A/N: After I published the previous chapter, I noticed that I was getting a fair amount of story alert notifications – which made me realize that I had forgotten the mark the story as finished. So I thought "what the hell?", and decided to turn this into a series of one-shots. From here on in, this is my Skyeward happy place – I am not saying that there won't be some tear-inducing, heart-wrenching pieces, but I guarantee no (long-lasting) discord between these two (we are getting enough angst in the series, we need some fluff to balance it). I don't know how long it will last. I don't know how often I will update. But, if you are interested, I am not against taking prompts (I did carry on a daily Vampire Academy drabble series of almost three years, after all) – you can leave them either here, or on my Tumblr (same nick). So… That's enough of me, let's get on with this story!
Rating: K+
Word Count: 1854
Disclaimer: [Insert funny text here that tells you I don't own Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.]
When he gets back to the Bus after running a couple of errands – some S.H.I.E.L.D. related, some personal – on the ground, Ward expects the plane to be empty, save for maybe a couple of the technicians doing their job in the avionics bay. They are off duty, after all, taking a breather between missions, with permission the roam around the base and beyond, as long as they report back by take off the next morning. And, as far as he knows, everybody took the chance to stretch their joints a little bit, to get away from the Bus, even if only for a couple hours.
And yet, as he climbs the spiral staircase to the main deck, he hears music – some kind of happy, bouncy, fast-paced pop song, growing louder and louder with every step he takes.
He tries to feel annoyed as he opens the door to the lounge area, because he so doesn't in the mood for this right now (at least he keep telling himself that), but he finds it damn hard, since he already knows, without visual confirmation, who is the culprit. Keeping a straight face becomes even harder – who is he trying to kid? He even cracks a smile in spite of himself – as he steps into the room and takes in the scene.
Skye's there, in the middle of the lounge, barefoot, in sweats and a tank top, her eyes closed, her hair wild, dancing with complete abandon to the music pouring from the speakers of the com system – which she's somehow rigged. He wouldn't call her dance erotic – it's far from that –, but it's alluring none the less. She has very little regard for the actual rhythm, but her movements are fluid and graceful in an untamed way, and filled with complete, pure joy. With freedom.
This is a girl who is completely comfortable in her skin.
For a moment or two he's torn between staying there for a bit, watching her, and slipping past her, without her noticing, never even mentioning the incident, but making a decision takes him a moment too long, and, in the end, it's made for him, as Skye, still dancing, turns towards him and opens her eyes, those deep brown orbs finding him.
He honestly expects her to be embarrassed, to turn off the music, to avoid his eyes, maybe even to blush a little, but, as it seems to be her habit, one that he is getting more and more fond of, no matter how dangerous it is, she surprises him. A mischievous smile tugging at her lips, she walks up to him, her hips never stopping, and extends her hand towards him, inviting him.
He takes a step back instinctively.
"C'mon, Agent Ward!" she says, almost mockingly. "Dance with me! Let loose a little!"
"No," he replies, although it doesn't sound as determined as he meant it to be.
"You don't have a program for it?" She is standing in front of him now, her hips swaying.
"I don't dance." Not "I can't dance". He can. He could. But he won't. Especially not to this.
But then she pouts.
She pouts, her eyes wide and pleading, and it's ridiculous, but it's killing all his resolve.
He sighs, drops his bag on the couch, shrugs off his jacks, then offering her his hand, he lets her lead him to the improvised dance floor, just as a new song, similar to the previous one, starts.
He starts off terribly. His movements are too rigid, too self-aware, too locked down. He is sure, if he were to look at the scene from the outside, it would look like Skye was dancing around a man-shaped tree. Or an ill-programmed robot, with limbs too rusty to mimic human movements.
Skye'd have a kick out of it.
But he is starting to get better slowly, he realizes. It's hard not to let up a little in Skye's company, especially when he realizes that he actually can do it, can let loose for a couple of minutes, and that he won't face any kind of repercussions afterwards. (Not that he planned anybody learning of this little dance of theirs.) He's getting bolder, answering to her steps better. It takes the whole song, but it dawns upon him that they are good together. Thanks to their daily training sessions they are already kind of attuned to each other, already familiar with the other's moves, but what really surprises him is that this connection they have works in this environment, in this situation as well.
And what surprises him even more is that he enjoys it.
Truly, genuinely enjoys it.
That's why when the song ends and Skye turns her back to him to reach for her laptop to turn the music off (she doesn't want to overstay her welcome, doesn't want to play too much with the fire), he grabs her hand (it's the first time he touched her since they started dancing), turns her back to him with a swift move, and leads her into dance.
This new song is some kind of rock'n'roll, the music unknown to him, but the beat, the rhythm very familiar – it's actually something he knows how to dance to. It's something with actual rules and steps, not just moving around based on a feeling.
He feels her tense up for a moment as he puts his other hand on her waist – she's startled, he can tell, she didn't expect him to continue this little game beyond what she insisted, but as he gently forces her into the basic steps of the dance, she relaxes. It's evident that she's never danced like this – just as he had never danced the way he just did a minute ago –, and her steps are clumsy, and she even steps on his toes once or twice, he has to admit, she is not that bad. Just like in combat training, she's picking things up quick.
Then, when she more or less has the basics down, he lets go of her waist and twirls her out and then back. She is startled at first, not having anticipated it, but then as he twirls her back she grins and lets out something that suspiciously sound like a giggle. It makes him smile – it doesn't make him smirk, or elicits a somewhat sarcastic half-smile; it paints an earnest, unbound smile on his face.
Encouraged, after a few sets of the basic steps, he grabs her waist with both hands, and lifts her into the air for a moment, her hands finding purchase on his shoulders as she throws her head back, laughing.
"Who would've thought that you have a little Danny Zuko lost in you?" she says with a wide grin on her face as he puts her down and twirls again.
"Who?" he asks a little confused, but still smiling along with her as he takes her hand again.
She frowns at his question, but doesn't stop moving.
"Remind me later!" she tells him just before he lifts her again, because it always seems to make her squeal with delight, and as unprofessional as it is, he could listen to that all day long.
The song ends way too soon, and he is nowhere near ready letting her go.
The next song on her playlist starts, but it's different than the previous ones – it's slow and romantic and dangerous. Maybe that's why she, again, moves towards the laptop.
Maybe that's why he, again, doesn't let her.
(If you're already going to Hell, at least enjoy the road there.)
He draws her close. Embraces her waist. She is startled at first. Her body tenses. (She didn't expect this.) Then she relaxes. Puts her arms around his neck. Rests her head on the crook of his neck. With her barefoot, her head fits just right under his chin. He inhales the scent of her hair. She sighs. He sighs.
It feels nice.
They are not dancing, not really, just swaying from side to side, enveloped in each other, losing connection to the world outside. Their bodies are touching, from head to toe, in a delicious connection, and he can feel as her heart beats and the warmth of her skin as his fingers slip just under her top – it's not quite erotic, but intoxicating without doubt.
This song seems to last an eternity and a fleeting moment at once, and doesn't end abruptly, but gradually becomes quieter and quieter, as if the orchestra was retreating.
They use the last notes of the song the pull away from each other – his arms still on her waist, her arms still around his neck –, while their eyes find each other. There's an unending moment of just gazing.
There's a pull, he can feel it, and he's sure she feels it too. Again this all-consuming, dangerous, apocalyptic pull, that has been visiting him more and more these days.
His eyes flicker from her eyes to her lips for a fraction of a moment. He knows she notices it. When he looks back into her irises, there's a daring twinkle in them. Do it, they seem to say.
He's too weak to resist.
"Bloody hell!"
The spell is broken.
They pull apart as more muttered curses accompanied with metallic clangs penetrate the lounge from below.
Ward shakes his head, as if he is trying to clear it of some kind of enchantment.
"I'd… I'd better go down and see what Fitz's up to and…" He clears his throat and points towards the open door with his thumb. "…Help him."
"Yeah, sure," she says, tugging at a lock of her hair, avoiding his gaze. Now she blushes. "I'll just pack this up – restore the system and everything," she nods towards the speakers.
"Sure, you do that."
They stand there for a moment more, their eyes meeting just for a second, then they both turn around, carefully putting placing the memory of their dance into a safe alcove of their minds, and then focusing at the task at hand.
Ward looks back at her from the door one last time, taking her in – her flushed face, wide eyes and disheveled hair – as she pulls up some kind of program on her laptop, then he shakes his head and descends the stars.
HYDRA comes out of the shadows before they could revisit the mystery surrounding the identity of Danny Zuko.
It's months later at the Playground, and weeks after he is kinda-sorta back with the team – she is still mad at him, still doesn't want to see him, doesn't want to talk to him, because it hurts so damn much (this distance between them) –, when one evening the opening notes of a rather familiar song fill the corridors of the base, just before John Travolta starts singing that I got chills and they're multiplying, and a note is slipped into her room under the door.
Do you want to dance with me?
That evening, for the first time in a very long time, Skye's heart skips a beat and she smiles.