I Just Want to Take His Breath Away

Skye had a good idea of how it was supposed to work – she was a female in her twenties, with sometimes a little bit too much free time on her hands (an with an occasional insomnia), so of course she had binge watched Say Yes to the Dress and its different permutations a couple of times. She scowled at the problematic brides-to-be and watched the dresses in awe, but she just… well… she just never imagined herself in that situation.

And yet here she was now, in a bridal saloon (it was no Kleinfeld, but it was fancy enough to put her on edge), with a whole dress shopping party (if it was up to her, she'd have come with Jemma alone, but because of some reason that was beyond her comprehension, basically every female from the base, plus Coulson's Audrey had tagged along), about to face a perky consultant (who, at least, was wearing jeans, which was somewhat reassuring), and she had absolutely no idea of what she wanted.

There was only one thing she knew – that she wanted something white, but that was only because Grant had told her that he had wanted to do things right, in the proper way, and that meant a tux and a white dress and a walk along the aisle. Even thought she was half-sure that "white" was a taboo word here – in a place like this, everything was ivory and cream and ecru.

The consultant tried to chat her up while she took her measurements – asked if she had a particular dress in mind (she didn't), if she had a favorite designer (she couldn't even name one), and if she knew what kind of skirt and bodice and neckline she wanted (she just shrugged).

(At least she didn't ask her about Grant, like the people do in Say Yes to the Dress, when the brides speak for about ten seconds about their fiancés. Because what can you say about the love of your life to a person you'd never met before, in two sentences? He's great, he's caring, he gets me, he tells lame jokes, acts tough but gets easily flustered, he hates to admit that he likes and needs to be cared for, and he wouldn't just kill for me, but he's already done it, and would do it again. Skye severely doubted it would have helped the consultant to get a picture of Grant and brought them closer to finding her dress.)

But, to the consultant's absolute credit, she didn't look annoyed a bit, and her gentle smile never faltered for a moment. When she finished taking Skye's measurements and tucked her measuring tape back into her pocket, she looked at her, and in an ever so patient voice she asked, "So, do you have any special requests?"

Skye just blinked at her first, then, her voice cracking a bit, she said quietly, "I just want to take his breath away."

The consultant's smile widened.

"Then you are at right place, dear."

And then she basically drowned Skye in dresses – dresses chosen randomly, dresses in different shades and cuts and forms, just to find a direction she liked. To find something that made her feel like a bride. Only no matter what Skye tried on, and no matter how her companions praised it when she walked out of the changing room (they seemed to grow louder with each dress), it just wasn't coming; she still just felt like the girl in the van in flannel shirts. Like a little girl playing masquerade.

In a ball gown, she felt like a snowflake on steroids. The mermaid-style made her feel like she was wearing a straightjacket made out of silk. To the one with long sleeves, she actually noted that she felt like as if she had just walked out of a convent.

Her hope of finding a dress – not just now, but ever – shrunk as time went on and the pile of rejected dresses grew. She really was just about to give up – say sorry to the consultant, put her jeans back on, go home, and convince Grant to sneak away to Vegas and have Elvis marry them, maybe wearing tac gear.

But then the consultant gave her something light – to be honest, she was so deep in her thoughts (in her hopelessness and self-pity), that she wasn't even paying that much attention to it. She vaguely noticed the lace and how soft it was as she slipped it on, but she didn't actually see what it was until she walked out of the dressing room and stood on the small pedestal in front of the mirror.

But then her eyes went wide and her lips parted slightly.

It was crazy, but it was if… as if she wasn't even looking at herself, but it was still her.

The whole dress was made of some soft, gentle, lacy material that fit her like a glove; the sweetheart neckline was teasing, but modest enough, the line of the dress highlighted her curves perfectly, but the skirt flared out from her knees, giving it a romantic twist. And the back… the back was non-existent, daring and teasing and sexy, without being slutty, and she could feel the air caressing her skin.

And she… she looked like a bride. And she felt like a bride. For the first time since he had slipped that ring on her finger, she could hear the music and see herself walk along the aisle, and she could just see his face light up as he spotted her, and she could feel her heart flutter in her chest, and…

And it just hit her.

"Oh my god," she gasped, raising her hand to her mouth and trying to blink away the tears that suddenly threatened to spill from her eyes. "Oh my god… I'm getting married."

There was some light chuckling from behind her, and then suddenly the consultant was by her side, offering her a tissue.

"Then I assume we have found your dress?"

Barely being able to tear her gaze away from her reflection, Skye nodded.

"Yes, we most definitely have."

(Suddenly, Vegas seemed like a terrible idea, and she just could wait for the whole fanfare that came with a proper wedding.)

(She couldn't wait to see his face.)