Long Live
The night you danced like you knew our lives
Would never be the same
You held your head like a hero
On a history book page
It was the end of a decade
But the start of an age
The last night they spend at the Playground is the night of celebration.
S.H.I.E.L.D. has finally gained back its old glory, and HQ is officially moving back to D.C. the next day. They are already packed, every lab equipment and every personal belonging, which was a Herculean task in itself, but they are yet to face the real work: the Triskelion is still under construction, it'll be a hell to build up the new security system, not to mention all the paperwork this all will bring upon.
And yet, tonight everybody is celebrating – and if it means that tomorrow morning half of the agents will be hangover, and the floor of the base will be littered by confetti and plastic cups, nobody seems to care.
They have worked in worse conditions.
Skye's in the midst of celebrating people, dancing with Jemma and Bobbi, singing along with the song, even though the music is too loud for her voice to be heard. She's a little bit more than tipsy – her movements more fluid and less coordinated than when sober.
And Grant can't find himself blaming her.
It's so rare that they have something to celebrate. Let alone at this volume. So she deserves this.
Damn it.
They both deserve it.
He drinks his scotch, sets down his glass, and walks onto the dance floor to steal Skye away from the girls.
She turns and gives him a happy grin when his arms encircle her waist.
"Hey, Stranger."
"Hello, beautiful."
She giggles as he spins her around, then places his hands on her hips, dangerously low.
"I though you didn't dance."
"I do when the occasion calls for it."
And he does dance, pulling her close and setting a rhythm that would drive prom chaperons out of their minds. Like in everything, she's his partner in this too, moving with him, against him, creating friction, giving him a clear idea what's in store for him tonight when she gets bored of dancing.
God, as if he could love this woman any more.
At one point she gets enough of their wild, uncontrolled dancing (it was starting to test his self-control, anyway), slows down and puts her arms around his neck, pulling herself close, starting a slow, sensual swaying, despite of the fast-paced music still roaring around them.
She places her head on his shoulder and sighs; he takes the opportunity to inhale the scent of her hair.
"Wanna know a secret?" She says after a while into his ear.
"Only if it's not classified."
"It kinda is, but you have a clearance for it."
"Then go ahead."
She raises herself on the tip of her toes and gently nibbles on his ear before whispering – more like shouting – into it:
"I love you."