i can see the end as it begins,
x
he's a little too handsome, a little too clean cut, a little too earnest,
that it makes all the sense in the world when his grin distorts, crimson slick between teeth. the heft of a barrel too comfortable like a second skin in his calloused fingers. her name sounds like a sighed curse in his mouth, lips licking like expensive whiskey trickling over hot honey. she immediately scolds herself for wanting to slam him against the wall and cradle every angle of his hips, rolling her chest upon muscles to feel that hardness on her pliable softness.
before all hell breaks loose, she registers that he never fires.
x
he doesn't fire in puerto rico.
she does though.
the look on his face afterwards is enough to keep her from speaking the entire plane ride back to base. even may clocks hunter in the gut when he opens his mouth, eyes shifting from skye to coulson.
x
puerto rico becomes on par with the unspoken severity of budapest and skye spends an inordinate amount of time ignoring prying looks from level three and four agents that glare at her incredulously. she half wishes that ward was here to ram a fist in their ribs.
(she settles for fitz putting laxatives in their dinner and mack spinning a wrench in his hands as he walks through the playground, eyes narrowed. )
x
his voice is like a tonic through a mishmash of wires and signals, but it still has the same effect on her body. all nerves on end, body cocked and ready for war, lust shooting through her thighs, warmth seeping in her core.
she fucking hates how much she wants him.
as if he can see this from who the fuck knows how far, he chuckles, the low timber railing on her ear drums. she bites her lower lip, feels swelling as she listens to him talk. she doesn't trust her voice not to crack.
x
her father, how she gags on that word, drops her on the island of misfit toys, and she feels like maybe lincoln might be something good.
he looks like he might have had a shitty childhood that she can relate to. his eyes are blue not nut brown, and his blonde hair has that mussed thing going on. god, how nice it would be not to have a weakness for snarky assholes that make her wanna scream.
too bad that's not her and it's only confirmed when the whole world slows for what seems like forever when she lays eyes on him for the first time in months.
he hasn't shaved in a few days and he's obviously planned this meeting otherwise he wouldn't be wearing one of those goddamn henleys. but honestly, he looks surprised as fuck to see her, but when his gaze lands on her, the reverberation of a bomb explodes in white noise and silent ringing in her ears and she can't feel her legs. the only thing she can make out is coulson's voice and lincoln's shrieks and she kinda can sense his smirk through smoking mirrors making heat pool in her stomach.
the asshole.
x
she only finds out through may that ward wasn't going to be there until he heard that it was a mission for her life.
may tries not to roll her eyes when she reports this information, but skye can see it is physically paining her to hold back.
she lets out a stream of expletives as she yanks on her leather jacket, marching down to the gym. out the corner of her eye bobbi slides mack a twenty with contempt.
"told you he had her rattled."
x
somewhere skye is sure she's living a normal life maybe with a house and a dog and the most boring dude on the planet, but right now she's blowing open doors with her hands, earthquakes in her fingertips, tsunamis in her palms.
everyone moves before her and if they don't, she makes them.
she shifts continents, levels cities, snaps countries in half, breaks men into pieces.
well, almost all men.
(ward's a goddamn cockroach.)
x
"do you love him?" she asks jemma, hand on her shoulder as fitz putters around the lab, tie loosely knotted around his collar, top buttons undone, three day scruff adorning his cheeks.
jemma sighs, splinters a watery smile.
"yes.
no.
effortlessly."
skye smiles, then lets it falter. this isn't her story anymore.
x
she breathes out forcefully, ducking in the doorway, not really snooping as she listens to coulson's intel on hunter and may's shootout with ward at the hydra base of operations. he's exasperated to say the least.
"what do you mean you didn't get a shot in?"
"he wasn't even wearing a vest?"
"god, he's fucking invincible."
she covers a snort and saunters back to the main room with a little jazz in her step.
x
it's the worst kind of déjà vu truthfully.
she's strapped in a chair with coulson's ally standing above her with a shit eating grin etched in that ratchet mauve lipstick. she can't feel the vibrations in her fingers, mack's voice is eagerly terrified through her earpiece that is yanked from her wire and crushed underfoot. some jackass traces a blade down her cheek, drawing blood. he calls her daisy in a sing song voice that would even piss off ward.
ward.
if she is déjà vu-ing correctly, he should be marching in here, guns blazing at any minute. eye brows furrowed and unworried, scratches on his neck, charcoal henley clinging to well defined muscles, guns and knives and shivs and bombs in every imaginable pocket.
but this isn't puerto rico.
and it's not providence either.
x
her savior looks like may and she finds that she's oddly disappointed.
on her knees, rosalind receives a bullet in her back, two for good measure. may nudges the corpse, whispers into her wrist and mack and bobbi hustle through the door.
they leave the mess behind them. skye stretches her hands, feels the sparks ignite behind them. she raises her palms and looks at may for confirmation. she crumbles the building to ash and sees the dust settle on the lights of new york, starkly bright and lurid under the velvet night sky.
bobbi calls her name, calls her daisy. she flinches recalling the cool metal on her skin.
x
new york doesn't take on the beast of budpest or puerto rico.
it doesn't even come up until they're on a mission in malta where she's wearing all white and stiletto heels against her and coulson's better judgement. her lips are sin red and her hair is long again, curling loosely at the ends. she's at a café on the water, alone, sipping daintily on campari until the server appears at her side and puts a pistol on her table and takes the seat across from her.
she knows it's him before she even puts down her crystal glass.
coulson knows it's him before she even puts down her crystal glass because she hears may drop a few choice words and a loud squawk from hunter sends the mic on edge. she takes it out of her ear, places it below her heel, grinds it into dust.
"ward." she says like a curse, lips all sharp angles absent the letters daring to look up.
he's wearing a crisp white collared shirt, rolled at the elbows and linen pants. he's got a ten o'clock shadow and an indecent grin as he meets her gaze. he's still too handsome, but not too clean cut or too earnest. and he still looks at her like she's the goddamn sun. it's unnerving.
"skye. heard what happened in new york." he says it almost conversationally signaling to the waiter for another drink for the lady and scotch please, neat. he crosses one leg over the other, leans back in his chair, mouthing the rim of his glass.
she flickers her eyes over the pistol and he laughs.
"oh sweetheart" – she glares—"i'm not here for all that." he takes a swig of scotch, spinning the gun on the cream tablecloth.
"what do you want?" she bites out and observes him leering down her cleavage, adam's apple bobbing. so predictable.
"truthfully?" he asks and she jerks her head a bit allowing him to continue. he shrugs and encourages her to lean forward. the skylight is dimming, dusk kissing the horizon and ward reaches a finger to the candle in the center of the table. his eyes light up at her confusion, the tick of a smirk on his lips as he sets a digit to the wick and it bursts into flame.
skye lets out the breath she didn't know she was holding in, eyes agog, immediately regretting her reaction as a smug look grazes over his handsome features. "how the fuck is that possible?"
he looks at her with hunger as her lips curl around the curse word. "i actually had an idea."
he reaches in his pocket, pulls out two slips of paper. plane tickets to puerto rico for the red eye. tonight. she feels her stomach swoop into her feet. it's darker now, the flame casting shadows over his face, eyes lit in the dimness challenging.
she knows she will hate herself no matter if she says yes and follows him or blows him off and calls in the quinjet. there's no way to win this. she stands up, white dress slipping the skin of her tanned shoulders. even in her heels, she barely comes up to his shoulders. the moon is higher now, glinting dangerously off the water, daring her.
"what do you say?" he asks, hands in his pockets, the pistol noticeably absent. she can see he's hanging on her every movement.
he never fires it.
x
(she remembers providence and an underground bunker and slashes on eyebrows, whiskey , and ward's hand fisted in her hair.
no one's ever looked at her like that since that night.
and yet he's always looked at her like that.)
x
she wakes up in a hotel in puerto rico with her leg slung over another's, a man's face in her neck, his scruff rough against her skin. the windows are open and the air is warm. careful not to wake ward, she moves slowly and sneaks to the balcony with his dress shirt haphazardly buttoned.
"jemma?" she asks, already wincing in anticipation.
"you are an idiot. and you better be on a burner phone." her voice is vitriolic and dripping with disdainful sighs. "so?"
skye doesn't answer, swallows thickly.
"yes.
no.
effortlessly."
she can feel jemma's smile through the phone. "i'll tell coulson you're in dubai."
skye chucks the phone over the ledge and goes back to bed.
x
red lips and rosy cheeks,
say you'll see me again
even if it's just in your wildest dreams.