Arrivals
The fall of S.H.I.E.L.D. came with many drawbacks, one of them—or maybe the root of most of them—being the severe budget cuts. Gone were the days when they could get away with causing tens of thousands dollars of damage to the Bus and only get a stern look and a half-hearted scolding from the director. These days every dollar counted and was counted—at least it seemed like it.
And that meant that Grant had to grit his teeth and fly coach from time to time, because sometimes it just didn't worth it to lift the quinjet from the hangar and waste the fuel. For example when he was just following up some intel from an old acquaintance in Libya—when he was going alone and not pressed by time. In that case, it was logical to fly coach. Sensible. Monetarily wise. But it didn't mean that he had to like it.
His legs felt almost numb after spending twelve hours cramped into his seat and his neck had a crick from falling asleep on the plane, as he dragged—with considerably less swagger in his steps than usually—his duffel through the airport after getting off his flight back to the States. He was, as Skye would have put it, grumpy: the trip was a bust, he was tired, jet-lagged, and still had to drive back to the Playground and give a report to Coulson before he could have crawled into bed and maybe smuggled some cuddle-time with Skye. So, yes, he was a hairbreadth's away from snapping at somebody.
He was so deep in self-pity—not that he'd have admitted it to anyone—that he almost missed it; really, if he hadn't been so conditioned to be always aware of his surroundings, even if only unconsciously, he would have missed it.
He caught it from the corner of his eye, first not even processing it, then thinking that his exhausted mind was playing tricks on him. Still, something compelled him to take a second look, so he did—and his lips pulled into a wide smile right away.
Skye was standing among the welcoming crowd, grinning ear to ear, with a sign in her hands held high, reading simply "Robot" with huge, black, block letters. Chuckling to himself, Grant shook his head and started walking faster towards her. Seeing that he'd spotted her, Skye lowered the sign and jogged up to him, meeting him halfway and throwing her arms around his neck. Grant returned her embrace somewhat awkwardly, still holding the duffel with one hand while the snaked around her waist, pulling her close to him, as he buried his face in her hair, inhaling deeply—she smelled like strawberries and gunpowder and home.
"What are you doing here?" he asked, still smiling, when they finally pulled away. "I thought no-one was coming to pick me up."
"Well, yeah, I was kinda bored so I volunteered," she said with a smirk, winking at him, before she stood on the tip of her toes and pressed a quick, soft kiss against his lips. Then, pulling only halfway away, she hesitated for a moment, their noses almost touching, as if she was considering if she'd had enough, then kissed him again, deeper this time. He leaned into the kiss. "And I might have missed you a bit."
"A bit?" he teased.
"Just a tiny bit," she demonstrated by putting her thumb and index finger together before sliding her hand into his. "I mean, there was no-one to make me coffee in the morning," she went on, as she started to gently lead him towards the exit. "It was a real bummer."
Chuckling quietly, he cupped her chin in his hand, turned her face towards his, and stole another kiss. "I missed you too," he said, still feeling the tingle of her lips on his. "A lot."
"I hope," she started, her voice husky, almost a whisper, as she lowered her eyelids, her gaze focused on his lips; the corner of her mouth twitched. "I hope you brought me some chocolate from Libya."
He simply laughed.
