On Prospective Dogs
It's scary how easily he has gotten used this tiny sliver of domesticity – retiring to their bunk at the Playground after a long and tiring day of training, missions, and just generally saving the world – crossing off one enemy at a time –, and relax a little before going into bed; Skye browsing the net on her tablet, he making some progress in his novel. Some days they just sit next to each other, aware of the other's presence, but not disturbing each other; other days she'll lean against him, or his hand will unconsciously reach for hers, to rub little circles to the back of hand under the covers. But then on some days, they'll just have to engage the other.
John has just freaked out next to Linda's deathbed, scaring the Delta children, and… Grant can't concentrate on his book, because Skye's sniggering next to him – her eyes crinkling, palm in front of her mouth, gaze locked at the screen of her tablet. He sighs, trying to tune out her amused sounds, but – okay, so Houxley might be high literature, but he's itching to know what so funny.
So putting his bookmark discretely between the pages (he wouldn't want Skye to know that a little giggle was enough to make him more interested in what she was doing than his own book), he turns to her.
"What's that?" he asks, trying to sneak a peek of her screen.
"Oh," she answers, mischief shining in her eyes, "it's just that I found your perfect dog." And with that, she turns the tablet towards him.
Okay, he has to give it to her – he, too, stifles a chuckle seeing the pic.
It's of – as she has already informed him – a dog, a German Shepard to be precise, sitting in what must be a court room, a police officer kneeling in front of him, while the dog has his front paw placed on the book the officer is holding (must be the Bible – but then again, why would a dog swear on the Bible?) in a comically serious manner – his back straight, tail unmoving, ears standing alert. Like he is actually about to give testimony.
"We should track this dog down," Skye is saying, wide smile on her lips as she leans her head on his shoulder, stifling a little yawn. "I have a feeling you two would make an excellent team." She hums contently, not speaking for a couple of seconds as he plucks the tablet from her hand, turns it off, and places it on the bedside table along with his novel. "Or maybe we should just simply get you a German Shepard. You could train him."
"I don't know," he tells her, gently easing her down so she can lay her head on her pillow. "German Shepards are great dogs, but I've never been partial to them," he goes on, seeing her eyelids flutter closed. "I'd rather prefer hunting dogs – so if it were up to me, we'd get maybe a Vizsla, an Irish Setter, or perhaps a Golden Retriever. Those are good with kids, too, you know," he adds, kissing her forehead – she lets out an agreeing hmmm –, then turning of the lamps.
About five minutes pass – according to his estimation –, when Skye suddenly rolls over in bed, forcefully colliding with him (he lets out a huff that is more surprised than an indication of pain), then rising a little, she not-so-quietly whispers into his ear:
"Did you just honestly hint that we should have kids?"
He doesn't answer, just grins into his pillow.
So maybe she wasn't that fast asleep as he thought.