Cohabitation, Take One
Make no mistake: Grant liked to live with Skye. The pros heavily outweighed the cons – waking up together, sharing meals, cuddling in front of the TV, having somebody to come home to, exchanging stories when they worked on different missions, helping each other when they were on the same case, and, of course, sex, sex everywhere and anywhere in the apartment without the danger of being walked in on. Still, she could drive him up the wall sometimes, mostly with her messiness.
Grant liked his things to be in order – everything had its place, and when not in use, it had to be placed there. His files were organized. His books in alphabetical order. His clothes neatly out away (and no, he didn't fold his socks, thank you very much). Skye, on the contrary, liked what she called "organized chaos," which was, if you ask him, more "chaos" than "organized": her desk was a big mess of half packets of snack food, stray files, scribbles on pieces of paper and stray pendrives and cables; she had basically no system when it came to her clothes; and she tended to leave her things all over the apartment.
He loved her, loved living with her, but tidying up after her really wasn't high on his list. Especially after a day spent with never-ending meetings that led to nowhere (he had once heard Hill likening the Senate to kindergarten; he was sure they didn't even hold a torch to the feds).
And yet the first thing that welcomed him upon returning home was a hoodie – technically his, but long ago confiscated by Skye – left haphazardly on a chair by the kitchen counter. He let out an annoyed groan and picked it up, already mentally composing what he was going to say to Skye. But his thought process was cut short as, the hoodie now in his hands, he glanced toward the living room, and found a tank top on the back of the couch next.
Then a pair of pants on the hallway floor.
By the time he picked up the fuzzy, rainbow-colored socks from the floor halfway to the bathroom, he had a very good idea what was going on.
The bra hanging from the bathroom doorknob only confirmed it.
Her clothes stuffed into a ball under his arm, he opened the door and, with a grin on his face, stepped into the hot, sweet-scented room.
Skye was there, of course, sitting in the tub surrounded by so much foam that it almost completely hid her from him – he could only see her hair, pulled into a messy bun, and her eyes, crinkling in amusement. He didn't need to see to know that she was wearing a mischievous grin on her lips.
"What took you so long?"
(That night even his clothes ended up on the floor in a messy heap.)