Birthday Mischief

Skye's been grinning like a madwoman all throughout morning workout, and yeah, it's putting him on edge a bit, because she is usually not this cheery in the morning.

So something is up.

"What's going on?" he asks, trying to sound not too harsh as he steadies the bag for her.

"Nothing," she replies, only meeting his eyes for the briefest second, then goes on grinning.

"Skye…" now, there's a clear not of warning in his voice.

Her hands drop.

"It's you birthday!" she tells him, grinning wildly. "Cheer up a bit!"

There's a beat of silence, then "You read my file." It's not a question or an accusation, just a simple statement.

"Only the non-classified parts!" she defends herself, smile still apparent n her face. "The parts about basic stuff like your height and blood type, and yeah, your birth date. And really, why didn't you tell me it was your birthday?" she demands.

He shrugs.

"It's not important; I don't celebrate it." When nobody cares about it, it doesn't even worth remembering, he thinks, but doesn't say out loud.

"It's not…" she starts, echoing his words, but then stops in a breathless gasp. "Take it from someone who doesn't know her actual birthday – these things are absolutely important, and should be celebrated – cherished, even!"

He actually rewards her outburst with an amused smirk.

"Really, I don't care. It's just another day; drop it." Then nods towards the bag, considering the topic closed. "Ten minutes. Go!"

Of course she doesn't drop it; not that he expected her to – Skye's like a bulldog that way: if she takes something into her mind, she'll carry that through even if it kills her.

She tries to be subtle about it, naturally, but he is not the best since Romanoff to not to notice the signs, for example that she is pointedly avoiding him, or that Simmons grins at him when he goes down to the lab, or that Fitz suddenly needs him to test the new version of the ICER (so yeah, Skye has roped in the science duo as well).

Also, the fact that he catches her not so subtly humming the Pink Panther theme song in the lounge is kind of a giveaway, too.

But he has to give it to her: he doesn't actually know what she is planning; some kind of surprise, that for sure, but as for the nature of it, he has no idea. Still, he doesn't even try to stop her – he knows that whatever she is planning, she is doing it out of love, because she would like to be nice to him. So he lets her have her fun.

(Also, to be honest, he finds himself kind of looking forward to it.)

By the time evening comes, he is half-sure he has just imagined the whole thing. After all, it's already seven p.m., and nothing has happened yet. He must have misread the signs.

But then as he is going back to his bunk in the evening, he catches all three of the possible culprits lazing around the lounge, trying – and failing – to look unsuspicious. This is what tells him that, without doubt, something is up.

They have come up with something big, and now they can't wait to see how it goes.

He gets confirmation of it when his eyes meet Skye's as she glances up from behind her magazine. She is smirking, her eyes crinkling.

He sighs; it's time to face the music.

He turns towards the door of his bunk, mentally preparing himself – he can hear them move behind his back, trying to get a better view –, then grabs the handle and slowly slide the door open.

He is greeted by about a hundred balloons cramped into his tiny bunk – pink and purple and neon green balloons, filled with air and decorated with tiny stars and gaudy Happy Birthday! inscriptions; there are so many of them that they take up all the space inside the bunk (he can't even see his bed for a second), but then as he opens the door wider, they stream out, pooling around his feet, some even rolling over to the couch.

He stands still there for a moment, amidst the dozens of brightly colored balloons. At last, he turns towards Skye, who is kneeling on the sofa, chewing in her lower lip and looking at him with amused expectancy.

She grins wildly when she sees his face.

"Happy birthday!" she tells him, obviously pleased with herself. "There's cake in the fridge."

He does the only thing that seems logical in such situations: he starts laughing.

(It takes them twenty minutes to get rid all of the balloons – save from one he puts away –, and the cake is that crappy convenience store kind with the strange aftertaste, but it still feels like the best birthday he has ever had.)