and I was taken in by my uncle John who cared even less about Christmas than I do. And my brother's a senator now, you know, Christian Ward, so I don't really have anyone to spend it with."

"Your brother's-"

"Yeah. Yeah he is." He pauses for a moment. "So what about you? What's your plan for today?"

"The Romanian neighbors across the hall from me had invited me over for dinner."

"What about your own family?"

"I grew up in the foster system. It wasn't always great, but Christmas usually was. No matter where I was or which family I was with, they all made an effort on Christmas."

"I don't know who's got the better sob story," he says after a pause.

"You do. At least I had Christmas."

He smiles at this. Looks up at the television. The obnoxious weather chick, Marysa is bouncing on the screen. (Who the hell spells Marissa with a y?) Skye can barely pay attention, her gaze averting to the chick's obnoxiously voluminous hair. She wonders if she uses a Bump-It.

"The snow isn't stopping anytime soon!" Marysa says. "We have a Christmas blizzard! Do not leave your house unless you absolutely have to!"

"Aw, fuck!" Skye swears.

"Don't worry about it," Grant says, standing to put away the coffee maker. "You can stay here today; I didn't have anything planned."

"But what about my Romanian neighbors? And really I don't want to impose."

"You already have imposed."

"Great to know that's how you really feel."

"Do you know your neighbor's number? You can call them."

"Yeah, no. They're illegal immigrants and therefore refuse to get telephones."

They spend the next two hours cooking, deciding neither of them wants to wait until dinner for their Christmas meal. She cuts broccoli (and tries to avoid another trip to the ER) while he sautes chicken. She turns on the radio and belts out Christmas music while he not-so-discretely rolls his eyes.

And then, abruptly, the power goes out. Thrust into total darkness, the sounds of Bing Crosby's crooning fading into the black.

"Did we blow a fuse?" Skye asks.

"Doubtful. The blizzard out there is awful. At least the stove is gas, so we can finish this up."

He lays a blanket on the living room floor, claiming he doesn't want to get food on his new couch.

"How long have you had the couch?" she asks.

"Eight years."

"I don't think that qualifies as new."

Twenty minutes later, the generator kicks in. (Apparently the building manager has a shitty idea to the definition of "working order.") The television flickers on, George Bailey's black and white face from It's a Wonderful Life flashing to commercial.

And it's comfortable, their backs flush against the couch, their knees touching "accidentally." Sipping beer causally from wine glasses. (He didn't have any wine, but she insisted on the glasses for "Christmas formality.")

He asks stupid questions about the movie, she's pretty sure, just to keep her talking.

And fuck is it sexy when he laughs. Deep and rumbly. Like peanut brittle.

"Does this movie ever end?" he asks.

"Shut up!" she laughs, playfully swatting his arm. "This is the good part!"

"You've said that about the last three scenes."

"I don't understand how Christmas can turn a person so cynical!" He narrows his eyes at her, and she shrugs away from his gaze.

Which means she doesn't notice him lean over, doesn't register his face right in front of hers until they're kissing. His mouth whisper's a faint rhythm against hers, and damn her if it's not "White Christmas."

She pulls back, but only for a moment.

And this time, when his lips find hers, she's pulling on his hair and forcing his mouth open with hers. He pushes her so she's lying on her back, one of his hands around her hip, the other pulling her closer to him.

She doesn't really want to stop.

Sure he's a stranger.

Sure she's never had a one night stand.

But this, this doesn't feel like a one night stand.

Her hands slip below his sweater, coercing it upward at she runs her fingers over his abs. He pulls back, yanking it from his neck, sending it spiraling away from them.

And then.

"You're sure?" he asks.

"Don't ask stupid questions."

And then there's only brightness, and electricity, and the feeling of falling into the endless abyss.

Afterward, they lay on their backs, staring at the ceiling.

"Wow," she says simply.

"Yeah, that's a good word for it." He reaches up to the couch and pulls a blanket from over the armrest, spreading it out over the both of them.

"I feel kind of weird doing that in front of George Bailey," she laughs. "He was like my whole childhood."

"I don't know what to say to that.

It's quiet for a moment. "So," he starts, "How'd you get involved in caroling?"

She recounts the clumsy bit about spilling coffee on herself to try to look at the sign. "I can't believe May is part of that group," he says. "She never stuck me as someone who liked spreading Christmas cheer."

"At least she can sing! The girl who stands behind me, Coryn. Do you remember her, the really obnoxious one?" He nods. "She must sing everything flat because she's never in tune! She's all like," Skye drops her voice down an octave, "I have a really deep voice, so I need to sing every low note as loudly as I can!"

Grant looks at her, his eyes relatively amused. "Is that really how you feel?"

"Yes!"

"Who was that old guy? I could definitely hear him when you guys were on the first floor, and I was pretty sure there was a small animal dying."

"That's Stan Lee. He's a total ass. You know how people are all. 'Old people are cute!' No, this is the guy who will chase you down the street with his walker. He's also a complete womanizer. He tries to hit on me during rehearsal."

"Yeah," he says with a grin, "and how do you feel about that."

"Are you psychoanalyzing me?"

"Do you like it when old guys hit on you?"

"I don't know. He's probably great in bed. Maybe better than you are."

"Is that what you think?" He leans up on one elbow, a positively devilish look in his eyes. "Want to test that?" Rips the blanket off his body.

"Oh, shit," says Skye.

"'Oh shit' is right."

And then everything feels perfectly sparkly again.

After.

"Grant."

"Yeah?"

"Merry Christmas."

"You too."

Leave a comment! Reviews are gingerbread cookies! Merry Christmas!