At first he had scared her. Knowing who he had been once upon a time didn’t help. The man before her was broken - his eyes were wounded and wild. He was a ghost, haunting the plane which had become home. The quiet cargo hold she had started to use as a place of peace became his too, somehow. At first he had apologised, tumbled over his words a mix of Russian and english.
It was in this small space that she realised he was much like her: unknown. His memories came in fits and starts and oft being around the others, especially Steve, brought out too much for him. Too loud. Down here there was just her and the quiet hum of the engines. At first they were quiet, they sit in companionable silence as she worked, tapping away at her computer.
At some point they started talking. Or she had. Teaching him slang, playing him pieces of music or clips of shows. It was light hearted as much as possible, giving him small pieces of the years he’s lost back. It always made her smile when in meetings later he’d offer the words and references she’d taught him.
The first time he had touched her Skye had frozen all over, breath caught in her throat at the feel of cool metal. He had been gentle, brushing away a piece of hair. It has set quakes off inside of her, dislodging pieces of her she had tried to bury with ward. His blue eyes meet hers briefly, embarrassment brushing over his features before he pulls away.
Next time they meet the air is different - charged. She’s aware of him now in a different way. Not as a weapon, not as some piece of history, but as a man. A man who is as lost as she is.
