Sparks Fly

Drop everything now,
Meet me in the pouring rain,
Kiss me on the sidewalk,
Take away the pain

There are only so many times a man can have near brushes with death without saying "dam it all", throw every caution out of the window, and do exactly what his heart has been telling him to do for months.

For Grant, this point comes on a rainy Thursday, just after dusk.

They went against a Centipede compound – and what waited for them inside wasn't anything like they had expected.

There were about twice as many Centipede soldiers as they anticipated, not to mentions other, heavily armed guards, at least a dozen of them. Even with the task team S.H.I.E.L.D. had sent, they were sorely outnumbered.

He got tossed around. A bullet grazed his thigh. He got knocked through a wall. He suspected he had a broken rib or two, and a black eye. By time they subdued everybody, he was more than pissed.

But it wasn't the worst.

Skye's comms went down halfway through the mission.

Cut off from the others of the team, fighting Centipede soldiers left and right, he was slowly going mad, screaming inside. He didn't know if she was okay and it was just a technical problem or…

He didn't even want to think about it. He just wanted it to be over, so he could go out and find her.

So he fought.

And fought.

Until there was nobody left to fight.

When the command comes over his comm that the mission is over and every agent is to meet outside in the yard, he sets off running, not caring about the pain, not caring about the rain, not stopping until he rounds the corner of the building and the others come into view.

Then his heart skips a beat.

She is there – with a light bruise on her face, but other than that seemingly unharmed.

As if sensing him, she turns towards him, her eyes lighting up.

His mouth pulls into a smile on its own accord.

Before he realizes what he is doing, he is running again, running towards her.

She begins walking towards him, too, but barely takes three steps before he reached her.

Time seems stand still for a moment.

It is a decision made in a fraction of a moment – a decision to say "damn it all", to throw every caution out of the window and do exactly what his heart has been telling him to do for months.

His left arm sneaks around her waist, finding purchase on her lower back. He pulls her close, almost roughly, while he takes her chin in his right hand. He stares into her eyes, glistening from unshed tears, relief, longing.

And then he is kissing her, his bruised lips on her soft ones, caressing, brushing, nipping, begging, loving.

And she is kissing him back, her arms around his neck, pulling herself up, so she could be closer to him.

And damn it all. Damn every protocol and every ounce of common sense.

He is going to love her.