A/N: This one is for 924inlegend on Tumblr–I reblogged one of her amazing Skyeward manip sets with a tag saying that I kinda want to write something about it, and then she wrote to me in private about happy she'd be about it. So the least I could do was to actually write something :)

Baby Steps

She doesn't know what she is doing. They are not friends, and definitely not lovers; maybe not even partners. He is just an Inhuman on her team–because every Inhuman is one of her people, and the least she can do is give them a chance to prove themselves, no matter who they were and what they did before they changed.

And yet he almost took a bullet for her today (maybe if someone asked him who she is to him, he'd answer differently), so when they get back to the base, tired and sweaty, but all in one piece, and she says thank you to him, and then he asks her, not even meeting her eyes, because he's freaking shy (like a kicked puppy) if she'd like to grab a bite sometime, she simply nods.

(She asks herself later, while lying awake in her bed, why she said yes. She doesn't know.)

By the next morning, she almost convinces herself that it was just a dream, or that he wasn't being serious about his invitation. But then there's a knock on her door in the late afternoon.

"You know the thing we talked about yesterday?" he asks, standing on her threshold, his hands hidden behind his back. "Is now good?"

She almost says no. Just because she can. Just because this whole thing is absurd. (Just because the wound is still somewhat raw.) But then she thinks it over–why should she say no? She told him, after all, that being on her team means a blank slate–going back on her word and acting out of spite just wouldn't be fair. And anyway, she is kind of hungry.

"Yeah, sure," she says with a shrug, reaching for her jacket.

(There's a tiny smile in the corner of his mouth.)

"That's… good." She notices the barely-there pause, and can't help but think that he had to stop himself before he could have used a more enthusiastic adjective. "I know a place, it's not far–if that's okay?"

She shrugs again. "It's okay with me. I'm getting tired of the take out places we frequent anyway," she adds with a smile. (She doesn't know why she is being like this–casual, flirty. Almost like before.)

(But then again, what would be the point in acting hostile?)

All the way there she keeps telling herself that it's not a date–even when he opens the car door for her and tries to make awkward small talk during the ride. Of course it's not a date–there's none of the usual, pleasant nervousness; she didn't change her outfit three times, and didn't fret over her hair and make-up; there are no butterflies or sweaty palms. It's just a dinner among… co-workers after a successful mission.

(She keeps telling herself this even when her heart skips a beat when, at the restaurant, he stubbornly helps her out of the car.)

She has to admit, it's a nice place–it has a roaring twenties-speakeasy feeling with its burgundy walls and wood paneling, while, somehow, the flames crackling in the fireplace remind her of a gentlemen's club in the Victorian London; it's a strange mix, but she likes it, even though she feel criminally underdressed.

They are seated right away (he must be known around here), and he orders wine (she shudders; wine is such a date drink), something with a name so fancy, she couldn't even pronounce it. And then they just sit there, looking at each other awkwardly (she is so grateful that the table is comfortably wide), their menus untouched. He clears his throat once, as if he wants to say something, but then keeps silent; she clears hers about ten seconds later, and it's almost comical, almost as if she was copying him.

When the waiter gets back to take their orders, she still hasn't opened her menu; but when she finally does, it's not much help either–it's all nonsense to her. Three seconds pass, the waiter waiting, and she is just about to point at something and hope for the best, when Ward says, "May I?"

She looks up at him. "Sorry?"

"May I order for you?" he asks. She is hesitant for a moment (somehow this is going way beyond her comfort zone), but then she nods. Why not? So then he turns to the waiter and orders for both of them, using more French words than English ones. When he is done, he turns back to her. "I'm sure you'll like it," he says, and for some reason she has no doubts about it (he always paid attention to the minutest details about her.)

So she nods and says, "Thank you."

She then expects the awkward silent to return, and it does; but only for a short while.

"Have I…" He starts, then stops, clearing his throat. "Have I ever told you about that mission when I had to pose as a waiter?"

She frowns, then blinks, then rests her elbows on the tabletop, and her chin in her hand, listening.

"No, what happened?"

"It was in Paris. It was, actually, my last op before joining the Team, and…"

By the time their food arrives (it is delicious; he really knows what she likes) she is laughing–truly, genuinely, the kind of laugh that comes from deep within her stomach, trying to imagine Ward's face when he came face-to-face with his target's scantily clad, aloof mistress.

The rest of the evening goes by with trading stories–hers about the hobo she befriended after he tried to break into her van; his about a stint when he was undercover as a teacher's assistant at an Argentinean university, and one of the students made a pass at him. It's strange–in a way that she forgets that this whole situation is supposed to be strange, and that he is not a friend or a partner or anything, and that there was a time when it was this easy to click with him (at a point she stops even thinking that it's not a date). She is a having such a nice time that she insists on ordering dessert, not because she so wants it, but because she doesn't want the evening to end yet.

But the evening does end–he pays the bill, they walk back to the car, and she doesn't even find it strange when he opens the door for her.

"You know," he says once they roll out of the parking lot, his eyes on the road. "We should do this more often." He lays his right hand, palm up, on the armrest between the two seats, so casually it almost seems like an accident.

She smiles into the darkness and slips her hand into his.

"Yeah, that'd be nice."