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A Conventional Approach

Chapter Text

"Hello? Um, is this the home of Mrs Anna Ward?" Grant says, as clearly as he can.

"This...this is she. Who needs to know?"

"Mrs Ward, this is...I am Grant Ward."

He hears the gasp on the other end, and winces.

"You're...Christian told me that his brothers were dead."

"I'm...sorry to disappoint, ma'am."

"No, no...um, what is it?"

"I need to ask a favor."

"Familial or -?"

"Investigative."

"I only do tails now."

"I only need a track."

And...awkward silence.

Fuck.

"Legal name?"

"Not sure, but um...the name given at birth was Daisy Johnson."

Chapter Text

"You'll be safer there," Skye moans mockingly, kicking at the door. "They won't challenge Ward when you're cuffed."

"Well, no one did!" Grant says defensively, and her face falls from her acute annoyance into frustration.

"Not helping," she barks, and he raises his hands like he's pleading innocence.

He'd been doing that a lot lately.

Skye turns back around, leaning against the door with a scowl. She twists her wrists, growling, and watches as Grant purses his lips.

"What? Not the circumstances you'd had in mind for seeing me in handcuffs?" she sneers.

"Something along those lines, yeah," he grins.

Chapter Text

“Fitz! I said left!” yelps Skye, smacking the dashboard.

“You did not!” Fitz protests.

Jemma pushes her earbuds in further, but her companions start arguing and render them useless.

She pushes her blanket back - more theatrically than necessary considering neither of them is watching.

“You do recall, Fitz, that I offered to drive, oh, roughly 57 miles ago?” she poses.

“Yes, Jemma,” Fitz affirms, fixating harshly on the road.

“Roughly 57,” Skye mimics, in her horrid faux-British accent, still fiery with frustration. “And a half.”

“Fitz, stop at the next motel,” Jemma demands. “I think we could use a nap.”

Chapter Text

Skye tosses the cocktail dress onto the bed, and calls out.

“Ward? You done in there yet?”

“Just…about,” he replies, and struts back into the room.

In a towel.

“Really?”

“Skye, I was in the shower.”

He moves closer.

“Besides, to convince people we’re on our honeymoon, we'll have to act like a couple. That usually involves some…well, you-know-what.”

“You-know-what? Nuh-uh. Not that fast, cowboy.”

He's only inches from her now - she worries she won't win this argument.

His eyes meet hers inquisitively, then flicker toward toward her lips; her breath hitches, but she's the one who closes the gap.

Chapter Text

"Yo, Lincoln?" Mike calls out. Or...maybe Lincoln does. It certainly sounds like Lincoln. "You there?"

"Depends what you mean by there," Lincoln replies, with a snark that Mike recognizes very, very well. Because it's his freaking voice. Coming from his freaking body - in the adjacent room.

"The hell'd they do to us?" Lincoln poses, even though it's rhetorical.

"Who knows, man? I just know this whole white-skin, two-eyes, two-legs shit is a little...weird."

"Yeah, I dunno how you do this. I can barely sit up."

"Sorry, man. Usually, the mechanics are working."

"Eh, I'll survive."

"Yeah, you'd better."

Chapter Text

Bobbi's leaving when Kara blurts it out: "we were lovers.”

Bobbi stops in her tracks and does an about face.

“Weren’t we?”

Bobbi sighs, with a slight nod and manicured hands shoved awkwardly into her trouser pockets.

“Yes, Kara, we were.”

Kara takes a deep breath. Bobbi braces herself.

“How did we…leave things?” Kara asks softly.

“That’s not important. What’s important is your recovery and reentry.”

“Badly, then.”

“Like I said, it’s not important,” Bobbi says, with a weak smile that rightfully doesn’t reassure Kara.

"It's all a blur, you know, for me," Kara shrugs. "Perhaps...things could be mended."

Chapter Text

"Dude, you are not okay," the bartender moans when the - what number was this? - shot glass hits the bar again.

Grant might have commented that he was too observant, but since he's decided to try to lay low and stop talking shit...well, he hasn't said much for a few days.

"Babe issues, man?"

Grant pauses.

"Something like that."

"Take it from me: ain't worth it," the bartender declares.

"Not a girl out there worth startin' no apocalypse for, an' I don't get wholly turnt for nothing less."

"Thanks for the advice, but...you've never met anyone like this girl."

Chapter Text

"Director?"

"Yes?" Phil mumbles, a piece of a croissant still in his mouth. May rolls her eyes and speaks to the tech on his behalf.

"What is it now?"

"Got another teleporter. She's in lock-up now."

+

The girl looks so like Skye that he startles.

"Grand-" she jumps at he and May both, but her face falls. "You...don't know who I am, do you?"

They shake their heads.

"Do you know where you are?" May asks.

"I - um - when...am I?"

"May 2015."

"Holy shit," the girl gasps. "I was in May 2045 when I left home this morning."

Chapter Text

She angrily kicks the door of her cell.

"Oh, come on!" she whines, and it sounds like Skye.

May watches her in silence and suspicion; she waves her hands around, gets into fighting stances, leans against the wall just like May herself does.

She "isn't allowed" to tell them any details, not even her name. Apparently, it would create a time-space paradox. May was not a fan.

Maybe a little drawn to her, but she's sure that's because of her uncanny resemblance to Skye.

"We could give her the serum, Agent May," offers Bobbi.

"We'll wait, Agent Morse," May replies.

Chapter Text

"You sure about having her on board?" Bobbi inquires.

"My plane, my decision," May answers.

Bobbi's discomfort is evident, but Simmons calls her away; Phil takes Bobbi's place, and sets his hands next to May's on the railing.

"You seem worried," May comments.

"Normally I'm the one taking things at face value, and you're questioning me. I'm...concerned."

"...Damn, I like having my plane back."

"Now I'm really concerned."

She turns toward him.

"She knows something. Hell, she knows us. I can't help but..."

"Because of Skye."

May nods, and knows he understands.

"I like having your plane back, too."