(i know its been like two months pls dont hate me)

disclaimed

...

Skye's utterly convinced it's too early.

Grant hands her a mug of coffee and kisses her cheek, throws open the blinds. Skye kind of regrets marrying him. If she'd have known about his weird love of mornings…

"It's not even light out, Grant," she whines, setting the mug on the side table in favor of smashing her face into a pillow.

"You were the one that said she wanted to shave."

Blindly, she sticks her arm under the covers and groped her leg. Oh god. Okay. Getting up. Grant follows her to the bathroom, and Skye tries to tug him into the shower with her.

"Skye," he says firmly, batting her hands away. "I'm already dressed."

She glances down. Christ—

she's not sure when he gets up, but it has to be at, like, three. Except for that one time when he had food poisoning—which was kind of disgusting, but he also slept in until two in the afternoon and spent most of that weekend wandering around the house, whining at various decibels.

But—

still.

She naked, she's hot, she has admittedly furry legs—

"Grant," she whines, pouting. "It's Monday. And early." She pouts some more and—

"Twenty minutes," he reminds, unbuttoning his shirt hastily. Skye grins and leans up to kiss him. "We're going to have cereal," he warns against her lips. "Milkless cereal."

"Cool."

...

They finally get out the door, to the car. By the time they'd gotten out of the shower, Grant had stated they didn't even have time for cereal, and Skye had resigned herself to one of Hunter's weird breakfast concoctions.

And then they hit traffic, which is dumb and weird and annoying, because they're still technically in that sweet spot before rush hour, so Skye thinks that they should be in the clear, you know? Whatever.

Grant flexes his hands on the wheel, taps his fingers against the leather. To be fair, it's sort of Skye's fault that they're sort of late, so she blasts the radio and sings every word to Blank Space, badly, pen click and all, just to see Grant smile—which—worth it.

He relaxes, after that, and keeps shooting her these lovestruck looks that make her blush—they've been married for two years, together for four, but he's still so sweet, so pleased when he gets her to smile, gets her to laugh and just wow, okay, Skye really lucked out.

Cars aren't moving at all, so Skye starts to check her email, thumbing open her schedule last second to check what section she's teaching first and she groans. Guttural, pit of her stomach groan because she fucking hates the junior section of tech, mainly because there's this one fucking kid—

"Juniors?" Grant asks, reaching over to take her free hand in his. Skye nods. "You can't throw staples at them."

She snorts at the absurdity of the statement, and at the fact that he completely read her mind, and whines, "But Johnny."

Grant makes a face.

Johnny McMillan and his family were infamous at Shield, known for Johnny's antics in the classroom and his parents' tendency to scream at any teacher that implied that their son was anything less than perfect. And because Johnny hadn't ever attempted anything that was even slightly dangerous to the student body, the school couldn't ever kick him out.

Sometimes, Skye was tempted to frame him for something, anything, just to get him out of her class. Because he was such a fucking dick.

"Still," Grant says. "No staples."

Skye wheedles, "But what about Expo markers?"

"Erasers," he concedes, flashing her a grin that makes her melt.

Okay.

She takes that as complete and total permission to blame him if she snaps and chucks an Expo eraser at her student's head.

...

When they finally get to campus, they're technically running late. Not for school, but for Grant's insane prep time requirement. He likes getting there at seven, when drop off doesn't even start until eight.

Before they got together, she knows for a fact he would get to school at 6:30am, because one day she staked out the campus to figure out the crazy hot mysteriously prompt history teacher.

She thinks that this is a crazy big compromise on his part.

When they arrive, there are only a few other cars in the lot—May (as always), Coulson (required), Nat, and a handful of lower school teachers. Skye is shuffling around in her purse, looking for her lip gloss, when Fitzsimmons arrives.

Jemma beams at her, because, like, Skye's ninety percent sure that Jemma is actually a fairy that loves the morning or something—Fitz grumbles something to Grant as he slides out of the car.

"Hey Jem," Skye greets, kicking her door open wide. Jemma chirps out a greeting in response, moving to gather a stack of papers from the backseat. They walk in together, the four of them, before splitting off—Fitzsimmons to the STEM wing, and Skye trails Grant to his classroom in the humanities department.

She doesn't have to teach until second period, and it's kind of fun to watch Grant bustle around his room, setting out books and papers, writing the agenda on the board every day because, unlike her, he's kind of a superhero of a teacher. Not to say that Skye isn't good at what she does—she's just a bit less organized. Rarely, if ever, is there an agenda on her whiteboard.

(there is, however, usually a lovely cartoon detailing the life of a famous coder)

"What chapter are you on?" Skye asks, reaching for Grant's copy of one of the history texts. History of the Modern Age. Boring.

"Ah—," Grant starts, glancing over at the book in her hands. "Three. The first world war."

Even more boring.

She places it back on the immaculate pile, in the top right corner of her husband's desk. It's really—sometimes she wonders how in the world they work. Because he's so—and she's so—

It's mindboggling sometimes. A lot of the times. But—don't look a gift horse in the mouth, right?

Grant continues on his little laps around the classroom, straightening papers and emptying sharpeners into the trash. Small things—getting ready for the day. "What section is your first?" She should be better at this. Grant has all but memorized her schedule—knows when she's teaching what, knows when it's a good time for him to pull her out to make out in the supply closet on the third floor.

He glances at the sheet of paper he's tacked up in the corner. "Freshmen. Advanced."

Skye nods. She actually really likes teaching freshmen—the younger grades seem to be a lot less dickish, really. Granted, they all stink, either from a lack of knowledge of body odor or an excess of Juicy body spray and Axe. But—she's never felt the urge to hurl an Expo eraser at any fourteen year old. So there's that.

She really likes her art classes so much more than her tech classes. God.

The clock hand nears eight, all very suddenly, and Skye stands, wiping her palms on her jeans. "I'll let you get to it," she murmurs, shooting a grin in her husband's direction.

"M'kay," Grant leans in to kiss her. "Lunch here?"

Skye pulls out her phone. She has a free, right before lunch. She offers, "Do you want me to pick something up?"

Shaking his head, Grant says giddily, "No— Hunter's making tater tots."

"Oh, shit, never mind then." Lance Hunter's tater tots are legendary—legendary at Shield. It's—oh god. Skye's literally so excited. Her hands might be shaking.

A glance at the door sends her reaching for her bag; there's about five kids out there, trying their hardest to make it seem like they're not staring at their teachers. "I'll see you at lunch, babe," Skye says finally, nodding towards the windows. Grant grins at his kids, waves them in, and Skye greets those that she knows, smiles at the ones that she doesn't.

Her classroom is in the STEM wing as well, which, she's kind of grossly annoyed by. Half the time, her class has to evacuate because one of the science classes made something explode or created some sort of toxic/highly dangerous gas or weapon. Coulson really should regulate them more, honestly.

Angie Torres is sitting in the hallway leading to her classroom, leaning up against lockers as she taps her pen on the notebook in her lap. Angie is, honest to god, Skye's favorite student. Ever. She's one of those great kids that listens to instructions and asks relevant questions and makes minimal sexual innuendos. God bless.

"Hey Angie," she greets, digging through her purse for her keys to unlock the classroom.

"Hi, Miss Skye!" the girl responds, scrambling to her feet and shoving her notebook into her bag. "I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions about my coding project?"

Skye swallows the sigh that threatens to sound. No such thing as a free period at Shield.

...

Grant sort of hates giving pop quizzes, but he knows that it's also the only way to ensure that his classes do the required reading. So, he brushes off the groans from the freshmen as he passes out the papers, reminding them to use pencil—

"I'm not sure if you all are aware, but pen smudges all over the place." Especially when you're drawing dicks all over the sheet. Considering the snickers at the back of the room, he figures they're aware.

Just as he's about to reprimand Troy and Jon for talking during a quiz, the door bursts open. Shelley Brigg—one of Grant's favorite students, if he's being honest—has some green slime in her hair and is breathing hard as she gasps out, "Um, yeah—so, Dr. Morse's bio lab is, um, growing? Like, it's probably going to be walking soon, so we need to evacuate the campus, okay, bye!"

She takes off running down the hall, and Grant hears another classroom door be thrown open. Shelley should really learn how to gently open doors.

But.

First things first.

"Okay," he says calmly, gesturing for his students to follow his evacuation plan (helpfully posted on the whiteboard). "You all get A's." A few of the boys whoop—Maya groans from the back of the classroom. "Grab your things, guys," he reminds them, eyeing a few bags left on the floor.

He figures that the evacuation isn't too serious, since the alarms aren't—that's when the alarms go off, because why not?

"Alright you guys," he shouts over the shrieking of the alarm. "We need to move." His students start to move towards the door, pairing up as per the plan, and he does a head count as they move past—

17, 18, 19, 20. Awesome.

All here, all calm. Double awesome.

"Alright," he yells. "Stay with your partner!"

"MR. WARD," someone shrieks from near the front.

Grant double checks his headcount as he scrambles to the front of the group. All twenty—

"What is it? What's wrong?"

A very panicked—eighth grader? Very small ninth grader?—whips around, eyes frantic. He has some green slime in his hair too. "Fitzsimmons are trapped in Dr. Simmons's lab," the kid—Grant recognizes him from Skye's art class—pants, hands on knees, doubled over. "Miss Skye went to help them and—."

Alright.

Um.

"Also the creature is walking, so."

"Maya!" Grant yells, eternally grateful when the girl immediately responds, whipping around and dragging her partner with her. The sea of students continues to surge around them, alarms shrieking, so he shouts over the din, "Lead the class to our muster, okay? I have to go make sure everyone gets out alright."

Maya nods, gripping Dany's hand tightly, white knuckled, and she walks away with purpose, stance strong. Grant doesn't think he's ever been more proud of a student, and he's tempted to yell that after her.

But—

uh. First things first.

The tide of the evacuation is strong, but Grant is also a good foot taller than most of the evacuees, so he cuts a path to the STEM wing quickly. The odor of Bobbi's monstrosity precedes it, but the sight of it causes Grant to pause.

It's vaguely humanoid—

if humans had three arms and one giant leg.

It emits a fluorescent green shine, lighting up the now dim hallway, and it easily takes up at least two third of the walkway. Grant glances to the right—Skye's classroom door is thrown open, which, yeah, that's like her. Her friends were in danger, so she would totally run out and—

he glances back to the creature, still ignoring him.

And then she would definitely scramble into Simmons's classroom to take shelter.

"Hey," Grant yells, grabbing a stray pencil case from the floor and chucking it at the experiment. "Hey you moss…thing!" The creature rounds on him, faceless, and growls. "Uh." He looks over his shoulder and assesses his surroundings. The stairwell should be empty by now, yeah? "Look at me!" he repeats, beginning to back down the hallway.

He sees Skye's face in the window of Simmons's door. She grins at him, throws a thumbs up and blows a kiss. Grant feels his cheeks pink.

"You dumb fungi!" he taunts, waving his arms and picking up his pace.

He can hear Fitz—or Simmons, maybe—yell from the classroom, "It's not fungus!"

Which—

really?

There's some more yelling about its classification as a plant, really, which is making it very hard for Grant to actually fucking distract the experiment gone wrong, as it keeps looking towards whatever is making the most sound.

Exasperated, he makes a series of complicated hand gestures in the general direction of the lab—he can hear Fitzsimmons's cries of confusion, but Skye will understand that he needs the science puppies to just be quiet, for, like, ten seconds. Just long enough to get this thing away.

"Moss boy!" he yells again. "Or girl! Moss person!" The thing follows his voice, moving at a glacial pace, but eventually he gets it into the staircase. Sidestepping, Grant shoves the creature further into the stairwell, ignoring the way it oozes over his hands—that's probably not toxic, right?

When it's far enough down, he slams shut the emergency doors, which, yeah, he's not entirely sure how to lock the STEM doors, but that thing probably can't work handles, right?

Right?

"Hey!" Skye calls, as she and Fitzsimmons run out into the hall. "You're not dead!"

"Yeah?!" Grant laughs, raising his hands for her to see the glowing slime that coats them. His wife makes a face; Simmons makes a noise of disapproval, hurrying over to inspect his appendages.

"Uh—," Fitz starts, glancing behind Grant, and—aw, shit. He hears the rattling handles before he turns, but then, yeah, the moss-being is definitely figuring out doors, so they should probably not be here when it does.

"Okay," Grant sighs, spreading his arms wide to herd the trio. Skye tucks herself against his side, unfazed by the glowing goo he currently sports. "Let's move, people."

Simmons is still fussing over his hands and arguing with Fitz in turn, and Fitz keeps shooting nervous looks at the stairwell as they retreat to the stairs at the opposite end of the STEM wing. "That was pretty hot, what you did back there," Skye murmurs as they hustle down the hall, swinging a right to loop to the back of the building. "All Indiana Jones-y, rushing in to save your love," she swoons, grinning.

"I do what I can." That sounds cool, right? Should he still be worried about sounding cool? Like—they're married, and she's definitely seen him not cool, like when their honeymoon got sort of cancelled by a hurricane, so—

Skye rolls her eyes. "It was the coolest," she assures him. "You're the coolest."

Grant pauses, leaning down to kiss her, but then the monster groans—roars, really, and Fitz shrieks, and they should maybe hurry.

It roars again.

Yeah, Grant thinks, shoving everyone into the stairway in front of him and slamming the latches into place on the doors. We should definitely hurry.

...

Eventually, the moss creature is neutralized by some sort of foul smelling aerosol that Bruce throws Vic as she charges into the building, and Bobbi keeps a sample of it in a jar on her desk, which, really, Phil highly disapproves of, because that's a fucking safety hazard, Morse.

Classes go back before lunch, and Grant and Skye get their tater tots (Bobbi does not, because her husband is vindictive and upset that his chicken fillets burned while the school got evacuated).

Shelley goes in to make up some French Revolution quizzes for her favorite teacher, Mr. Ward, and rushes out after muttering, "How the hell am I supposed to concentrate when Skyeward is so fucking cute," under her breath when Miss Skye throws a tater tot into Mr. Ward's mouth.

"What was that, Shelley?" Miss Skye asks innocently, eyebrows raised. Shelley's mouth hangs open for a moment—

finally, in lieu of an answer, she makes a high pitched noise, throws her half-finished quiz into the quiz basket on the corner of Mr. Ward's desk and runs for it, because, jesus, Shell, get your fucking act together.

...

fun fact: shelley brigg hardcore ships skyeward and, before they got together, made bets with other students about when they would get over themselves and make out

(she made like three hundred dollars okay i have put a lot of thought into this fucking au hELP ME)