Chapter Text
Skye finds herself face to face with guys twice her size and body mass angled towards her in an exaggerated show of power more often than she'd like to admit. She wasn't a masochist, per-se, but it's what everyone else would think of her if she didn't wear a mask and save lives, she thinks.
Leaving the house every night in search of criminals to take down would be perceived as asking for it, she assumes, but she's a superhero, so she guesses psychoanalysing her is the last thing on anyone's mind.
And then she meets Grant Ward.
The first time, unsurprisingly, is on one of her nightly patrols.
He's somehow found himself surrounded by guys from the Russian mob, a position she would otherwise relate to, with one hand loosely dangling a gun and the other raised half-heartedly in surrender, but the thing she has issue with is the stupid smile etched on his face as the Russians speak, and how it grows as they graphically threaten his life. The idiot is freaking goading them, and his hand is reaching to, what she assumes is another weapon on his person, and he's going to get himself killed, so in a moment of panic she allows herself to let the ground rumble, and she hardly lets herself lose control anymore, but this time she does, and she has to recover as quickly as possible, so she steadies her trembling hands and her quickening heartbeat and she controls the trembling so it's just enough for the men surrounding him to trip, and she has the chance to run and prop him against her before he falls like the rest of them, simultaneously focussing her abilities on where the men have converged after getting up.
She takes the moment of disorientation to drag him out the door and crumble the entrance behind her, chancing their survival on their confusion and need to regroup.
She sees him shake off the daze he was previously, and when he attempts to speak, she expects appreciation, it's what people usually have to say, but what comes out is instead a stream of indignation.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?"
She can feel her teeth starting to grind as she bites her tongue, irritation showing as she waves her hand behind her at the rubble expectantly.
She raises her eyebrow in question before speaking, "Saving your life?"
It takes her feeling the anger in his tone instead of hearing it for her to realise he's still leaning on her, and she steps away, leaving him to stumble before straightening his back and going back to glaring at her.
"I see that." He says, the bite evident in his tone. "My question is why."
"You needed it?" She hates herself for allowing it to come out more like a question than a statement, but she more than makes up for it when a small tremble causes him to stutter amidst a threat.
"I did not need your help. I was doing just fine b-before you got there."
Another glare.
"Sure, if being surrounded by guys twice your size and surrendering is what you would class as fine."
A beat.
"They were not twice my size."
He puffs his chest exaggeratedly.
She scoffs.
"They were not."
"Sure, Mr Muscle."
"Ha ha. Hilarious. You should consider a comedy act if this superhero thing doesn't work out."
She shoots a smile his way, and it's stupid sarcastic, but it’s also so pretty.
The anger returns almost immediately.
"It was all under control," He pauses, "I had it all under control."
She raises an eyebrow.
"We've been through this." Her voice leaves no room for question, but it doesn't stop him.
"I do this for a living. I had those guys where I wanted them. I didn't need some pseudo-wonder woman to come save me."
The hurt leaves as quickly as it comes, and she does what she does best.
She makes a sarcastic quip.
"Of course, Mr Bond, sorry for saving your ass from being pummelled by mobsters. My bad. Won't happen again."
She walks away before he has a chance to stop her. (Not that he was going to, anyway.
She doesn't think she'll ever see him again. It's New York. It'd surprise her if they ever stood on the same street corner again.
As it turns out, fate has a thing for irony.
This time, it's a drug smuggling ring.
It's actually in bright daylight this time around, and she's actually on her way to the office, and she exhausted from last night's 'takedown' (as Fitz likes to call them) but she can hear gunshots from one of the shipping containers, so she ignores the throbbing pain in her side where a knife nicked her and makes her way there as quickly as she can manage, hand settled around the gun she always has with her.
To her surprise, the container is wide open, but it makes for an easier inconspicuous entrance, so she doesn't stop to question it, at least not until she's greeted with the sight of Grant Ward pushed up against a wall with a snarling man pressing a gun to his head.
The man is already far too close for her comfort, but he's too busy enunciating every word with a shove that he doesn't notice her enter, and it's far too easy for her to vibrate the ground enough for him to lose his grip of the gun.
But 'easy' sure as hell wasn't a word in her job description, and he gets back up surprisingly easily, and a bleeding Ward is left locked and squirming beneath him.
The gun is pointed at his heart and she takes the chance to shoot before he can, and the shot rings through the small area, the sound reverberating as he falls to the ground. She runs to Ward's side, bracing herself for the worst as he grunts when she presses her hoodie against his thigh to reduce blood loss.
She props him up against one of the sides, and he's wincing as she tries to get him to stand up against her.
He manages a smile when she struggles to carry his frame against her one.
She didn't expect that.
"Thank you."
Okay. She definitely didn't expect that.
She grins in response.
"Yeah well, someone had to save your sorry ass from dying in a deserted shipping container."
He's still smiling.
"So, you shot a guy." He pauses. "I thought Quake didn't kill."
"He's not dead."
"Looked pretty dead to me."
"Night-night gun. Long story."
"I'll take your word for it then."
She pulls him along as best she can until she reaches one of the benches when she can properly bandage the wound in his leg.
She's kneeling before him to get a proper grip on the job, and she decides a conversation wouldn't hurt in easing the pain.
"So, you googled me?"
"Sure. Didn't take long. Not many masked superheroes with earthquake wielding powers out there."
"Damn. Was hoping Google would shed some light on my secret family. What will I do now?"
She deadpans.
It's a ridiculous thing to say.
His grin widens. (If that's even possible, at this point it looks like his face is more teeth than anything.)
His face contorts when the "bandage" makes another turn around his thigh, and she feels the need to apologise.
It's soft enough to be a whisper but it's there, "Sorry."
"'S alright. Not your fault."
When she finally settles beside him his hand is resting on his leg as he tries to keep still but he's fidgety and Skye hates awkward silences.
So she says the first thing that comes to mind.
"You think that guy beat the jerk out of you?"
There's a moment of silence.
He stops her before she can even try to apologise.
He's laughing. Like this is the most amusing thing he's ever heard, and only stops for a moment to wince when he slaps his leg.
"Oh god. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean that. Wait, no, I did. I mean-"
He quirks an eyebrow.
It's stupid adorable.
"No need to be. I was a jerk. And I’m sorry, about the other day."
She presses a hand to his forehead.
He scrunches his face in confusion.
"You sure you didn't get concussed?"
She attempts to keep her voice even, but she fails and it wavers at the end of her sentence.
"Pretty sure."
He looks her straight in the eye.
"Maybe you should check again, though."
Her face flushes, much to her dismay, and she cracks a smile, but when her she speaks again, her voice is soft and unsure.
"Maybe."
She hates herself.
She really shouldn't be doing this.
Much less enjoy the tickle of his breath as he inches closer, and the sincerity in his eyes as he places one hand on her arm, and oh god.
“They’re just girls, breaking hear-”
Jemma. They jump apart, and her cheeks are burning, and his head is lowered so she wordlessly excuses herself.
She taps at her phone far more aggressively than it requires, and Jemma's voice filters through, with Fitz on speaker, asking for her whereabouts.
She's late for work.
Right.
She nods along to whatever they're saying, her mind otherwise preoccupied, but by the time she ends the call and turns back around he's gone and she hadn't even heard him leave.
And that's fine.
Whatever.
He's just some guy she almost kissed like once.
Probably won't see him again, anyway.
(She really has to learn to stop saying that.)
Fast forward two weeks, and it's Valentine’s day, and it's a special sort of cruel to have to patrol a city housing sickeningly adorable couples having the best night of their lives, so when there's finally the criminal that uses the buzz of this holiday to go about undetected she's more than happy to oblige.
Fitz calls with information that the serial killer who has amazingly decided to name himself the 'lady killer' as some sort of joke is at the bar a two minutes' walk from where she lives, so she gets home as quickly as she possibly can to change into a dress and put on some makeup to ready herself for the night ahead of her.
She places the comm into her ear and she can hear Fitz and Jemma bickering in the background.
She walks as elegantly and swiftly as she can in five inch heel, and when she finally arrives at the bar she's trying to catch her breath.
Half the people in that room are staring at her.
She looks hot.
That's good.
It's to her advantage.
Walking up to the bar with her purse in hand with all eyes on her and on stilettos, trying not to trip is no easy feat, and she barely manages to look dignified as she lands on the bar stool next to lady killer (okay, it's Damon Smith, but the self-coined 'lady killer' 's just so much funnier, and funny is great, and very rare, especially in her line of work.) to shoot him a charming grin.
He's charmed. Of course he is.
He shifts to position himself as closely to her as he possibly can, and he smirks, running his hand through his hair.
"Buy you a drink?"
"Vodka tonic."
"Ah. A girl after my own heart."
Puke.
"Yeah?"
She downs the drink, and it burns the first time around, but by the time she reaches her third, she can barely register the feeling as anything but numbing.
It's easy to act drunk after a few drinks, god knows how many time she actually has been, but her alcohol tolerance has basically tripled since she gained her powers, so she's as sharp as she was when the night started, but a sway now and again and a few sentences slurred is simple enough to make the asshole decide she's drunk enough to take advantage off and he pulls her with him out the bar. She thinks the worst part about it is how the rest of the bar just turns a blind eye to this man lugging around a girl half passed out, but people's moralities aren't really things she can control, so she's silent with the occasional giggle as he supports her weight out into the car. He tries to kiss her ever so often and she allows him to a few times, the rest of them she plays off as her being unstable on her feet, and so he settles her into the car seat and drives off.
They reach their destination in eight minutes and fifty four seconds, and the location tracker she places on herself to feed back to the lab places it at somewhere in West Brooklyn, as Jemma informs her through text, and when they arrive, she's greeted with a huge, empty house with no others for miles and she feels like she's in some horror movie. (This could probably be classified as one, anyway.)
He opens the door for her, and grips her much more strongly than it would require to simply hold her up, and it feels like she can't breathe, but she counts to ten to steady herself as much as possible to prevent any minor earthquakes, and she barely succeeds when he puts her down on his living room couch. The release of his vice grip calms her significantly, and he's gone to the kitchen to get her some more wine (the asshole, honestly, is she not drunk enough?) when she hears a slight ruffling from the bushes right outside the window of the living room.
She peers outside only to see a shadow, and assumes it's just an animal, (which it is, she finds out) at least until the silhouette emerges as a person, and Grant Ward is standing before her. Again.
He's picked up the excited puppy, and it's when it's resting in his arms that he finally looks up and spots Skye, and the look of surprise that crosses his face for the smallest of moments would make her laugh out loud if not for the guy who thinks she's close to pass-out drunk in the next room.
"Quake?" He whispers loudly, startling the puppy into jumping up in his arms.
"Grant." She nods in acknowledgement.
"Ward."
She knew that. (So, she looked him up. Whatever. She was doing her job. Protecting the city from strange mysterious men. Obviously.)
"Okay then, Ward." She says, staring pointedly at the dog in his arms, smirking in amusement at the overexcited puppy.
"Oh, right," He says, as if he hadn't noticed there was a little dog jumping about the cradle he made with his arms, "This," He lowers his gaze to the dog, "Is Buddy. He was feeling a little left out, being locked out of the house."
He looks up.
"For you, apparently?"
She has to physically stop herself from giggling at the sight of Grant Ward petting a puppy he's carrying like a baby.
She hears the rustle of footsteps from the kitchen, and only then does it hit her where exactly she is.
"Wait. What are you doing here?"
"Lady killer." He offers, with no additional explanation, turning his attention back to Buddy.
"You?" He looks up, turning his attention towards her for a quick moment, in time to see her shrug and repeat his answer.
She’s startled when Lady killer’s voice becomes louder as he makes his way back to the living room, going on and on about some personal anecdote she’s barely paying attention to. (She shouldn’t be. She can’t afford distractions.)
Ward’s probably hearing the same thing she is, and he’s gone before she can ask him to hide, and if she didn’t know better, she would swear he was never there.
Her attention is returned to the smug man sitting by her side, placing their drinks on the table. She picks hers’ up, and so does he, but he has less than two minutes of patience, and soon enough he’s taking the drink from her hand, his face is inching closer and closer, and she’s bracing herself for the inevitable pressure of his lips on hers’.
Before it comes, though, someone breaks the door down, gun in hand, pointed straight at Lady killer.
Grant Ward.
Of course.
She had a plan. A damn good one at that.
Ward’s voice is even as he speaks.
“Lady killer, get away from the girl. Hands up, don’t try anything cute, or I shoot.”
He lifts his hands in surrender, and maintains a look of innocence as Ward moves towards him.
The asshole has the nerve to look her in the eyes and go, “Baby, I don’t know what this guy is talking about, don’t listen to him.”
She takes her gun out and points it at his head.
“Yeah, baby, I’m sure you don’t.”
Somehow, he’s even more smug.
He pulls a freaking knife from his sleeve, like he’s some sort of super ninja, and charges forward, attempts to stab Ward in the chest, fast enough to wound Ward’s abdomen before falling flat on the ground.
She runs forward, and catches Ward before he falls as well, gun clattering as it hits the ground when his hand instinctively clutches his abdomen in an attempt to ease the pain.
His face is contorted in agony, and she settles him on the ground before reaching to her purse and retrieving the sweater she brought for the night and placing pressure on the wound, and she tries not to let it show how terrifying it is to watch her white cardigan stained red in a matter of seconds.
Even half bleeding to death on the ground of a serial killer’s house, the mission comes before himself.
“So what’d you do to him?” Wince. “Didn’t even hear a gunshot.”
She smiles as she speed dials Jemma to tell her to get here as quickly as she possibly can with a first aid kid, and speaks, in the hopes that it will calm him.
“Switched our drinks when he wasn’t looking before. I knew the asshole drugged at least one of them.” She keeps from cringing as she realises he’s losing more blood with every second, and the red the cardigan is coloured with is getting deeper with every passing moment but keeps going anyway, praying Fitz and Jemma will arrive before she finishes her story.
“I had a plan, you know.”
He scoffs.
“Now you know how that feels.”
"Yeah, okay, smartass. Maybe we want to focus on not bleeding to death first?"
He smiles, and she takes it as a victory.
She tries her very best to control the bleeding, and she almost cries in relief when she hears a car being parked outside.
Jemma practically sprints into the house, and gets to work the minute she figures out what happened without question, and once the bleeding is as controlled as she can get it to be, Skye props him up against her with her arm wrapped around his waist, and tries to balance his significantly larger body against hers as they make their way to the van.
Just as they leave the house, he speaks again, and this time, his voice is laced with exhaustion.
“What about Buddy?”
“Buddy?”
He nods, and she almost instantaneously feels guilty for forgetting in the first place.
Oh, right.
“The dog?”
It’s a soft yeah this time, and she gestures at the little garden area to Jemma, and Jemma moves to pick up the still overexcited puppy to place it in the backseat of the van.
He’s quiet the entire journey back to the lab, and it’s nothing short of unnerving for her to see him so silent.
With the tech she installed to point out the route with the fewest traffic obstructions, they return to the lab in no time, and Jemma has him stitched, bandaged and in a makeshift hospital bed in under an hour.
After making him promise to go to the doctor to get his wound checked out as soon as possible, she leaves him to his own devices, probably to allow him to rest up, but the idiot’s up the minute he sees that Jemma’s shadow is out of view, shuffling his way into his jacket and shoes, and Skye watches each painfully slow movement without a word, only making a move when he tries to walk out of the room, hilariously knocking over a tray of bandages on his way out.
His eyes are trained on the falling pieces of gauze, causing him to collide with Skye at the door, clutching at his abdomen to lessen the impact.
She raises an eyebrow.
“Leaving without your Buddy?”
“Leaving him with you, actually.”
“What makes you think I’ll take care of him? What if I send him to a shelter?”
The look that crosses his face is honestly, and genuinely, what she could only describe as a puppy dog face, and she fails miserably at choking back her laughter.
He points a finger at her.
“You wouldn’t dare. You’re joking, right?” He stops for a moment, as if to seriously consider it, “You have to be joking.”
She shrugs.
“I don’t know. Were you joking when you told Jemma you were going to take a good, long rest?”
Guilt is evident as he looks down in embarrassment, mumbling, “I have to go. I have work to do. This,” He states, circling the bandages with his finger, “Is merely a flesh wound. I’m fine.”
He tries to push past her, and despite the very obvious disparity in body mass, the narrow exit proves to be a foe in his little act of rebellion.
“Okay, Mr Tough Guy, you want to go? I’ll let you go.”
“Thank you.”
Another attempt to walk off.
She raises her hand to stop him from moving any further.
“Uh-uh. You can leave, sure, i’ll even walk you to the door if you’d like, but only if you can pick up the medical equipment you knocked down when you were on your merry way out of here.”
He sighs deeply in protest, like the drama queen he is, but says instead, unconvincingly confidently, “Sure.”
It really doesn’t help his case, whimpering as he attempts to speak and turn at the same time.
His body is not even bent halfway before he starts wincing, and it would be hilarious, if it weren’t so damn sad to watch, and so she puts him out of his misery by getting him to stand back up straight, aiding him in sitting on the bed, making a split second decision.
“Tell you what. How about, you stay here, and rest, like the very severely injured person you are, and in exchange, you can help me out when I do whatever you want to call my night job, join my team, or whatever?”
He grunts in response.
“So, that a yes, or do you expect me to speak bear?”
No reply.
She punches his arm playfully, “C’mon. You can take care of your precious puppy, we need someone who actually has knowledge of law enforcement and can provide field backup on our team, Mr Secret Agent. Plus, you already know the location of our super secret base, so if you don’t say yes, i’d have to kill you.”
That coaxes a smile out of him, but it still takes him a while to consider what she thinks is a no brainer, and she’s thankful his answer is “Yes. Sure. Okay.”, and the defeated tone that accompanies it makes her grin.
A pause.
“So, you going to introduce yourself, or should I just refer to you as ‘the great and mighty Quake of New York City’?”
He’s smirking, all proud of his reference to the newspaper title from the week before. Stupid New York Post.
She’s smiling.
“You could, of course, after all, it’s not untrue. Alternatively, you could call me Skye.”
“Of course.” The teasing grin slips and he’s serious once again as he extends his hand for her to shake.
All business.
Alright then.
“Welcome to the team, Agent Ward.”