A/N: This is, finally, the end of this story, guys–I'm saying "finally" because it started off as a stray idea for a one-shot on a Saturday night, and then it somehow turned into a month-long, 10K+ word project. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed the ride and that I managed to live up to your expectations with this last chapter. Happy reading!

The Grand Finale

Ten hours later Grant stood in the Bus, freshly changed and shaved, looking at the scene in front of him, and he felt surprisingly… good about this. As strange as it was–especially considering the previous week–, everything went down without a hitch so far, everybody who had pitched in during the preparations proved to be actually productive, and everything seemed perfect: the place was set, and it was even better than he had imagined it, Skye, not suspecting a thing, was aptly distracted, and everybody, really everybody promised to stay out of the way and not to ruin the moment with their near-destructive curiosity and misguided helpfulness. Everything was ready. It was almost as if, once the wheels had been set into motion, there was nothing that could have stopped him.

As if it was meant to happen.

Grant pulled the ring box from his pocket–Fitz had, thankfully, managed not to lose it, after all, although Grant had a feeling he had to thank Jemma for that–, turned it around in his fingers, then popped the lid, and watched as the center diamond caught the light.

That was it. It was the moment.

With pleasantly buzzing excitement, mixed with a little anxiety, spreading in his veins, reaching the very tips of his fingers, he closed the box, slid it back to his pocket, then pulled out his phone, and, taking a deep breath, he sent a quick text to Skye.

Let the curtain rise.

Skye groaned in frustration as she typed in yet another line of code, stripping off another layer of the program. Coulson had called her to his office urgently, because the wall screen had been "acting up"–A.C.'s words, not hers–, and he needed it fixed, like, yesterday. Only she had been at it for nearly two hours now, and had found absolutely nothing wrong, not even a bug (well, a fly, yes, but that was in the room, not in the code), no matter how Coulson insisted that something was wrong and that she only needed to look deeper.

So she looked, deeper and deeper, but there was still nothing wrong there, so she was getting closer and closer by the minute to A, rip out all of her hair in sheer frustration, or B, give Coulson a crash course on using the screen, because apparently he didn't know how, and so he made the program do things it wasn't supposed to do, what, of course, he perceived as a glitch or malfunction or whatever.

But still–Coulson was her boss, and she really respected the guy–loved, even–, so she took a deep breath and resumed typing. She'd just try this one last approach–and maybe one more, she hadn't tried that one yet–, but if neither worked and she still found nothing to be repaired, she was so going to give Coulson a piece of her mind about the proper use of high-tech gadgets (maybe with some snide remarks added about older guys and newer technology, but that really depended on how many functioning nerves she had left by the time she finished here).

That moment–just as she realized that she might have been approaching the whole problem wrong the whole time–her cell phone chimed, signaling an incoming message. Skye finished the line of code she was working on, then, stretching her fingers, she reached for the phone where it had been sitting on the desk, and smiled softly the moment she saw who sent the message–it was from Grant. But her smile soon turned into a confused frown as she unlocked the screen and saw the only three-word message:

Open the door.

Her eyebrows pulled together, she looked at the door of Coulson's office, then back at the cell, but only those three same words looked back at her–no explanation or anything. Sighing, she typed a quick reply:

Why?

She stared at her phone for a long moment before it buzzed again with his reply, but instead of an explanation, it was just the same three words flashing on her screen again: Open the door.

Deciding that it was most likely just a glitch in his phone (she made a mental note to ask about it in person later, and take a look at it), or that he was playing a game with her (less likely), or that his phone was hijacked by some very funny person on the base (more likely, although she wouldn't have switched places with the guy once Grant found him), she just sighed, and replied:

Can't. Working :(

She put her phone back down, and was just about to continue her big investigation into the mysterious glitch or virus or code-monster that had taken over Coulson's precious screen, when it chimed again. She opened the message, expecting something akin to an explanation, but it was just a single word there: Please. Then the next moment, before she could have typed in anything, a new message appeared on the screen: Trust me.

She stared at the phone for a long moment, one eyebrow cocked in confusion, then she shrugged, locked the screen and slipped the cell into her pocket–whatever was going on, Grant (or whoever had his phone) seemed pretty insistent that she opened that door, so why not go along with it? Worst case scenario, she'd tell Coulson that she couldn't find anything wrong with the wall screen two minutes later than she originally planned. So she rose from her seat, walked over to the door, and pulled it open.

At first she didn't see a thing, just the empty, dimly lit hallway–but then as she reached for her phone to let Grant know that she had opened the damn door, her eyes fell on the ground, and she saw it.

Rose petals, strewn all over the worn floor, starting from the door of the office, leading down the corridor towards the staircase to the common area.

Her heart fluttering just a little bit faster and smirking to herself, she pulled her phone from her pocket, and sent Grant a completely different message than she had intended to fifteen seconds ago:

What's going on here, Casanova?

She only needed to wait a couple of seconds for his reply: Just follow the trail.

She could almost see his half-smug, half-dorky grin in front of her as she put away her phone once again, closed the door of Coulson's office behind her (the wall screen to be damned), and made her way down the corridor, following the trail of the delicate petals.

It led her down the staircase, through the–suspiciously empty and dimly-lit–common area, then down the hallway by the lab, to the hangar door. The trail continued beyond the door–the petals light flecks against the dark concrete floor–, into the eerily empty and dark hangar, where the only light source seemed to come from beyond the Bus's lowered ramp. Not even caring about the petals anymore, she headed straight for the Bus, quickening her steps a little, eager to find out what was this about.

The cargo bay, even though bright next to the darkness of the hangar, was still sparsely lit, but it still took her breath away–all the light inside came solely from the fairy lights wrapped around the punching bag (that was hanging freely for some reason, even though she couldn't even remember the last time anyone had used it, now that they had the base's fully equipped gym at hand) and the railings of the spiral staircase. Almost tentatively, she placed her hand on the metal of the railing, and, her heart beating wild in her chest, she stepped on the first step.

She just couldn't shake the feeling, the one that had been growing inside of her even since she first spotted the petals, that something big was going on, only she didn't want to verbalize it, or even let it to take a coherent form in her mind. Not yet.

Reaching the top of the staircase, from where she could see the light spilling out from the main deck of the Bus, she stopped for a moment, closed her eyes and took a deep breath, then, with a hint of a smile on her lips, she stepped inside.

The clutter–the crates and boxes and all–that had accumulated in the common area now that they hadn't been using it daily, had been cleared away, so it almost felt like on that very first day when she stepped onto the plane with a box in her hand a bag hanging from her shoulder, not knowing yet that she was just about to take on a journey of a lifetime with the people she would soon call her family, but being excited nonetheless. Only the light was different–instead of the sunlight streaming through the cabin windows, this time the lounge was lit by dozens and dozens of candles of all shapes and sizes–and, based on the whirlwind of scents in the air, in an assortment of scents–, their tiny, flickering flames illuminating the room.

And he was there, waiting for her by the table at the window, only a couple of steps away from her, wearing a dark button-down and a smile. Her feet carried her towards him almost instinctively.

"Hi," she said with a smile, her voice softer than intended; there was something in the moment that made her want to be gentle and soft-spoken. "This is really… beautiful. What's the occasion?"

She took her hand in both of his as she reached him, raised it to his mouth and kissed her knuckles. "Sit, please?" he said in lieu of answering her question. Still holding onto her hand he led her to one of the armchairs by the wall, and helped her sit with a grace that almost reminded her of a Victorian gentleman. Once she was seated, he sat down as well, in the other chair on the opposite side of the small table.

For a long moment neither of the spoke; they just watched the other, her gaze fixed on his eyes, as the light from the flame of the single candle placed on the table danced in his irises, while he gazed back at her, mapping the lines of her face. One corner of her mouth pulling into a smile, she rested her chin in one hand, while drawing a finger through the flame of the candle, playing with the fire, close enough that it left a thin layer of soot on the tip of her finger, but not close enough for it to hurt. "So…?"

He cleared his throat and straightened his back a little.

"I have been thinking," he started, placing his hand, palm up, on the table. She took the hint, and placed her own hand into it. He wrapped his fingers–long and graceful and so strong–around it right away, his thumb caressing the back of her hand. "And I realized…" he took a deep breath, looking around the room. "I realized that this is where we really started."

She followed his gaze; he was right, of course–it didn't slip her notice, giving her a strange feeling of déjà vu, that she was sitting right where she had sat when they first played battleship together, when he first let her take a glimpse beneath his armor. And to her left there was the coffee table she had sat on with a bottle of scotch in her hand, wanting to make amends with him after their rough start. And further ahead of her, there lay the command center, where they had first started repairing the bridge between them after her betrayal. And so, so many other memories surrounded them in this place, echoes of laughter and tears and whispered words.

"That's true," she said, squeezing his hand.

"And… there's more to it." He swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing. "This is where you helped me to find myself." He must have seen her wanting to say something–argue that she wasn't helping him, that she was merely there, and that it was all him overcoming the shadows that had loomed over him–, because he quickly continued, beating her to it. "Please, just let me say it. You know I'm not the greatest with words, and if you interrupt me now, I might never be able tell what I want, and I need you to hear this." Sensing the raw and very real need behind his words, and the tears that were strangely pricking her eyes, she simply nodded, keeping her lips sealed.

"Remember all the things you called me in the early days? Robot, and…"

"Terminator," she quipped in, feeling like she could now. "And T-1000."

He smiled a little wider at her words, his eyes wandering to the tabletop for a moment.

"Yes, and Tin-Man, if I remember well," he said.

"Yeah," she chuckled, "that too."

"But what I mean to say with this–you were not far from the truth." He took a deep breath. "When I first got here, although I didn't really know it yet–or just wasn't willing to acknowledge it–, I was barely more than a shell. I was existing, surviving, not living. And then you came into my life, like a hurricane, wreaking havoc and turning everything upside down."

She let out a nervous chuckle. "I was that bad, wasn't I?"

The corner of his mouth twitched as he said, "Even worse than that. But" he continued "that was exactly what I needed. You see, before I met you, I followed another man's goals, and hadn't even though beyond that–who I was and what I wanted–, and somehow I was content with that, even though there was this hollow feeling inside of me that something was missing. But then I met you and…" He trailed off. There was something in his eyes as he watched her, something that was making her want to hold him and kiss all of the pain of his past away. "And you made me see that there was more to life. That it was okay to want more, to want to be my own person–to want colors and laughter and friends and a family. That attachments are not weaknesses and that not everything fits into a neat little box. You helped me to become the man I'm today, helped me when the whole world was against me and when I had to fight my own demons, and Skye… You are the one who made me realize who I really wanted to be. And that person is…" He let go of her hand, stood from his seat and stepped in front of her, turning her chair slightly towards him, then went down to one knee on the carpet at her feet.

"Oh, my God…" she whispered barely audibly, her hand flying to her chest as she grinned and cried at the same time.

Of course she knew this was coming–deep down she had known the moment she had stepped into the candle-lit lounge. Because there was only a few reasons one's boyfriend would do such things as leaving a trail of rose petals to lead her to a very romantically set up place that also has a personal significance to them.

And suddenly everything else made sense, everything that had bothered her the previous week–his mysterious trips to Coulson's office, Jemma's sudden need for a girls' day out, Fitz's awkwardness–and, of course, there was nothing wrong with Coulson's wall screen. This is what had been going on all along, Grant planning this and everybody else helping him, while trying to keep her in the dark–which, technically, they had managed to do.

"That person is," he repeated, now kneeling in front of her, pulling her back to the present, "whoever I'm with you. Because you make me aspire to be a good man, and make me see beauty, and make me believe that the world is actually a wonderful place–because I love you, you are the love of my life, and it might be selfish of me, but I never want to let you go. So I need to ask this." He reached for his pocket and pulled out something small and square from it, and she knew what it was, even though she barely saw it–all she saw was his face, smiling up at her. "Skye With-No-Last-Name, would you do one more crazy and reckless thing, and spend your life with me? Will you marry me?"

He barely had the question out–he hadn't even have time to open the ring box yet–, she was already flying out of her chair, arms around his neck, knocking him to the ground, his leg, no doubt, twisted awkwardly under him, kissing him senseless through her tears.

"Yes, yes, oh, yes," she chanted between kisses, her legs at either side of his waist, holding his face in both hands, foreheads touching. "A thousand times yes."

It took him a while to speak after that–overwhelmed by her answer, all he could do for a minute or two was to kiss her, his hand buried in her hair, and smile and laugh, because he could scarcely believe that, after all those nightmarish years, it suddenly felt like he was living in a dream (and if he was, he never wanted to wake up).

He only came to his senses when air had become a necessity, so he had to break the kiss. Trying to catch his breath and still holding her close, he reached for the ring box that had been knocked out of his hand, and was now lying on the carpet next to him.

"I think," he said, panting a little, pulling away from her just so he could look into her eyes, "there's one more thing we need to do to make it official." And with that, he popped the box open, took out the ring, and took her hand.

She watched with glittering eyes and he gently held her left hand, and slowly slipped the delicate ring on her finger. Once it was on, she took her own hand, and lifted it to her eyes to take a closer look at the ring–it was breathtaking, of course (like she would have expected anything less), speaking both of his refined taste and how well he knew her.

She must have taken too much time marveling at the ring–her ring–, because soon she heard him clear his throat.

"It's okay if you don't like it–we can go and–" She didn't let him finish the sentence–instead, she attacked his lips again.

"It's perfect," she said once the kiss ended, resting her forehead against his. "Everything was perfect, my dear fiancé," she added with a smirk.

"Wow," he breathed, lips instinctively looking for hers. "I don't think I'll ever get tired of hearing that."

"Then I guess I'll be saying it a lot, just to test your theory," she replied, giving him a teasing peck on the lips before he claimed her mouth again.

"Shouldn't we…" she started when she came up for air a little while later, her lips kiss-swollen, her cheeks flushed, her heart beating fast, her new ring still pleasantly heavy on her finger. "Shouldn't we go down, tell the team? They must be going nuts with anticipation," she said, drawing a finger along his chest.

"No," he replied with a slightly mischievous glint in his eyes as he slid a hand into her locks and pulled her back down on top of him. "They played with my nerves for a whole week. It's time for a little payback."

(They didn't emerge from the Bus for nearly two hours.)