A/N: Still a little blocked as far as A Year in Life goes, so now I'm doing prompted drabbles. Which run too long, as usual.
One, Two, Three
"What, no bag today?" Skye asked with a cheeky undertone in her voice, leaning on the railing of the catwalk. "Do you have something even meaner for me?"
If she didn't know him better, she would have thought Grant Ward was struggling not to smile.
"Something like that," he answered in a tone that could have suggested either amusement or grumpiness. "Do you have heels?"
She blinked down at him. "What… Yeah, sure, I have a pair, but… heels? Why do you need heels?" She squinted, a smirk hiding in the corner of her mouth. "Just FYI, we're really not the same size. Just saying, if you meant to borrow my shoes."
This time, she was sure he smiled.
"Just put them on and meet me down here in five, okay? I'll explain then."
"Sure," she shrugged pushing herself away from the railing and turning towards the living area of the Bus. "If you say so, my great S.O."
She was back and down in the cargo hold, heels on, in four minutes (something she was rather proud of), waiting for his explanation with arms crossed in front of her chest.
"Alright, so what's the deal?"
"Can you dance?"
She wouldn't lie and say that the question didn't come a little unexpected.
"Yeah, sure, I guess," she shrugged again, trying to play it down. "Bring on some music, and I can shake it."
He didn't even miss a beat. "I meant ballroom dancing. Waltz, Foxtrot, the like?"
She bit into her lip. "Yeah, that… Nope." She let her arms fall. "Why?"
He relaxed his stance a little as well, so she knew a quick lecture was coming; but, to his credit, when he spoke, he didn't sound condescending at all. "Being an agent is not just dodging bullets and fighting your way out of situations. Sometimes you have to go undercover–you have to blend in. And in cases like those, it's handy to have some extra skills–like dancing. Even the Academy offers it as an elective."
"Wow," she said, with only just a tiny bit of mock-irony. "So now you'll teach me how to dance?"
Now she could have sworn he looked a little uncomfortable. "Technically, yes," he replied, his Adam's apple bobbing. "I thought you'd appreciate some change of pace," he added as an explanation.
"I do, it's just…" she trailed off, not really sure what she meant to say, then mentally shook herself, and started okay. "Okay, so what do you want me to do?"
He stepped closer to her, and suddenly the scent of his cologne, which until then was only an undertone in the distance, filled the air around her. He reached for her left hand, and she took a deep breath.
"It's really not that difficult," he said as he placed her left hand on his shoulder, then took her right, holding it out to the side. "Just follow my lead."
"There's no music."
"You don't need that yet." He put his right hand on her waist, and she shivered for no reason. "Just listen to me."
And so he started leading her, forcing her back a couple of steps before guiding her to the side, while chanting "one-two-three, one-two-three" under his breath. It was awkward at best, embarrassing at worst–she felt like her head and her legs belonged to two different entities, she tripped over her own feet, and even managed to step on his toes on several occasions (he didn't even wince). At first, she tried to keep her gaze up, but the more mistakes she made, the stronger the urge was to watch her feet, as if it could help her, so she gave in pretty soon, casting her eyes down.
"Don't look down," he told her right away, without breaking the rhythm. "Keep your eyes up." She did (risking tripping again), and then he continued, "Beyond blending in, dancing can benefit you in other ways during undercover ops, too," he explained. "If you're with a partner, it can give you a three hundred and sixty degree view of the room, and nobody finds it suspicious if dancers lean close to each other, maybe even whisper into the other's ear, so you can discuss things with a minimal risk of being overheard. So just keep your eyes up."
"Yeah, well," she snorted, "there isn't much to look at behind you right now."
"Then look into my eyes," he prompted. "Keep eye contact. Don't look down."
"Easier said than done," she grumbled in a low voice, but still did what he asked from her.
And it really was easier said than done; she had had noted earlier to herself that he had nice eyes, but looking into them from this close–without blinking or blushing or making an idiot of herself–was a completely different story. Like, how was she supposed to pay attention to the one-two-three, one-two-three beat of the dance, when he was close enough for her to count the colors in his eyes? (From afar, they simply looked brown, but from this close, they were more like whisky, or maybe amber, with flecks of honey, and a shade she still had to find a name for. Maybe she should have googled the shades of brown…). And apart from that–and maybe it was even more distracting–he seemed to be watching her eyes just as intently as she was watching his. She even saw his lips twitch once or twice, as if he wanted to say something, but in the end, he settled for a soft smile, nothing more, but somehow even that smile made her feel butterflies in her belly.
So, yeah, it was no surprise that she messed it up pretty soon after the "look into my eyes" order.
He must have been trying to turn her, but she missed the step and her foot fell on his foot instead, which broke her trance, alarming her and urging her to correct, but that only made things worse, because her heel somehow got stuck in something, turning her ankle out in an unnatural angle.
"Ouch!" she cried out, instinctively trying to reach for her leg, making her lose whatever weak grip on balance she still had and propelling her forward. If not for Ward's miraculously quick reflexes–he reached out right away, catching her elbows and holding her up–she was sure she would have fallen on the metal floor, face first.
"You okay?" he asked, with actual concern in his voice, as he led her to the side of the room.
"Yeah, I guess, it's just… ouch," it broke from her lips once again as she tried to put weight on her injured ankle.
He guided her to one of the crates by the wall and helped her sit down, then knelt in front of her, taking her leg into his hands. He pulled her shoe off (she couldn't help noticing what a reverse-Cinderella moment this was), and ran his fingers along the wounded ankle, probing a little and making her wince.
"You'll live," he said after a moment, standing up and looking at her with a half-smile. "Some ice and a little rest, and it'll good as new in no time."
"Good to know," she answered, taking his offered hand and letting him help her get up. "But until then," she continued as he put her arm around his shoulder and slid his other arm around her torso, supporting most of her weight, "can I order you around? You know, bring me this and that?"
"Dream on, Rookie," he said, but there was something in his voice that told her it was not entirely out of the question. "Until then, we can go over some theoretical stuff."
She let out a little disappointed moan. "And I guess we're done with the dancing, too?"
"Not at all," he shook his head. "We'll continue the lesson once your leg's okay–but maybe in flats this time."
For some reason, this promise made her cheeks feel warm and her heart flutter.
