Chapter Text
It’s not that Ward doesn’t like California.
On the surface, it’s shiny and everyone’s pleasant and there are healthy lunch options around every corner.
And then you dig a little deeper and…
There’s plastic surgery and weird back alley deals and –
Okay, so California isn’t that unlike the rest of the world, in his opinion.
Bright pealing laughter echoes from his left and he turns to find Skye surrounded by half a dozen surfers who are all too happy to show her the tricks of the trade. (Like she honestly doesn't know what sex wax is good god, are these guys baked out of their minds or --)
Ward takes a deep breath and is about ten seconds from heading over there (black suit and polished shoes be damned) when she catches his eye and winks playfully. So. He holds his ground, as much as it kills him.
(And it does kill him. Did she have to wear a tank top cut so low?)
Skye practically skips her way back over to where he’s leaning against the car and unfurls a notepad with what appear to be hieroglyphics scribbled all over it.
“Behold. The best tacos on the coast, from Monterey to Carlsbad. We’re in business.”
He can’t help but sigh when he takes the hand-drawn map from where it’s clutched in her hand. “I got the license plate of the guy who’s suspected to be trafficking drugs under the table and –”
“Ward.” Skye folds her arms. “We did not go through all of this just to get information on drug trafficking.”
Ward pauses. “Actually –”
“No.” She snatches the paper back, and twirls around him in a flashy move designed to distract him. (He should know. He taught her that move.) Skye has slid behind the wheel of the car in a matter of seconds and filched his extra pair of aviators from the dashboard. “Hop in loser. We’re getting tacos.”