Because it is completely disgraceful that there was never a scene of Fitz in a coma and Jemma's perspective and msdevindanielle wanted a missing scene.
There’s a girl who is in the hospital every day, from the start of visiting hours until ten minutes after the nurses should have kicked her out.
The doctors and nurses don’t ask her name because they don’t have to. They already know.
To them, she has always been Grief.
There’s a girl who is in the hospital every day, from the start of visiting hours until ten minutes after the nurses should have kicked her out.
The doctors and nurses don’t ask her name because they don’t have to. They already know.
To them, she has always been Grief.
Her skin is perfumed with the brine of tears, her eyes rimmed with red. This is a girl, they think, they know, who is made of steel with a heart of glass. They wonder if the rivers that run from her eyes will ever dry. They see the cuts on her lips, a startling red against alabaster skin, how she is burying words unsaid, hopes unshared, and silent fears into the fragile skin of her lips. Her nails are shapeless, bitten so far down, they can’t dig rivulets of raised skin anymore, when it is late at night and she is alone with her pain.
These are the characteristics of Grief, her personality overtaken by the enveloping strength of her emotions, fear and despair and longing.
Grief once had a name, but the only person at the hospital who knows it cannot speak, cannot walk, cannot do anything.
Her name is Jemma Simmons.
…………………………………………………………………………………………………
The morning sky is grey and faintly purple, and her rented hotel room smells faintly of jasmine tea and Kleenex. Jemma is wrapped in a stark white blanket, staring at the clock.
The shrill noise of an alarm pierces the early morning fogginess that comes with her mentality.
She doesn’t even blink, and turns the alarm off.
She rubs her eyes gracelessly, and she is aching for the warm embrace of sleep, but she can’t find it anywhere, for the past eight days, she has seen nothing but choking water and the wobbly smile of a martyr each time she closes her eyes.
And so she doesn’t sleep.
She stretches quickly, turns the hotel coffee maker on and uses it to boil water.
While she waits, she gets dressed in a yellow sweater with blue piping. It’s a bit garish for her taste, and certainly more cheery than she feels, but when Skye said she’d packed a bag for Simmons, she couldn’t refuse.
She imagined Skye, then, her care as she folded these clothes for Jemma.
She imagined her thoughts.
“Yellow is a happy color, maybe it will make her feel a bit brighter.”
“Blue has been proven to relax.”
“She was wearing this blouse when I met her.”
“She looks nice in red hues.”
“Fitz gave her this sweater. Or, more likely, she stole it from him.”
Jemma gave a ghost of a smile at the last bit, tying up her converse.
She brushed her teeth with a mechanical precision, rinsing her mouth twice.
Gracefully, she clasped a pair of earrings, the single piece of jewelry on her bare skin.
This was her armor, her defense against the cruel world around her, defense against unwelcome sights and smells and people that might remind her of him when he was awake.
She walked out the door.
……………………………………………………………………………………
Each day, he looked exactly the same.
Fitz was a fixed point in time, never changing, never moving.
She brushed a curl out of his face as she sat down next to him.
“Hi, Fitz,” she whispers.
It is early enough in the morning that she can pretend he is just sleeping.
“I’ve missed you,” she paused, swallowing hard.
“I, um, brought a new book today. It’s not anything particularly difficult, and I am pretty sure you read it, but I thought it might be a bit cheerier than real life. Because, you know, the villain wasn’t a close friend that they trusted,” Jemma laughed out bitterly, her words tasting like poison as memories of a black-haired man flitted in the back of her mind.
“Harry Potter, Fitz. I think Hermione will be your favorite. She's mine, always wanted to be her when I was growing up.”
She started reading, one hand on the book, the other wrapped around his hand, carefully.
After five chapters, she stopped.
“I’m sorry, Fitz. I just… I can’t do this today. I need to- to let you know how I feel. Now, while you can’t hear me,” she stumbled on her words, as if her mouth had its own vocation.
She let go of his hand, and dog-eared the page she was on with shaking hands.
“I-I know what you told me when we were… when it happened. I think I know what you meant. That you love me. Or at least think you have the potential to. You weren't exactly clear, Fitz. Either way, I need to let you know,” she paused then, grabbing his hand like it was her anchor and choosing words from an arsenal in her head.
“To be honest, I never considered you as anything more than my best friend before that moment. You were, admittedly, my other half throughout the better part of my life. If there was anyone I could have fallen in love with and not realized, it would be you. So, um. During this week, I’ve thought about it. I don’t know how exactly I feel about our relationship. The borders between you and me have always been blurred, where I finished, you began, where I was weak, you were strong. We were-” She realized what she was saying and bit her lip, drawing blood.
Past tense.
“We are, Fitz,” Jemma continued, carefully, delicately, like she was about to cave in on herself.
Her words were broken, stammers and pauses scattered though out her unwitnessed confession.
“We are an entity together, pieces that have always fit together, supporting each other, a sum that was greater than the parts. But, now, we’re apart. And I don’t know, the Doctors don’t know, nobody in this forsaken world knows who you are going to be when you wake up. If you are going to be my Fitz, a twisted mirror of the man I knew, or a blank slate, a cruel reminder of what was and could have been.”
She was crying openly now, tears streaming down her face. She had been saving each feeling, bottling it up like an expensive wine, and was now spilling it out with the care and disregard of someone who was experiencing withdrawal, someone who needed it now, and cared not how they got it.
“I can’t bear to have that happen without telling you first. You, Fitz, remind me of how I am more than what people think of me. You make me happy. You make me better. You make me know just how good. And I think that what I’ve realized over this week is that I have always loved you. But I’m not sure how,” she took a shaky breath and continued on.
“I’m not sure how to tell you. And, to be honest, with all of this going on, I don't think either of us can afford the stress of a relationship," Jemma continued, hardening herself for the rejection that she felt would come.
She was met with silence.
………………………………………………………………………………….
Every Doctor and Nurse knows it, knows about the tragedy of the Coma Ward.
Sees the broken faces and desperate grasps towards the slightest improvement, no matter how meaningless it may be.
They know the horrible truth, the solemnity that follows them home like a shadow each night.
The one who's sick is never the one crying, not in the Coma Ward.
………………………………………………………………………………..
She sleeps on that night, and it has been far too long.
She takes a cab to the hospital, and its yellowed interior smells like cigarettes and black coffee.
She walks past the Doctors, and they follow her with their eyes, silent but pitying. They know her as Grief, and know of the tragedy that keeps her in the sterile ward.
His room smells like lemon cleaner and jasmine tea and, faintly, the scent of him.
He has always been mechanical grease and metal polish, Lady Grey tea and dirt.
It triggers memories for her, of words left unsaid and two twin attempts at martyrdom for the sake of the other.
Their last words were different-
"I'm sorry."
"Let me show you."
-but they meant the same thing
I love you tucked in between commonplace words, like a cryptic message which only the speaker could decipher.
Today, she doesn't read him a story, doesn't try to check for possible signs of awareness.
She is nearly silent as she holds his hand, but her face is dry.
She is not sure if she is feeling okay, if this has become her new normal, or if she has ran out of tears.
She is not sure which is worse.
She thinks she is dreaming when she sees his eyelashes flutter, that it was a breeze in this inert room.
When his eyes open, blue and piercing, she knows she is awake.
………………………………………………………………………………………………….
Jemma Simmons was steel and iron and stardust trapped in a porcelain urn.
Jemma Simmons now is ice and space and a swirling vortex of emptiness.
Jemma Simmons is numb to prevent the feeling of pain from crippling her.
He cannot speak, and she cannot tell him, cannot even know if he remembers his own feelings.
His expression was panic, then pain as he realized that he couldn't shape the words that danced in the back of his mind, vivid ideas and swirling praises.
He stares at her sometimes, and she reaches out to touch his hand as a response.
He doesn't jerk away, which is a good sign.
She sits in an empty hotel room that smells of jasmine tea and cheap vodka and Kleenex and pain.
She walks, like her legs have their own vocation, towards the scratched mirror.
She picks up a pair of scissors from the care package that the hotel leaves in baskets on bathroom counters.
They are dull, but that doesn't stop her as she roughly chops her hair, the edges barely dusting her shoulders.
Jemma Simmons stares at her reflection.
Unfamiliar eyes stare back.
This girl, she thinks, more than slightly drunk, will be made of stronger stuff.
Simmons 2.0.
This girl will survive.
………………………………………………………………………………………..
Her apartment is cozy, not small.
The walls are made of worn brick and there is a quintessential element of charm.
It smells like jasmine tea and spices and sage.
Each day is empty and she can't wait to get home, until she remembers that she is empty as well and that there is no home.
She is Atlas, holding up the sky as a punishment for her sins and she can't bear it much longer.
But she presses on, through lonely nights and hollow mornings.
If those Doctors could see her now, they would no longer know her by the name of Grief.
So, so sorry for the delay. This ended up a whole lot longer than it was supposed to be, and then I got hit with a massive case of ‘where the hell do I go from here’ in the middle, and then I ended up having to do a massive rewrite, like on the 22nd, goddammit. You know that feeling when it’s three in the morning and you read something too many times and the words don’t make any sense anymore and you question your whole existence? Doesn’t matter. I do apologise for my tardiness.
Anyway, this is set after A Fractured House, in a blissful day before the team find out that Ward’s escaped from Senator Ward’s people, although it’s probably mostly crack, I don’t know anymore. Tried to slip in little bits of continuity, hopefully it comes across okay, hope everyone’s in character. Science in here is mostly cut from whole cloth, I’m neither a biochemist or an engineer. One animated TV show reference I hope someone gets.
Everything's pretty platonic, I don't write romantic, but I guess you might see Bobbi ->Simmons and Fitz/Mack, and maybe Fitz/Trip if you squint. You might see a little too much Trip (is there such a thing?), I'm still trying to get over that bloody mid-season finale, and I keep sticking him everywhere in a kind of apology. Loads of Jemma too.
Warning, one late offhand mention of Ward – characters have exactly the same attitude towards him as they do on the show. You have been warned.
Merry Christmas!
P.S. Nearly forgot, there's one Mentalist reference in here too.
Jemma walks slowly up the Bus' cargo ramp, and into the garage that used to be the lab she shared with Fitz. Gone are the workbenches, the holotable, the microscope, the centrifuge - instead, a massive, sleek Harley dominates the space, obviously in the process of receiving a few upgrades courtesy of Mac. A few toolboxes of various sizes lie open around the motorbike, and Jemma nearly trips over a wayward wrench.
Sometimes, she feels like marching up to Mac, grabbing him by the shirt and demanding her lab back, but she knows that can't happen – it was probably Coulson who ordered the change, anyway. And, in truth, it's not so much the lab she wants, but instead what it means to her.
She walks out of the garage and climbs the stairs to the main area of the Bus, and flops down in one of the seats. Her fingers find a fraying hole in the armrest, and she looks around at the shattered windows in the debrief room and the marks left in the Bus' walls by bullet spray. Before she left, she had helped get the Bus airworthy again, and now that it had cloaking capabilities it was once again a valuable asset to the new S.H.I.E.L.D., but the only cosmetic work they had done on the big plane was to paint over the huge eagle on her back, and sweep up as much crushed glass as they could.
Jemma hauls herself out of the chair and goes over to examine the bullet-holes in the walls. Spare internal panels for specialist S.H.I.E.L.D. Mobile Command Units like this one weren't cheap or easy to come by, even back when S.H.I.E.L.D. was top dog. But most of the holes weren't deep, just ugly. Maybe some kind of ultra-light foam filler that can be painted over?
'Thought you'd be in the lab.'
Jemma looks over to see Trip beaming at her. She can't help but return his smile.
'Hi, Trip, what are you up to?'
He jerks his thumb over his shoulder at a pile of boxes cluttering up the passageway and stairs to Coulson's old office. 'I figured someone's gonna take a dive over those boxes one of these days, so I offered to help move 'em into storage in the Playground, clear some room in here.' He looks around wistfully at the battered space. 'Wish I could do more for the Bus, she's saved our asses enough times.'
Jemma looks thoughtfully over at the damaged wall. 'Actually, I was just thinking that I might have something to fill these unsightly bullet-holes...'
She can hear the smile in Trip's voice. 'Thought you might have. Tell you what, why don't you go and get whatever you need to fill those holes, and I'll quickly finish moving these boxes into storage and help you fill them in?'
'Okay!' A thought occurs to Jemma and she lowers her voice conspiratorially. 'Why don't we make it a surprise for the rest of the team? See if they notice anything different?'
Trip laughs and claps her on the shoulder. 'Why not?'
~
Jemma races out of the Bus and down into the Playground's living quarters. Finally, a proper project! She hasn't felt so fired-up for a while and it's exhilarating. She flings open the door to her room and drags out a box from under her bed. It's filled with old dusty workbooks from her days at the Academy, and she rifles through them until she finds the one she’s looking for.
She dashes out of her room with it and makes off at top speed toward the labs.
~
Trip stumps down the Bus' cargo ramp, carrying a few boxes. A forklift is parked nearby; a half-filled pallet of boxes sits on its tray. He puts the boxes carefully on the pallet before retrieving a rag from his back pocket, wiping his sweaty face as he walks back up the ramp.
'Can't just be paper in those,' he puffs to himself.
He's just about to head back out with a few more boxes when he hears someone on the ramp. Damn, she's quick.
He's picking his way through the garage, arms full, when he sees that it's Bobbi, not Simmons. He notices that he's startled her, but she's hidden it well. 'Agent Morse! Can I help?' he calls.
Bobbi walks up to him. 'Hey, Trip. I see you're pretty busy.' She grabs a box off his pile and walks down the ramp with him.
Trip unloads his boxes and Bobbi follows suit. 'Yeah, I said I'd move these boxes into storage for Coulson. Anything I can help you with?'
Bobbi flashes him a quick smile. 'Well, Mac was showing me around the Bus yesterday, and not long after that, I realized I'd lost the flash drive I'd been holding at the time. I've probably dropped it in here - have you seen it?'
Trip racks his brain as he walks back into the Bus, trailed by Bobbi. 'No, can't say that I have,' he says finally. 'I figure you've already checked with Mac?'
'Sure.'
'Well, I'll keep an eye out for it, Agent Morse, but I can't do much more until I've finished moving these.' Trip picks up a few more boxes.
Bobbi does the same. 'Well, the faster these boxes are moved, the faster we can find that flash drive.' She breaks into a grin. 'And, please, call me Bobbi.'
As Bobbi walks out ahead of him, Trip tries to work out what's bugging him about her and her flash drive, when he belatedly remembers that Simmons will be back soon with the filler for the Bus' walls. We need to find that drive, and fast...
He grabs an extra box and hurries off after Bobbi.
~
Jemma has set up her distilling apparatus inside the lab's fume cupboard. It's been bubbling away for a good while now, and the finished product is beginning to collect in a small vacuum-sealed, pressurised flask. Once she's got a few millilitres to test, she deftly swaps the small flask for a larger one, and moves the test flask to a cleared area in the fume cupboard, where a few squares of heavy-duty plastic and metal are set up - the same types used in the Bus' walls.
She waits a few minutes for the flask to cool, one gloved hand on her hip. She can feel Fitz's curious gaze on her from the other side of the lab, and it's making her apprehensive.
When she's happy that the flask has cooled down enough, she puts on a face mask, snaps a modified metal aerosolizer onto the top of the flask, and listens to the buzz and pop as the flask's seal is punctured.
She sprays each of the test squares with the liquid in the flask, and instantly they are each covered with a uniformly-expanding fizzy layer of cream-coloured foam. A few seconds later, the foam stops fizzing, contracts slightly, and hardens, leaving a perfectly flat, light, cream-coloured layer on each test square.
The formula doesn't affect the Bus' other materials, and painting over the layers works well. Jemma runs a few more tests, noting down the results in the margin of her old workbook, before deeming her formula safe to use in the Bus' walls. She detaches the larger flask from the distilling apparatus, snaps another aerosolizer onto it, and begins clearing the fume cupboard.
'Hey, um, should I have been wearing a mask for all that?’ Jemma jumps a little. Fitz is a few steps behind her, his curiosity having gotten the better of him, and has apparently been watching the whole time. Mac is a little further off, leaning casually on the workbench behind him, keeping an eye on the proceedings.
She buries her nervousness and shakes her head. ‘You were too far off, and the fume cupboard’s sucked up most of it, no need to worry. It’s non-toxic, anyway - I’m just being careful.‘
‘Right.’ There’s silence for a moment.
He’ll ask in three, two, one-
‘So, uh, isn’t that the, er, cobweb stuff you made?’
Jemma smiles a bit. ‘Sort of! I’ve modified it slightly.’
He frowns suddenly. ‘It’s not Halloween yet, is it?’
‘No, no, I’m just, um, seeing if it still works!’ she says, a little too brightly.
Fitz’s frown doesn’t go away, but then he notices the metal device attached to the top of the flask. ‘Wait, that’s my – um –‘
‘Yes, your aerosolizer!’ Jemma smiles as she realises he’s itching to take it apart.
‘Did that a while ago, must’ve been… back at Sci-Tech?’ Fitz looks wistful, maybe even a little sad.
Jemma nods, then giggles suddenly. ‘You gave the modified aerosolizer and attached flask one of your names, remember? Oh, I can't recall now, something very cowboy-ish-'
Fitz nearly smiles. 'Um... Quickdraw? Doesn't make sense. Er, Spidershooter?' he tries.
Mac shoots Jemma a warning look, and she hastily decides to stop reminiscing before Fitz descends into frustration. ‘Er, Fitz? Could I run something past you?’
Fitz gives her a look, but nods. Jemma knows he’s wondering why she’d be asking him, and nearly loses her nerve. She takes a moment to examine the contents of the larger flask before speaking.
‘So I've modified the original formula to use as an ultralight, strong filler that can be painted over.'
Fitz nods again, although he’s a little puzzled as to why she would do such a thing.
She takes a breath. You can do it, Jemma. 'Um, I was wondering, just hypothetically of course, d'you think if I used it in the walls of a, oh, I don't know, fair-sized airborne vehicle, it would affect its flight at all? The chances are minuscule, right, Fitz?'
Jemma is too busy celebrating internally at having gotten her question past him without giving the game away to register Mac and Fitz glancing quizzically at each other.
Fitz decides to humour her. 'How much will you be, um...-'
'Using? Oh, maybe thirty ml or so, not too much - hypothetically, that is.' Jemma clasps her hands to stop herself from fidgeting.
Mac raises an eyebrow.
'That should be okay.’ Fitz looks up at the ceiling, thinking back. ’I’m pretty sure my old tests suggested no effect on, er...'
'Aerodynamics? Flight? Weight?' Mac supplies helpfully.
'Um, the second-last one.'
'Flight.'
'Right. My tests showed that the cobweb, um, formula didn't affect test flights until the two-litre mark. And that as the size of the plane, um, increased, the amount of formula it could carry increased, er-'
Mac and Jemma look like they're about to interject, but Fitz holds up his hand.
'-exponentially,' he finishes proudly.
Jemma beams at him and Mac reaches over the bench and claps him on the shoulder. 'Good job, Turbo.'
Fitz rubs his arm. 'Don't call me that.' he mutters, but he's got a smile on his face.
'Thanks, Fitz!' Jemma says, grabbing the large flask and aerosolizer, and making for the lab doors.
It takes a few seconds for Fitz to register the battered workbook sitting on the far edge of the workbench. 'Hey - you left your book!'
But Jemma has already rounded the corner.
Fitz is about to get up and put the book on Jemma's shelf in the lab, when Mac grabs his shoulder again. 'Why don't we go and give it to her in person? She was heading towards the hangar. She may be a genius, but she's gotta be the worst liar I've heard in my life. Bet you anything she's using that spider stuff on the Bus or the Quinjet.'
Fitz tries not to wonder how Jemma spent months in HYDRA. He's done that many times before, and it just makes him angry, worried, and frustrated. Instead, he heads out of the lab with the book.
'Loser makes sandwiches!' he yells over his shoulder.
~
'This is the second time we've searched here,' Trip says as they pick their way across the Bus' living quarters, scanning the carpet.
Bobbi's somehow found a pen and is twirling it nervously between her fingers. 'I could have sworn I left it here...'
'Sure you didn’t leave it somewhere else?'
‘Yes, I’m sure.’
Just then, they hear Simmons dashing up the cargo ramp, yelling Trip's name.
Her voice floats clearly up the staircase. 'Have you finished the boxes? Oh, this is going to be the best surprise! I've got the filler for the bullet-holes, but I could only make one flask, so only one of us can do it at a ti-' She stops dead in front of Bobbi and Trip. 'Oh, sheepdip.'
Trip winces.
Bobbi smiles down at her. 'Hi, Jemma.'
Jemma gives her a sheepish look. 'Is it too much to hope that you didn't hear any of that?'
'Hear what?' Bobbi says innocently.
Trip laughs at the dubiously hopeful look Jemma shoots him. 'Drop the act,' he tells Bobbi, and the senior agent promptly dissolves into giggles. 'Jemma, I think there were a few people in Hawaii who missed that.'
'Oops,' she says guiltily. 'I wanted to surprise you.'
Bobbi's laughter fades away, and she looks at the other two earnestly. 'Don’t worry, I can help you surprise everyone else! What do you have planned?’
'Well, we wanted to clean up the inside of the Bus a bit, and decided to fill in the bullet-holes that the Bus sustained in the HYDRA uprising.' She indicates the flask in her hands. 'This is a special something I came up with to fix them with, but then they need painting over.'
'Okay, I can go get that,' Bobbi says. 'I'm sure that flash drive will turn up soon.'
Trip glances at her. 'Are you sure?'
'Yeah, of course. Be right back.' She disappears down the stairs.
'What flash drive?' Jemma calls after her.
'She said she'd left it somewhere in the Bus - I was helping her look for it after I'd finished with the boxes – keep an eye out for it.' Trip looks across at the bullet marks studding the Bus's walls. 'I was thinking, since you've only got one bottle to fill the holes with, it'd be easiest if you fill them in. I've taken a look in the hold, and damn, is it dusty down there. I'll find myself a broom or something and take care of that.' Trip gives her a look, and Jemma realises that he knows she doesn't like being in the hold.
'Okay, Trip,' she says, hoping that he knows she's grateful.
~
Bobbi quickly locates Koenig, who tells her that she might find some paint left over in the basement from when he oversaw the Playground's renovation. She makes her way down there, and soon finds a walk-in cupboard stuffed with paint cans, buckets of plaster, old plastic sheets, a few ladders of various sizes, wood cut offs, even a beat-up backpack vacuum cleaner.
She rummages about and finds a few small touch-up cans of paint that look like they'll match the Bus' walls, as well as a few groundsheets. At the last second, she decides to take the back-vac with her as well - the Bus' carpet could use a good clean.
Suddenly, a shadow appears in the doorway. Bobbi turns around and sees May standing there.
May looks her up and down, noting the groundsheets and cans of paint in her arms and the vacuum cleaner slung over her shoulder. She raises an eyebrow.
Oh, crap. This is what I get for laughing at Jemma. Bobbi looks down at the strange collection of things she's carrying, and chuckles a bit. 'Weird, huh? I'm helping Koenig out. Little guy told me to pick up some things for him. I'd show you the rest of the list he gave me, but my hands are kinda full...'
She's rewarded with a half-smile, and Bobbi instantly knows she's been made.
May steps closer. 'I'd be inclined to give you the benefit of the doubt, if I hadn't just heard Koenig mentioning to Coulson how weird it was that you'd asked him for white paint.'
Not much Bobbi can say to that. 'Uh, what if I promise to show you what I've been up to later?' She tries a winning grin, and May is strongly reminded of Hunter.
'No. Spill.'
Bobbi sighs. 'Oh, God, they're gonna kill me. I'm helping clean up the Bus. Please don't tell anyone else, it was supposed to be a surprise for the rest of the team.'
It's May's turn to sigh. ''They'?'
'Jemma and Trip.'
'Why the paint?'
'Jemma's made something to patch up the bullet-holes in the Bus' walls, but it needs to be painted over.'
'Smart,' May muses.
'Yeah. You want in, then?' Bobbi asks.
May nods at something in the far corner of the cupboard, and Bobbi notices some spare panes of glass leaning against the brick.
'Oh, the meeting room! Wait, you can lay glass?'
'Something I picked up undercover a long time ago.'
Bobbi raises her eyebrows, impressed.
'Take what you've got back to the Bus. I'll be down there soon with the glass.'
'Will do. Nice to have you aboard, Agent May.'
May waits until Bobbi's footsteps fade before picking up a bucket of plaster and a groundsheet and walking up to Coulson's office.
~
At first glance, the hanger seems pretty deserted, and the Quinjet is still and silent. Fitz isn't very optimistic that he's going to win Mac's bet, but that doesn't stop him from shooting the big man a vaguely triumphant look.
Mac chuckles and shakes his head. 'You don't win yet! Still got the Bus to check!'
So Fitz ambles up the Bus' cargo ramp, Jemma's book under his arm.
They walk through the garage and into the plane's hold, where the air is strangely thick with dust. Fitz begins chain-sneezing.
Mac claps a hand over his own mouth and nose. 'What the hell? The dust wasn't this bad last time we were in here...'
Suddenly, a masked figure wielding a broom approaches them from the other side of the hold. 'You guys okay?' comes Trip's muffled voice.
'What's goi-' Mac sneezes before continuing, '-on?'
Trip chivvies the two of them back out into the garage, the hold door hisses shut behind them, and suddenly the air is a lot clearer.
Fitz makes to sneeze again, but there's nothing there anymore, and instead he lets out a sigh of relief. 'What happened?' he asks.
Trip rips off his mask. 'I was dusting the hold, when I figured there must be so much dust because the collection system had broken down somewhere. So I tried to fix it by myself and save some time.’
Mac snorts humourlessly, recalling the thick, dirty air he'd just stepped out of. 'Almost seems like it went into reverse somehow.'
Trip nods miserably. 'At least it's only the hold.'
'Um. Yeah, I think so. Need some things though...' Fitz looks around the garage and starts going through boxes and drawers, grabbing tools he might need.
'Anything I can do?' Trip asks.
'Yes. I need a, a white thingy - um, I mean, one of those white thingies for the - filter cover! New filter cover! In the hold - one of the middle pods, I think.'
Trip snaps his mask back on. 'Copy that.'
Fitz suddenly points at the mask Trip's wearing. 'Oh! I need one of those too!'
Trip sighs loudly and pulls his mask off again. 'May as well tell you. I don't have any others on me, but if you go upstairs, you'll find Jemma fixing the bullet-holes in the living quarters - she's got a whole bunch of masks. Let her down easy, it was supposed to be a surprise.'
Mac is suddenly grinning from ear to ear. 'Hey, Trip, what's she using to fix those holes?'
Trip looks at them suspiciously. 'Some kind of spray thing. Why?'
There's a thump as Fitz kicks the edge of a toolbox. Mac cheerfully claps him on the back. 'Don't sweat it, man. Hey, Trip, how do you like sandwiches for lunch?'
Trip perks right up. 'Yeah! I could eat a whole plate of 'em!'
Another thump, this time the sound of Fitz's head hitting the garage wall.
~
Jemma checks her flask of foam formula. It's still half full, and most of the ugly pockmarks in the Bus' walls have been smoothed over.
She's commandeered one of the chairs from Coulson's old office, using it to reach the higher bullet-holes, but there's still a few Jemma doesn't have a hope of reaching, even with the chair.
She steps down from the chair and pulls her mask off. 'Trip?' she yells.
'He can't hear you, he's down in the hold.' Jemma whirls around to see Mac and Fitz walking towards her.
'Um, hello!' she laughs nervously, trying to hide her flask behind her back. 'What are the two of you doing here? Um, not that I don't want to see you, or anything-'
Fitz demonstrates that he's picked up Jemma's eye-roll superpower, and holds out her old workbook.
'Oh. Thanks.' There's a few seconds of awkward silence, before she sighs and brings the flask back into view. 'I'm sorry I didn't tell you before. I wanted it to be a surprise.'
Fitz softens slightly. 'That's okay, Jemma.'
Jemma smiles at him for a moment, before recalling Mac's words. Wait, why would Trip suddenly not be able to hear me?
'What's wrong with Trip?' she asks.
Mac looks over from examining some of the repaired bullet-holes. 'The dust collection system's broken, and now it's pushing dust into the hold, so Trip's sealed it off. He's gone in there to get some things so Turbo here can fix it up.'
Fitz gets back on track, but not before he aims a half-hearted swipe at Mac, who dodges easily. 'Um, Trip said you'd have masks?'
'Of course,' she says, pointing to a small pile of them on a nearby chair.
He grabs a few and heads down the staircase into the garage.
Jemma is about to climb back onto her chair when she realises Mac is still standing there.
'Looks like you need a tall guy,' he comments. 'I can do the high-up ones, if you'd like.'
'Are you sure? The formula doubles in size in the first few seconds. I can teach you how to use it, if you like?'
Mac grabs the flask. 'Looks pretty easy.' He reaches up to a bullet-hole and lightly spritzes the inside with the aerosolizer. A bit of fizzing, and soon the mark is gone, replaced by a flat foam spot.
Jemma shrugs, and points out another high bullet-hole for him to fill in.
~
Not long after that, Bobbi arrives at the Bus, weighed down with paint tins and a back-vac. She's surprised (but sort of relieved) to see Mac helping Jemma with the last of the bullet-holes, and Fitz emerging victorious from the hold with his arm around Trip's shoulders, having won their dusty battle with the collection system.
She decides to take charge. 'Okay, good news/bad news time,' she tells the other four.
'Good news!' comes the chorus.
'I got paint - looks like it matches the walls pretty well too. Also, I thought we could give the main area of the Bus a good vacuum, it still kind of crunches a bit. Oh, and by the way, we've got new glass to replace the meeting room windows.'
A small cheer goes up.
'What's the bad news?' Jemma asks.
'Well, it's not that bad anymore, now that it's not really much of a surprise,' Bobbi replies apologetically, 'May's the one who offered to size and fit the glass for us. And Koenig's told Coulson about my strange request for white paint.'
Trip speaks up. 'No use worrying over keeping people in the dark anymore. We should just team up and get the Bus fixed.'
'Bobbi and me can touch up the Bus' walls,' says Mac. 'We're tall enough to reach all of the spots-'
Bobbi glares at him. 'No, I'll do the painting, and you and Fitz can clean that messy excuse for a garage before someone trips over your stuff, otherwise I'll tell Coulson it's better off as a lab. Got that?'
Fitz raises his hand. 'Uh, I was supposed to be on lunch duty, but if you want me to help Mac...'
'Nah, man, you're good,' Trip butts in. 'A plate of PB&J for me, thanks.'
Bobbi pinches the bridge of her nose as Fitz produces a notepad and pencil and everybody hurriedly files their sandwich orders. 'Fine! Mac, you've got the garage cleanup. Fitz, I want a grilled cheese.'
Fitz nods and walks out, pencil tucked behind his ear. 'Back in thirty.'
'Trip and Jemma, that old glass needs to come out of the meeting room wall. There's probably an extra groundsheet you guys can use, but there's always the back-vac for any smaller pieces you can't pick up safely. Jemma, make sure Trip wears gloves - I saw him lifting those boxes today, he's got a habit of forgetting about his own health when helping others.'
Jemma swats Trip's shoulder and gives him a frustrated look, and he cowers in mock terror. 'Okay, okay, I'll do whatever you want!'
Bobbi looks around at everyone. 'What are you waiting for, then? Get to it, folks!'
~
Skye empties her pistol into the target in front of her, pushes her earmuffs off her ears and buzzes the target forward. Pretty good. All six shots were close to the centre.
She's about to reload and give another paper target hell when her stomach growls loudly. Yeah! Saved by the bell!
She puts up fresh targets up, packs everything away, and kills the lights in the little range, before wandering off in the direction of the kitchen.
As she walks through the corridors, she realises they're silent and deserted. Where the hell is everyone? She makes a detour and pops into the labs, but Fitz, Mac and Simmons are nowhere to be seen.
'I'm pretty sure I've had nightmares that go like this,' she says to herself, trying to fill the silence.
To her relief, Skye finds Fitz in the kitchen, apparently making enough sandwiches to feed a small army. Or maybe just himself - sometimes it was hard to tell.
She hops onto one of the bar stools with a smile. 'Hey, Fitz. Gathering sandwiches for the long winter ahead?'
'I wish I was. S'always good to get a head start on that kind of thing.' Brow furrowed with concentration, Fitz puts the top on a double cheese sandwich and carefully places it in the griller. 'Instead, I lost a bet. Now I'm stuck making lunch for bloody savages who wouldn't know a proper sandwich if it bit them on the nose.' He huffs in annoyance. 'Grilled cheese. What a travesty.'
'Wait, did you bet against Mac?' Skye internally debates the medicinal value of a dope-slap. 'I told you not to! He only bets if he knows he's gonna win!'
'Eh, it's really not that bad. I guess I managed to get out of, um, cleaning out the garage on the Bus.' Fitz looks up with something resembling his old smug grin. 'Most of that mess was mine, actually.'
'Impressive.'
'Yep.'
As Fitz takes the compliment to heart, she surreptitiously takes the opportunity to spirit away a PB&J sandwich, only to be rapped sharply on the knuckles for her trouble.
'Uh-uh-uh, that's Trip's lunch. You keep your paws to yourself - there's nothing worse than a sandwich thief, I say.'
'Aw, c'mon, man! I've been practicing in the firing range all day!' Skye's tummy complains right on cue, and she looks up at him in vindication. God, I hope that's my 0-8-4 thing - a well-timed stomach. 'See, my stomach thinks it's not getting any food because someone's cut my throat.'
'Your throat's actually perfectly fine, and we've all been hard at work fixing up the inside of the Bus a bit. So there.'
'Number 1: ha ha ha, it's actually called hyperbole, Meccano-boy, and Number 2: nobody told me zip. I had no idea you were all fixing the Bus, otherwise I would've ditched shooting practice!' She reaches across and lightly punches his shoulder.
'Uh, people really have to stop doing that,' Fitz mumbles, rubbing his arm.
Suddenly, there's a sound in the corridor, and they look up to see Hunter walk in.
'Bloody hell, where have you two been? I've been looking for any sign of life in this base for nearly-' he checks his watch, '-say, ten minutes.'
Fitz snorts, and Skye applauds sarcastically.
Hunter's face falls. 'Oi, none of that, I was getting really worried though. I was even going to check Coulson's office, that's how worried I wa-'
Skye cuts him off. 'Translation: you smelt the grilled cheese and came to see if you could bum a sandwich.'
Hunter looks outraged for a second until he realises Fitz isn't buying it either. 'Fair enough,' he says, shrugging.
'That won't fly here,' Skye says. 'If you want a sandwich, you better get in line, 'cause I was here first.' She smiles winningly at Fitz. 'Isn't that right?'
Fitz glares at them. 'Stop faffing about and help me, then. No such thing as a free bloody lunch.'
~
Soon, the three of them have made enough plates of sandwiches to fill a convenient trolley. Hunter, having been bribed with a significant number of sandwiches, is pushing it.
Mac spots them first from the Bus' garage. He quickly tosses the wrench he's holding into the nearest toolbox. 'Lunch's here!'
Trip appears from the upper level and barrels down the staircase, tearing off his safety gloves. 'About damn time!'
Bobbi and Jemma walk out at a more sedate pace. Skye waves and they wave back.
They decide to sit on the hangar floor and eat lunch, partly because Jemma's halfway through cleaning up the Bus' canteen and doesn't want to have to start over, but mostly because the boys (and Skye) have intercepted the trolley before it even reached the Bus' cargo ramp and are eating straight off it.
Jemma quickly grabs a plate off the trolley before it gets demolished. 'Save some for May, please, she's still in there fitting glass - hey!' She fends off Hunter trying to swipe a sandwich from the plate she's holding.
Hunter mumbles defensively around a mouthful of grilled cheese, spraying Jemma, and Bobbi next to her, with breadcrumbs. He realises what he's done and attempts to apologise, but only manages to make the problem worse.
'Ugh, your table manners are still as disgusting as they used to be,' Bobbi says, grimacing and brushing herself down.
To his credit, Hunter swallows before replying. 'What table?'
Bobbi sighs in frustration. 'Just because there's no table doesn't mean you shower everyone with whatever the hell you're chewing on! Or talk with your mouth full!'
'I said sorry, all right?'
'Why would that even count when you spray us with even more food while you say it? God, Lance, it's like you're five!'
'Least I didn't marry a five year old,' he mutters.
Bobbi does a massive double take before grabbing him by the shirt. 'If I had known what the hell I was getting into-'
Jemma suddenly decides to bring May her lunch in person as Bobbi and Hunter bicker loudly, the latter still pinned by his collar.
Mac gets up and convinces the both of them it's not worth it, and they eat their lunch sitting as far away from each other as possible. Hunter pointedly eats with even less grace than before, and everyone subtly gives him a wide berth.
'So, how come no one told me we were fixing up the Bus? I'd have loved to join.' Skye asks Trip.
Trip takes a bite of his PB&J sandwich. 'It was supposed to be a surprise for everyone. But then Bobbi caught Jemma, and Fitz ‘n’ Mac caught me, and then May caught Bobbi, and now it's more of a team thing than a surprise. At least we're getting more done.'
'What can I do to help?'
'You can help me tidy up the cabins, if you want.'
'Sure.'
'Uh, what about me?' Fitz asks.
May and Jemma walk up to them. 'Bus' windows need washing,' May says. 'Where's the beer?'
'Oh bloody hell, I knew I was forgetting something.' He throws a fragment of sandwich at Hunter. 'Why didn't you bring any? Er, come to think of it, this is the longest I've seen you go without a bottle in your hand, you alright?'
Hunter glumly picks at the hangar floor. 'I think I was actually more hungry than thirsty. Not any more, though.'
May pulls out her phone and taps away for a minute before stowing it back in her pocket. 'Shouldn't be long.'
Exactly two minutes later, Coulson and Koenig arrive with a carton of beers each.
Hunter slaps Koenig on the back as he relieves the little man of two beers. 'Absolute lifesavers, you are.'
Coulson quickly snatches them back off him. 'Not so fast. You get beer if we get sandwiches. Fair trade?'
In no time at all, Coulson and Koenig are set up with as many sandwiches as they'd like. Trip watches Koenig eating like a hawk.
'Can robots eat?' he asks Fitz quietly.
Before Fitz can respond, Koenig looks up. 'Robots are getting more and more advanced all the time. There's probably some out there that can.' He smiles at Trip and takes another bite of his sandwich.
Trip looks like he's about to short-circuit. 'Uh, thanks for the info.'
'Welcome. Agent Morse, I see you found the white paint you were looking for.'
Bobbi stands up and dusts her hands off. 'Yes, I did, thanks.'
Coulson glances worriedly at her paint-streaked clothes. 'What's happening to my plane?'
Jemma appears out of nowhere. 'Surprise! We're doing up the Bus!' She laughs delightedly, ecstatic at having been able to surprise at least one person. Coulson doesn't have the heart to tell her that he'd kinda figured that out already.
'Jemma invented something to fill in the bulletholes in the Bus' walls, and I've painted over them. Looks like new.' Bobbi smiles proudly at Jemma.
Jemma blushes a little. 'Fitz deserves at least half the credit.'
Fitz looks down shyly, and Mac slaps his back proudly.
'He fixed the hold's dust collection system too,' Trip adds, grinning widely at Fitz, and gets smiles from him and Jemma in return.
Coulson looks him up and down. 'Well done, Fitz. Keep up the good work - we're gonna need those tech skills in the field soon.'
Fitz goes tomato red. 'Thank you, sir,' he stammers.
The Director nods at Fitz, then stands up, shrugs off his jacket and begins rolling up his sleeves. 'Right. What's left to be done?'
'You can help me with the windows.' May is already halfway up the Bus' ramp.
'Oh, are we replacing the glass in the debrief room?'
She shoots him an amused glance. 'Don't tell me you've forgotten Sydney already.'
Coulson sighs. 'How could I?' he says, running a hand across his scalp. 'My hair never grew back the same after that mission.'
May looks at him weirdly, and Coulson suddenly realises that just about everybody's stopped what they're doing to stare at him.
He clears his throat. 'Uh, long story. Anyway, I thought we had a plane to fix?'
~
The Bus is a hive of activity.
Mac slaps the last toolbox shut and looks appreciatively round the clean garage. He goes up to see how Fitz's doing with the windows, and is hit with the roar of a commercial vacuum cleaner as he enters the main quarters.
Koenig hums to himself as he vacuums the living area thoroughly, not that anyone else can hear him. The back-vac is a little big on him, and the straps slip off occasionally.
Bobbi has to duck to avoid getting hit by the back-vac as Koenig swings around in time to his little tune, kneeling as she is, over one of the leather seats scattered around the Bus' living quarters. Jemma's pointed out a few that need patching.
Jemma herself is sorting out the last of the contents of the kitchen cupboards. Brilliant scientists and engineers do sometimes zone out when they're too absorbed in a project, and occasionally leave screwdrivers and pencils in the cutlery drawer, or safety glasses in the fridge.
Fitz had been a little under halfway through wiping down the little round windows on one side of the Bus when he'd been recruited by May to recalibrate the flight controls. Coulson and Mac are left to finish the job, and Hunter mutters mutinously under his breath, annoyed that he's been left to do the windows on the other side by himself.
May was the one who did the recruiting, she and Coulson having made short work of setting the debrief room's windows. She keeps an eye on Fitz in the cockpit, mumbling to himself under his breath as he unscrews a panel and squints at the mess of cables and circuit boards within.
Skye and Trip take three cabins each and compete to see who'll finish tidying first. That is, until Skye idly checks under Ward's old bunk and strikes gold. Well, a miniaturised pistol with silencer, anyway.
‘I’m telling you, I found it, therefore it’s mine.’ Skye announces, itching to hit the range with her new toy. ‘That’s how finders keepers works.’
Trip crosses his arms and manages to keep a straight face. ‘And I’m telling you that you’re barely Level 1 and my seniority gives me precedence over you.’
She scoffs at him ‘Seniority, my left boob – this is S.H.I.E.L.D. 2.0! We all handed in our badges, remember? We’re all the same now. In fact, I’ve been under Coulson for longer than you, and now he’s the freaking Director, so I should be higher up. So there.’
Trip shakes his head in wonder at this new bullshit.
Skye wads up an odd sock and throws it at him, but he ducks out of the way in time. ‘And I totally was Level 1, don’t give me that ‘barely’ crap!’
Jemma chooses the wrong second to pop her head around the door to ask if they want tea or coffee now that she’s done cleaning the canteen, and gets hit by an airborne sock for her trouble. ‘What is going on in here?’
Skye claps a hand over her mouth. ‘Sorry, Simmons. I was aiming for Trip.’
Trip sees an opportunity. ‘ I don’t know,’ he says with mock regret. ‘Aim that bad might be a good enough reason to break finders keepers...’
Skye rolls her eyes. ‘That’s not gonna work-‘
Trip grins mischievously. ‘Oh, really? I heard from a detainee that you didn’t know the difference between the mag release and the safety. Even Level Zeros know that.’
‘Wait, you met Akela?’ Skye’s eyebrows shoot into her hairline. ‘You know about that?’
(Jemma looks a little like she’s watching a tennis match.)
‘The privilege of seniority,’ he says smugly.
Skye suddenly wishes she’d found the other sock as well. ‘Yeah, well, that was frickin’ ages ago! Anyway, I can totally do guns now.‘ She quickly tucks the gun into the waistband of her pants and makes for the door.
But Trip has noted the change in body language before she took her chance and moves to block her exit.
As he advances on her, and as Skye feels the edge of the bunk on the back of her knees, she realizes he’s got just about every advantage he could possibly have on her – height, strength, position – and decides to get the hell out of dodge, sliding under Trip’s legs and running past Jemma for the Playground with all her strength.
Trip turns to Jemma as Skye’s cackling fades into the distance, and suddenly chuckles. ‘She’s a quick one, make a fine commander one day.’
Coulson and Mac walk up, having just finished the last window. Hunter’s frustration is palpable from where Trip and Jemma are standing.
‘I nearly got run over by Skye going like a bat out of hell.’ Coulson looks back over his shoulder. ‘Actually, now that I come to think about it, she sounded like one too. What the hell’s going on?’
Trip sobers up. ‘She found a silenced gun under that traitor’s old bunk. Nice one too. Pocket-sized.’
Coulson’s face darkens. ‘She’s welcome to it. That son of a bitch won’t be using it again.’
‘Amen to that,’ Trip says.
Jemma smiles grimly. ‘Tea or coffee?’ she asks.
~
Some time later, Skye returns to the Bus, a spring in her step. She stops when she sees the entire crew sat on the edge of the cargo ramp with a mug each, having finished the massive clean-up.
‘Hey, where’s my drink? And why aren’t you guys around the debrief table?’
Coulson rolls his eyes. ‘Because we might spill coffee on the carpet.’ He looks exasperatedly over at Koenig, who gives a sanctimonious little nod.
‘You’re back, slacker,’ Trip calls out cheekily. ‘I had to finish cleaning the rest of that bunk you ditched. And where’s my pistol?’
Skye gives him a look. ‘I’m not bringing that back here for you to steal it off me! Anyway, I finished four bunks before that one - I was helping you with your side, slacker.’
Trip laughs and pats the space beside him. ‘Yeah, yeah. I made you a coffee too. You’re welcome.’
Jemma looks up. ‘Excuse you, Trip. May and I made everyone’s favourite beverages while all of you toured the new and improved Bus.’
Hunter raises his mug. ‘Bloody well done too. Haven’t had tea like this in years.’
Shouts of agreement from everyone. Jemma buries her face in her cup in embarrassment, and May smiles as she sips her green tea.
Coulson raises his mug too, nodding at them, before looking back at the neat garage. ‘We all did a good job today.’
‘It’s sort of like before,’ Fitz says quietly. Mac claps him on the shoulder, and he smiles.
It doesn’t have to be like before, Jemma finds herself thinking. She glances over at Fitz and opens her mouth to say it, but something else comes out. ‘It’s a, um, very nice garage. When it’s clean, mind.’
Mac grins at her. ‘Thanks.’
Trip nudges Jemma. ‘Hey, you started all of this,’ he says. ‘Sorry it didn’t end up a surprise, but I think we did pretty well.’ He holds up his hand and Jemma hi-fives him with a grin.
Bobbi looks over, and smiles proudly. ‘Yeah, I still can’t believe you totally invented something to fill those bulletholes…’
‘Thank you, but it wasn’t just me!’ Jemma points over at Fitz.
Fitz looks up at Bobbi. 'Yeah, she, um, developed the formula, and, er, I put the delivery, um-'
'Mechanism,' Jemma adds.
'Yes, I put the delivery mechanism together,' he finishes.
‘We invented it back when we were in the Academy, for a special formula I synthesised.' Jemma explains. ‘The original version of my formula mimicked the qualities of spider silk, and we used it to festoon Academy corridors and halls with realistic spiderwebs around Halloween.’
'Um, I had a really cool name for it too...' Fitz takes a swig of tea and promptly chokes. Mac thumps him on the back a few times before he can speak.
‘The Webslinger!’ he splutters. ‘That’s what we called that thing!’
Jemma beams at him.
Coulson is suddenly wearing a very thoughtful expression. 'Now, why do I feel like I've heard that before...'
Title: Yes Bobbi, there is a curfew at Hogwarts. Characters/Pairings: Simmorse, Fitz-Simmons. mentions of Skye and Ward. Also Skyeward. Summary: Bobbi Morse is an American exchange student, newly arrived at Hogwarts. Jemma Simmons is the Ravenclaw who’s been assigned to show her around. There have been hints of romance before but it’s thanks to a curfew when they finally accept their real feelings. Notes: I have several theories for American wizarding schools as well as how they fit into American life (like, there are at least two wizards in the secret service presidental detail and the only president to have ever been a wizard was FDR). Really though it’s a lot more free-form then Hogwarts. --- Jemma was nearly six feet tall with blond hair cascading down her shoulders and a devil may care attitude that stuck her squarely in Hogwarts where every boy was instantly drawn to the girl’s dorm the moment she walked downstairs. As part of inter-house unity however none of them were held to the task of escorting her, showing her classes. I think it’s prudent to demonstrate a sense of unity for our American cousins.. Professor McGonagall had already asked one of the teachers from the American school, Phil Coulson who had apparently served on the president’s security detail (and wasn’t that fascinating?) to teach transfiguration for the semester. Someone named Garrett was overseeing the Quidditch field, the school was overrun with Americans and Bobbi… “So you’re ravenclaw huh? Wit and measure is man’s greatest treasure right?” Bobbi parked herself next to Jemma with a shrug, daring any of the other Ravenclaws to say boo. Breakfast was their first introduction. “That’s right.” she was just so intimidating. The way the sun hit her hair, the way she walked as if every person was looking at her, “I um-well. It’s a real pleasure.” “Tell me about it. Y’know the whole point of this semester is to make friends and uh - given the rest of my classmates.” She gestured to the majority of the American students. Tripp - who gave Simmons a friendly wave, Grant Ward, who was sitting next to Garrett and staring at Skye from Gryffindor. The problem was they were all sitting together. Apart from Ward’s cow eyes and Tripp’s friendly look in Simmons direction none of them were...mingling. “Ward seems … interested at least.” Jemma shrugged then gestured to the boy sitting across from her,“This is Leo Fitz. We all call him Fitz.” “I love it. Adorable.” He grinned sheepishly, “...It’s - um. It’s...nice to meet you miss…” “Bobbi. Bobbi please. “she sipped her coffee. She leaned close, “...Is he okay?” “He’s fine. Shy but fine.” Bobbi scratched her chin, “I gotcha.” Breakfast was interrupted by a storm of eagles, Bobbi reaching up to catch a package. “Bald eagles? Isn’t that a bitch much?” She frowned, “...I-” Bobbi smirked as a golden eagle landed in front of her, “Oh he’s beautiful!” “She. Say hello to Hera.” “...Does Mr. Ward and Tripp-are those- “ Fitz blinked, “Bald eagles?” Tripp was opening his package with a grin on his face. Ward just opened his letter, crumpled it up and threw it over his shoulder. “Tripp’s dad is military. Grant’s dad is a US senator. Most of them use eagles.” Simmons watched Tripp pass Ward some cookies just in time for him to push them away, wrapping his arms around his chest as Garrett put a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “My dad’s a cop.” She offered Simmons a cookie, “Chocolate chip?” Smart, beautiful, the way the sunlight caught her hair. Out of every new exchange student Bobbi was officially her favorite. She broke a cookie and passed it to Fitz with a grin. ---- So it was perfect, and new, and the more time she spent showing her the grounds the more Jemma realized she was reliving everything beautiful about the school. Seeing it through a fresh pair of eyes filled her heart with warmth. Rolling green hills and the squid, classrooms and the portraits. Apart from the initial creep factor (according to Bobbi, living in a castle and all that) they were settling in. And she was coming to enjoy Bobbi’s company. Walking with her she had people asking her out for the first time since arriving at school. She turned them all down, sheepishly, tugging on her hair just in time for Bobbi to sling an arm around her shoulders. She had to chose someone however. Bobbi’s demure denial of everyone from Lance Hunter (and how did that happen?!) to Mack was on Jemma’s mind as she finished up her charms homework. Conjure a rabbit and have it hop across the floor. Simple enough. Never mind trying for three hours, sitting in front of a crackling fire. “This is hopeless. I’m giving up for the night-” she closed the book and started the walk toward her common room just in time to see Bobbi on the stairs to the great hall oblivious to her presence. “Bobbi what-” Jemma would later deny she squeaked. Bobbi didn’t say anything. Instead she slid out her wand and waved it over herself in time to fade from sight. Maybe Americans did things differently. Maybe she didn’t really understand how house points worked. Jemma grimaced and bolted after her into the darkness. --- She had to admire her spirit however. She followed her all the way to the forbidden forest and stopped, hesitating amid the gloom. “Bobbi stop.” her voice was soft, “Bobbi- Bobbi!” The last word was shouted as the vague shape turned to look at her, “...Jemma?” She ran back toward her, waving her wand again, “Oh god what the hell are you doing out here? You’re a freakin’ idiot you-” she glanced back at her, checking something on her wrist, “...You’re gonna get busted.” “You’re going to get busted! There’s a curfew and you’ll lose points for your house you- I don’t want you to get in trouble Bobbi. “ “...I’m not gonna get in trouble.” “Sure of that are you?” her eyes went wide, “Because there’s something behind you…” Bobbi blinked, “Big? Scary?” It’s shape was vaguely humanoid, looming large through the forest. Jemma managed a nod, pulling out her wand, “There are spiders in there.” “Stay behind me, you-” she checked her watch, “Damn it. Ward!” The shape resolved itself into a teenage boy carrying a package under his arm with blood dripping from a cut into his eye, “...There’s gotta be an easier way to get into the village.” “You went to the village!” “I told you to apparate.” “You can apparate?!” The two Americans looked back at her, “...Don’t tell Coulson. Garrett taught all of us to do it. We just had to get off the grounds and there’s a barrier line apparently in the forest.” “That’s after I fell into a brook and nearly broke my ankle.” He groaned. “You’re trying to sneak out, breaking all of our rules, and for what- a trip to Hogsmeade?! what could you possibly be out there doing?” “Look lady, calm down…” “No I will not calm down! I want to- oh Bobbi you’re so perfect I knew, I just knew you had a darkside and now that I see it…” Bobbi and Grant exchanged glances, looking angry and sad and ashamed all at once. Ward scratched the back of his neck. “So there goes all of our secret plans.” Bobbi sighed, “So I guess you’ll say no to the fudge right?” Simmons blinked, “w-what?” “How the hell else do you get candy? You did pay didn’t you Ward?” “I’m not stupid. British money too.” “...What is this?” Ward removed fudge from the sack, offering it to Bobbi who shrugged and looked ashamed, “...I was going to ask you to the Yule ball Simmons.” “Wh-you ask me?” “don’t you guys do that here?” “Lollipops for Tripp, Fudge for you, and for me - every flavored beans and a stuffed Hippogriff. My brother sent it to me.” “...You have a stuffed hippogriff? You-” “It’s not for me!” Jemma put a hand to her head, “...Skye.” “He was going to ask her. Tripp’s asking some girl your pal Fitz introduced him to. And I was...going to ask you.” Bobbi held out the fudge, “...Although I understand if you have morals and scruples. Or if...your morals and scruples differ from ours.” “Not a lot of people like us.” Grant lowered his head, “I ended up sorted into Slytherin and I’m-used to being disliked. Just not...that much.” Jemma frowned, “...I just didn’t want you to get in trouble Bobbi. You move about with such freedom, the thought of people...placing restrictions on you…” She twisted her hands, glaring at them before stalking back towards the castle. ---- Bobbi ignored her for two days, just in time for her to come upon Grant and Skye. Skye was hugging the Hippogriff, which she promptly abandoned in favor of hugging Ward who looked happy for the first time since she’d seen him. The two held each other in the sunlight. “...Guess he did it.” Jemma blinked, “Where’d you come from?” she’d just appeared, “Did you use that invisibility spell?” “My dad taught it to me. It’s taught to all cops by our AMA. American Magical Agency? Same people Professor Coulson worked for.” She lowered her head, “...You still mad at me?” “I can’t stand the thought of you in trouble Bobbi.” Jemma crossed her arms, “That’s all there is to it. You have to promise to never do anything like that again or at least-” she shrugged, “at least tell me.” “In case there’s a next time?” “In case there’s a next time.” “Because there’s a chance there’ll be a next time?” Bobbi grinned broadly and Jemma grinned right back, “So...what color will you be wearing to the Yule ball? So we can match?” “ I have a black and white dress. “ “I think that’d look great. I wear blue. Usually. This is my first year with a date though.” “I can’t wait to see it. I think you’ll look beautiful.” ---- Ward wore green and silver, Skye wearing red and gold and twirling across the dance floor. Bobbi and Jemma led the dancing. And none of them ever broke curfew again - unless the occasion called for it.
Okay we're still waiting on submissions from seven of you. They were due on Saturday.
Nearly all of you have contacted us to let us know you needed extra time. That's cool. Stuff happens.
But please, please, please submit them tonight/tomorrow. We want to post everything to the blog on Thursday, and obviously we can't do that if we're still missing submissions.
It will make everyone's lives easier if you just submit them. This way you don't need to received a bunch of messages from me trying not to be a pain in the ass but needing to know what's going in.
So please, if you haven't submitted yet, get your gifts in ASAP>
[AOS] Let the Words Fall Out ~ AOS Holiday Exchange
AN ~ AOS Holiday Exchange fic for melindasqiaolian. My prompt was "May bonding with Jemma and Skye". It’s not as fluffy as I would have liked but I hope you enjoy it. It does leave on a lighter note than it starts, I promise.
(Hurt/comfort, spoilers for the 2A finale)
Title from Brave, by Sara Bareilles. Also influenced by I Believe by Christina Perri and inspired by the quote:
A woman is like a teabag: You never know how strong it is until you put it in hot water – Eleonor Roosevelt.
Let the Words Fall Out
The lights were on, but the room felt dark as Simmons sorted through her old friend’s belongings. She was glad for the morbid curiosity that kept her standing, browsing, jotting mental notes about Trip’s life. Skye wasn’t handling it so well: she’d lasted a little while, but it had only taken them finding the camera with photos of their last karaoke-dance party to send her back into the suffocating sorrow she’d been fighting off for so long. She sat on Trip’s bed, hugging her knees, breathing shaky as she recovered from another bout of sobbing.
“I’m sorry,” she choked, shaking her head as she wiped her cheeks again.
Simmons hid her face, wishing she could be sorrier for her lack of tears. She wanted to cry, she really did, but once she let that barrier fall, she wasn’t sure if she’d make it out the other side. So she flashed a quick, sad, nostalgic smile in Skye’s direction.
“I was going to ask him out,” Simmons said. “Before all this…I was…”
She ran her shaking hand across the cover of Songs of Innocence and of Experience. She picked it up, and deposited it on the growing pile of classic literature she was compiling on Trip’s desk. The room was positively filled, almost overrun, with old files and memorabilia, TV, film and comic merchandise, and every now and then, a classic novel or poetry anthology. It shouldn’t have surprised her, but Trip was a man of many interests. She’d have liked to ask him more about them.
She swallowed and moved on.
“He never believed you’d really left, you know,” Skye sniffed. “He said it sometimes, to make the rest of us feel better, but I don’t think he believed it. Ugh, Simmons, I said some awful things. Some really awful things. I can’t even-“ She shook her head, and wiped her eyes again. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s not your fault. I walked away. I was the one who didn’t explain myself. I did walk out on you. And Fitz-“ Simmons’s voice broke, and she swallowed hard, but Skye caught it.
“Hey, you did the best thing you could think of.”
“I know,” Simmons said, her voice wavering violently. “But it still – it still-"
The last word dropped from her lips and from her mind as her hands, desperately seeking distraction, pulled up a worn, sepia photograph of a woman Simmons instantly recognised as none other than Peggy Carter, founder of SHIELD, with a bright yellow Post-It note bearing the message: give to Simmons in Trip’s merry cursive.
“What?” Skye asks, after a few seconds of silence.
Breathe, she tells herself. Just. Breathe. Just.
A sob shook her before she could stop it. A hand flew up to her mouth to physically hold the next one in.
“God, Simmons-“
Skye sprung up from the bed, but at that moment there was a knock at the door.
“You girls mind company?” May asked.
Skye, frozen in movement halfway across the room, glanced at May, then at Simmons, and back. Simmons inhaled deeply, pressing her sorrow and anger and fear down against her diaphragm. The burning tears turned cold, and she blinked them away, and smiled.
“Not at all.”
Her smile lingered, a little too happy, for a little too long, and she saw May’s eyes soften.
“Jemma,” May said. “Sit down. I’ll do this.”
She held her hand out for the picture in Simmons’ hand, and Simmons - disappointed her cover was blown, however glad she was to drop something of the ruse - bowed her head and handed it over. May ran her eyes over the image, and when she saw the message in the corner, her lips parted. She looked over the picture to Simmons, who was still hiding her face, and then across the room to Skye, who had dropped her running position now, and had one hand at the opposite elbow, hugging herself against the onslaught of emotions. May sighed.
“Alright. Tea time, let’s go.”
Simmons and Skye shared a morose look. Neither of them moved. May whipped the picture so that it followed the angle of her point. She jabbed it at Simmons, then at Skye.
“Mandatory tea break. Both of you. Kitchen. Now. Quick march.”
Skye was the first to move toward the door. Simmons followed, grateful for the opportunity to step out of that room at last.
--
The air was still and quiet. Simmons leant against the bench, her fingers braced around the mug like claws. She took deep, slow breaths, impatient for the scent of calming steam to fill her lungs. Shoulders slumped, Skye sat at the island bench. She tapped the spoon against the mug, and then the bench top, then put it down and used her fingers instead, so as not to break the silence.
After an eternity, the kettle whistled, and May – upright, methodical, calm and fluid – picked up the kettle, opened the teapot, and poured the water over the leaves in a slow, circular motion. Skye watched the stream around and around, and stopped tapping with a huff. In the same moment, Simmons put her empty mug down on the bench.
“What is the point of this again?” Skye asked.
“May, I appreciate properly brewed tea as much as the next person, but-“
May held up a hand. The Hand of No, Skye had called it once. The younger women shared a look.
In silence, May brought the teapot to the island bench. She returned to the bench on which she had been preparing, and picked up one cup and saucer, and brought it over. She walked back, and brought another. Back again, and brought a third. Her steps were silent, her breathing even. Simmons glanced at the mug she had put down. It was one of her favourites. She’d really been looking forward to using it again. But this was May’s tea, so, May’s rules.
However frustratingly ritual those rules may be. Which had not bothered Simmons before. She bit her lip and approached the island bench, coming to stand behind Skye.
“I’m more of a coffee person,” Skye said, trying not to pull a face as May poured the strange-smelling, greenish-brown water into the cups she had set out. But she knew her objection was falling on selectively deaf ears. Besides, if she wanted to master the art of Melinda May, she should relish this rare insight.
And the even more rare one that followed: May let out an audible, and slightly but noticeably shaking breath, and braced her arms against the bench.
Simmons frowned.
“May-“
“Jemma.”
Simmons took a seat beside Skye, watching her unofficially adopted SO compose herself. It was so strange for them to see that – for May to let them see that – that Simmons pinched the skin at her wrist. She felt a sharp pain. She looked at Skye, but Skye was too distracted by May’s half-hidden face.
“I’m not going to pretend I’m good at this,” May said quietly, still staring at the teapot, her face hidden behind hair. Her voice was low, in an effort to remain stable. It had the breath of her mentees bated, hanging. “But Trip was important to us. Is important to us. And losing someone important is…hard.”
Slow, even breaths. Simmons felt bile rise in her throat. She knew the twisted, guilty sadness that she could see tearing May up right now. She’d forgotten, she’d allowed herself to forget, that May could feel something like that.
Skye knotted her fingers together, and in the silence before May’s next sentence, she clenched her hands tighter. How could she have caused so much pain?
“Trip,” May said, “was good for me. He sat in that cockpit beside me and he made me feel better. He never pushed when he knew better. He made me feel happy. Sometimes he even made me feel like myself.” She was starting to rock. She slowed herself, took another deep breath, nodding to herself to continue. Skye and Simmons watched and listened, stunned and enraptured.
“…And when I felt like that,” May continued, “I mean…feeling like that. It made me remember what I’ve lost, in a different way. It – It made me think, about you two, about what you see in me.”
Simmons opened her mouth. Against the bench, May moved just one finger of the Hand of No, and gritted her teeth. No no no no, Jem- Jemma, just – It’s hard enough to get the words out. Her gut twisted and she closed her mouth.
“There’s a lot you don’t know,” May said. Her voice was scarcely louder than a whisper, but it was not quiet, against the pin-drop silence. “And a lot of it, I hope you never have to find out. But sometimes I worry that I’m not…that I’m not teaching you right. I want you to know that it’s okay to have these emotions, and it’s okay to do something with them. I hurt myself, to do this to myself. It was the best way I could see. Maybe it was the best way. Maybe it was the only way…But I'd give anything not to let it happen to you. Honestly, anything.”
She looked up, and there were tears in her eyes. A few of them broke free when she blinked, and slipped down her face. May did not move a hand to stop them.
For the first time since she’d burst free from the rock, Skye could feel her heart, hammering in her chest. It was unreal in the way that could only be real, because there’s no way she could have made this up. Sacrifices have to be made. That was the May in her head, still cold and calculating after all this time. How could she have been so cruel, so neglectful in her characterisation? You don’t think I feel anything, she remembered May saying once. She felt the tears begin to roll down her own cheeks, apologizing for a thousand things for which it was probably too late to make up.
May lowered her eyes again. Her hair did not fall the same way this time, did not cover her face as well, and the internal struggle between facing up to them and hiding was clear on her face.
“Skye,” she said, “I’m your SO. I’m your superior. I was supposed to protect you. Simmons – Jemma. I…I don’t know if Coulson told you but…I chose you for this mission. The whole reason you and Fitz are out here in the first place is because of me. I picked Ward, I vetted him, and I passed him with flying colours. I failed you both. All three of you. And I’m-” Her voice very nearly broke.
“I’m sorry.”
It was not May that finished the sentence. It was Skye. She stood up, tears streaming down her face even as she wiped them away for the umpteenth time with her sleeve.
“I’m sorry,” Simmons repeated, bowing her head. She stood too, her own hands shaking, fingers curling around each other restlessly as she fought the compulsion learnt for protection to wipe her tears away as they fell.
As if of one mind, Skye and Simmons moved around opposite ends of the island bench to embrace their mentor. They huddled themselves under her arms like ducklings under her wings, and May found, oddly, that it was easier to breathe like this. She let her head fall against Simmons’, and lightly stroked Skye’s hair, where it was far enough down her back for May’s arm to reach from this position.
“I’m sorry,” May finally said.
--
They held each other until their breaths fell into synchronisation. Then Skye sighed off the gravity, and broke formation.
“So,” she said, “we gonna drink this stuff or is it just here to sit around and look pretty?”
In response, she got the Melina May equivalent of rolled eyes from the other two faces in the room.
“Now you sound like my SO,” May grumbled, pushing Skye’s teacup toward her and taking her seat opposite Skye and Simmons.
“And who was good enough to SO the illustrious Melinda May?” Skye wondered. Simmons, of course, knew the answer. Her eyes sparkled, the fires of her insatiable curiosity rekindled. May recognised that hungry expression, begging tell me everything, from the face of a child she had invited onto a Bus a lifetime ago. It warmed her heart, and she cracked a smile. In the best imitation she could pull off with so little practice, she began,
“Peggy Carter, founder of SHIELD, happens to be British…”
A/N: Written for the AOS Christmas Exchange. I hope whoever requested it enjoys it, cause I liked writing it! Crazy long compared to everything else I've written, so the rest is behind the cut! Happy holidays, friends!
Skye decides that it is her mission to make the most of Christmas on the Bus. She’s never had a truly traditional Christmas, to go with her less than traditional childhood. Therefore, as soon as Thanksgiving is finished, all of her focus goes to making it the most Christmassy of Christmases.
She starts collecting decorations whenever they touch down. She starts buying ingredients for Christmas baking. There’s a constant stream of Christmas carols on the intercom system. It takes May less than an hour to put a stop to that. Instead Skye plays them in her bunk, just loud enough to be heard down the hallway.
Most importantly, she starts binge watching cheesy Christmas movies. It might just be one her favourite benefits of being able to stream movies on the Internet. She even tries to convince the rest of the team to join her, but has only mild success. Jemma joins her most frequently, and Fitz tags along, willing to do whatever Skye wants. Ward of course, rolls his eyes. Coulson and May just leave the children to do what they will.
This seemingly harmless holiday tradition has an unexpected side effect. The movies do put Skye in the holiday spirit, but they also give her the urge to make some Christmas miracles of her own happen. What is one of the common themes of all these movies? The unlikely couple getting together. And while Ward and Jemma aren’t necessarily the most unlikely couple Skye has ever come across, there is definitely something there. They might be trying to deny it, or may not realize it, but Skye decides she can’t resist trying to help things a long. After all, she did end up at SHIELD due to her meddling.
A plan formulating in her head, she can’t resist rubbing her hands together in a slightly menacing fashion and grinning. This is going to be fun, she thinks to herself.
—
First things first, Skye decides. To get everyone in the Christmas spirit, not just Jemma and Ward, they have to decorate the Bus. She approaches it as a tactical mission.
“Fitz, we’re going to put up the tree in the lounge,” she dictates, handing out assignments with a precision May would find impressive (if she approved, which she doesn’t). Turning away from Fitz’s slightly slack-jawed expression, she shoves a box into Jemma’s arms.
“Jemma, you are in charge of the garlands. There’s enough to do the whole length of the hallway, the stairs, and the lounge. The other boxes are over there,” she points, and makes a shooing motion. “Let’s get Christmassy!”
Jemma stands there dumbfounded. She’s not really surprised, because Skye never does things halfway. She just didn’t expect the militant approach she’s taking. Jemma jumps at the sound of Skye’s voice, almost dropping the box.
“Jemma! What are you waiting for? Go! Deck the halls!” she exclaims, giving Jemma a gentle shove towards the hallway. Stumbling slightly, and gripping the box tighter, Jemma heads out of the lounge, determined to get this over with as soon as possible.
Placing the box down at the end of the hallway, she heads towards the storage closet that houses the step stool. Ward finds her struggling to get it locked and grumbling to herself in that way he absolutely does not find endearing.
“Here, let me get that for you,” he offers. Jemma whirls around a hand clutching her chest.
“Oh! Ward! Yes, thank you. Sorry, you just startled me,” she babbles, blushing slightly when he reaches around her to click the step stool into place. Somehow his proximity is getting harder for her to handle with a calm demeanour. Jemma refuses to acknowledge the fact. She barrels on, trying to cover her embarrassment.
“Skye has assigned me to, uh, ‘deck the halls’, as she put it. So I have to put those,” she points to the box at her feet, “up here, and along the stairs and in the lounge.”
“Isn’t that more of a two-person job?” he asks. “I mean, the ceilings are a bit out of your reach.”
“No need to make disparaging comments on my height, Ward. That would be why these lovely things were invented,” she says in a mock annoyed tone and turns back to the step stool. Grant smirks unconsciously but then quickly straightens his features when he realizes.
“Apologies,” he offers.
“No need. You can atone by helping me with this.”
Her tone brooks no argument, not that Ward would have refused. How could anyone resist those brown eyes he begins to think, but is quickly distracted by Jemma shoving piles of garland into his hands.
Skye pulls her head back into the lounge after making sure that her plan works. With a quick fist pump, she heads back over to rescue Fitz from the string of lights he’s untangling.
Jemma and Ward rapidly settle into an easy rhythm. Ward attaches hooks to the wall and strings up the garlands, while Jemma stands next to him, passing him the necessary equipment. The step stool gets left behind.
—
Having successfully checked off one cliché from her list of Christmas movie situations, she moves on to phase two. This involves some cajoling on Skye’s part, to get Coulson to agree to let the team off the Bus while they refuel. He agrees, only because Skye won’t leave him alone. This feat accomplished, she now moves on to the rest of the team.
“It’s cold outside,” Fitz whines.
“No, it isn’t. It’s perfect, just put on your coat,” she counters.
“Fitz, just come on! Fresh air! We haven’t had that in a few days,” Jemma wheedles, shoving a hat on to her head. Fitz acquiesces, but grumbles loudly while he piles on the layers.
Surprisingly, Skye doesn’t even need to try and convince Grant, he is already standing by the cargo doors, waiting for the rest of them. Everyone bundled up, they head down the ramp.
They’re parked in a remote airfield, somewhere north, obviously as there are piles and piles of snow everywhere. Skye leads the way to a field still untouched by footprints. Not even waiting for everyone to catch up, she leans down and starts packing a snowball. She keeps her back to the others, acting as if she’s going to start building a snowman. Hearing the crunch of boots on the fresh powder, she whirls and lets her snowball fly.
It hits Fitz square in the chest. He stops dead.
“Absolutely not!” he starts to shout, but before he can finish there is a volley of snowballs arcing towards him from all directions and chaos ensues.
What follows is an epic snowball fight. Jemma has predictably terrible aim, growing up in the south of England where snowfalls are few and far between. Fitz fairs only a bit better, as snow is more frequent in Scotland, but outdoor activities were never his favourite. Skye has middling luck, but as predicted, Grant has deadly accuracy.
Skye and Fitz start a close hand to hand battle trying to see who can shove more snow down the other’s jacket. Jemma meanwhile, works at creating a perfect missile. On a total fluke throw, she manages to hit Grant squarely in the back of the head. She freezes, realizing just what a colossal mistake she has made.
Grant slowly turns towards her, a look of pure shock on his face. It only lasts a second before he’s leaning down to gather a handful of snow. Realizing she has no choice, Jemma turns and starts running as fast as she can through the knee deep fluff. It obviously is not fast enough and she stumbles forward as Ward hits his mark. Losing her balance, she falls face first into the snow.
She struggles to get up, knowing Ward is not going to let this go, but she only manages to get to her knees before she feels snow being shoved down the back of her parka.
“No! COLD!” she shrieks, knowing full well it won’t help.
“Mmmm, I think you still need to pay for that,” Ward says laughing. He gathers more snow, as Jemma manages to turn to face him. She grabs at his hands, trying to knock the snow out of his palms. Still on her knees, she calculates that her lower centre of gravity could probably work to her advantage.
“I give up!” she says, hands up, feigning surrender.
“Really?” Ward asks, incredulously.
“Yes, really!” she replies, watching Ward slowly start to lower his hands. Before she loses her nerves, Jemma grabs his wrists and pulls him hard. It works like a charm. Ward is falling forward, caught unaware by Jemma’s ruse. The one thing Jemma didn’t factor in, however, is the direction Ward would fall.
She barely has time to register what has happened before she finds herself in the snow again, this time on her back, with Ward half on top of her.
"Oof. Well, that didn’t work out quite as planned,” she mutters.
“Really?” Ward asks, slightly amused. Jemma looks up at him, and can’t help but gasp when she realizes how close they are. She flushes slightly, cheeks going even more pink.
“Yes, really,” she whispers. The fact that she’s lying in the cold snow doesn’t seem to bother her. All she can feel is the warmth of Ward’s chest on top of her. Ward, for his part is distracted by the flush spreading across Jemma’s face. He moves to brush a strand of hair out of her eyes when Fitz’s voice breaks the spell.
“Oi, you two! Let’s go. About bloody time, it’s freezing out here,” he shouts as he and Skye trudge towards the Bus. Fitz, of course, is occupied with getting back into the warmth, but Skye notices exactly what’s going on. She grins widely as Ward gets up and reaches down, helping Jemma out of the snow.
They all return to the Bus soaked. May greets them with a curt “Wheels up in 10” before heading back to the cockpit, rolling her eyes at the state of them. Skye definitely counts this as a success seeing Jemma’s blush, and the way Ward watches her head up the stairs to change.
—
Wanting to keep the momentum going, Skye tries to think of another Christmas cliché she can take advantage of. She almost can’t believe her luck when phase three pretty much just lands in her lap. She barely has to do anything at all, except sit back and watch as Jemma does all of her work for her.
Jemma is sitting in the lounge wearing a silky green blouse Skye has never seen before. The dark green fabric is cut low on her chest, and brings out Jemma’s colour wonderfully. She is about to go ask Jemma where she got it, when she hears the sounds of a Skype call connecting from Jemma’s laptop on the table in front of her.
“Hello, Mum! Dad!” Jemma greets her parents.
“Hello, darling! Oh, look! You’re wearing our gift! It looks absolutely wonderful. You know you really should dress like this more often. Enough of those button ups and cardigans,” her mother starts. Jemma barely contains her eye roll.
“Yes, Mum. Thank you, it’s lovely. I’m sure I’ll find occasion to wear it outside of the lab,” Jemma replies, smoothing the fabric down a bit self-consciously.
They chat amiable for a while, Jemma filling them in on some of the less classified details of her work. However, Jemma can sense the moment her Mother has been working towards, and she has exhausted all other avenues of discussion when the dreaded words ring through the speakers.
“So, Jemma dear, are you seeing anyone?”
Unfortunately (or fortunately depending on how you look at it) Ward chooses that moment to walk into the lounge. Jemma’s eyes snap up at the noise and before he even knows what’s happening, he feels her small hand grab his and drag him toward the couch.
“Mum, Dad, this is Wa.. I mean Grant. My… boyfriend,” she practically trips over the last word.
Skye really has to hand it to Ward. He looks utterly shell-shocked, but in an instant is making small talk with Jemma’s parents, albeit not quite as suavely as usual. He really is the best, she thinks.
Jemma finally ends the call and collapses back against the couch with an arm thrown over her eyes.
“I am so sorry, Ward. I don’t know what happened. I guess I’m just so tired of my Mum constantly asking about my relationship status, and you just happened to be there and I panicked and…” Jemma rambles, unaware of how Ward is sitting there speechless.
He knows he should look away, get up, anything, but he can’t. He sits there listening to her voice, staring at her. He is utterly captivated by the way the fabric of her blouse clings to her curves, and the slight flush on her chest. He almost reaches out to touch her when he’s jerked out of his stupor by the feel of her hand on his arm.
“Ward?” she asks, timidly.
“Oh, no problem, happy to help. I uh, should go, let you get back to whatever it is you’re doing…” he stammers and practically runs out of the lounge. Jemma sits there, with a confused look on her face for a moment longer. Then, as if lightning strikes, she blushes furiously and hurries to gather her computer and heads to her bunk to change.
Skye watches the entire interaction incredibly amused. She really couldn’t have asked for anything more perfect. It is so blindingly obvious that these two fools are attracted to each other. Especially considering they completely forgot she was sitting there the whole time. Grinning, she now works on the next part of her plan.
—
While Skye is happy that phase three happened without her help, she does have to work harder to keep things moving forward. It’s as if now that both Ward and Jemma have realized there might be more than platonic feelings, they’re actively avoiding being in the same room. Anytime Skye makes an effort to leave them alone, they both suddenly remember things that need to be done at opposite ends of the Bus. It’s seriously beginning to frustrate her.
Christmas is coming up fast, so Skye decides to change tactics before she runs out of time. She figures a group activity will be her best bet to actually get Jemma and Ward in the same room. Remembering the stash of cookie ingredients in the kitchen, she decides to use another holiday movie staple to her advantage.
"FItz, stop eating all of the dough, or there will be no cookies!” Skye reprimands, jokingly slapping his arm with a wooden spoon. Fitz merely takes another spoonful looking directly at her, grinning.
“You can try to talk him out of it,” Jemma says from the other counter, where she’s icing some gingerbread men. “But he definitely will not listen to you,” she sighs.
“Everyone knows the batter tastes better,” Fitz pouts, not heeding Skye’s threat with the spoon again.
“He’s right,” Ward chimes in, much to everyone’s surprise.
"I never pinned you for a baking guy, let alone eat the dough before hand, kind of guy, Ward,” Skye teases. “Hidden talents you’re hiding from us?”
“I have been known to make a mean banana bread,” he says with an air of superiority. Jemma snorts instinctively, and then freezes.
“What, don’t believe me, Simmons?” he glares at her.
“I guess you’ll just have to prove it,” she challenges, turning toward him. They look at each other for a moment, before remembering the awkwardness. Skye rolls her eyes at the pair of them, but says nothing. Baby steps, she reminds herself.
Soon there is a mountain of cookies on the counter and only a single sheet of gingerbread men left waiting to be iced. Fitz sits at the counter, rubbing his stomach and quietly groaning. Skye is making fun of him with an ‘I told you so dance’ and pokes him in the stomach.
Ward stands next to Jemma, containers of coloured icing between them on the counter, as he watches her put the finishing touches on the last cookies. Skye had been correct in hoping that the group activity would ease the tension, and now Ward is practically elbow to elbow with Jemma, watching her slim fingers work.
He’s distracted by the sudden memory of those same fingers on his skin, patching up a wound after their last assignment. His eyes darken, but he manages to contain any other reaction. Jemma, oblivious, carries on and starts babbling about the science behind baking and icing.
“Fitz may prefer the dough, but I always preferred eating the icing on it’s own,” he hears Jemma say and is brought back to the present.
“I highly doubt it could be better than cookie dough,” Ward argues.
“It definitely is,” she says, holding out a cup of red icing to him. “Try it!”
Slowly, he dips his finger into the cup, scooping up a fair size dollop of the soft icing. Jemma does the same and promptly puts it in her mouth. Ward is temporarily frozen, finger halfway to his mouth, watching her lips. But it only lasts a minute when she looks at him questioningly, and he quickly follows suit.
“Okay, that is pretty good,” he concedes.
“To quote Skye, ‘I told you so!’” she singsongs, grinning up at him. She scoops up some more, before turning back to the task at hand. They stand there a few minutes more while Jemma touches up the final gingerbread men, so engrossed they don’t even notice they’re now alone.
“All done!” she exclaims, turning to place the tray on the counter. As she looks up at Ward, he notices a smudge of icing at the corner of her mouth.
“You have some…” he starts, but before he can finish he involuntarily raises his hand, cupping her jaw and gently wiping the icing away with his thumb.
“Oh,” she quietly gasps, feeling his thumb continue to trace her cheek. She’s looking up at him, noticing the different shades of brown in his eyes, and unconsciously leaning into the warmth of his palm.
“Jemma,” he whispers, starting to lean down when the tray of cookies she is holding suddenly slips from her hands.
They both jump back, startled out of the moment. Blushing furiously Jemma, stoops to start cleaning up, just as Ward does the same and they end up knocking heads. She’s falls back on her behind from the force of their collision and she just sits there stunned for a moment. Ward, the ever immovable force, remains crouched.
"Ouch,” Jemma mutters, rubbing her forehead. After a brief moment she starts gathering up the broken pieces of gingerbread. This seems to snap Ward out of whatever shock he’s in.
“I’m so sorry,” he says, starting to help her sweep up the cookie bits and place them in the trash. She waves him off, and they clean up in silence, putting the finished cookies in tins, and the few remaining dishes in the sink.
The task completed, they turn to each other and there’s a beat of silence, before they both go to say something. But before they can even get very far, May pops into the door.
“Coulson needs us. In the lounge, possible new assignment,” she informs them.
“Oh, thank you, May,” Jemma says, and immediately follows her out of the kitchen, sparing one brief glance back at Ward. Well that was unexpected, she thinks to herself.
Ward stands in the kitchen for a moment longer, and then groans quietly to himself. What is this, some cheesy Christmas movie? He shakes his head and goes back into specialist mode as he heads towards the lounge.
Skye quickly flicks off the feed to the kitchen at the briefing table where she’s been watching them since she pretty much dragged Fitz away to leave them alone. It seems like things are back on track, but she decides that to finally get them to wrap this up, she’ll have to bring out the big guns. She can’t keep the smirk off her face.
“What’s that look for, Skye?” Jemma asks. Skye whirls around, hoping that the feed no longer shows on the screen.
“Oh, nothing, Jems! Just excited about all the cookies!” she covers, somewhat unconvincingly.
“Mhmmm…” eyes narrowing, Jemma looks like she’s going to say something else, but then in walks Coulson and the briefing starts.
—
The big guns, of course, is the mistletoe. All good Christmas movies have it. Skye is counting on it to finally do the trick. Over the course of the last few days before Christmas the team starts noticing little bunches of green leaves in most of the doorways. Then it starts appearing in randoms places: over the couches (people start sitting on the floor), in the lab (Fitz and Jemma take it down every time, but it keeps reappearing), in Coulson’s office (the only place it never gets moved). The entire team simply becomes super vigilant. They look up whenever the pass someone, sit down, or stand next to each other.
In an effort to catch Jemma and Ward unaware, she starts moving the mistletoe every so often. It ends up forcing Fitz to kiss a surprisingly cooperative May on the cheek. But other than that one rather sweet moment, Skye resigns herself to the fact that Ward and Jemma are just too stubborn for their own good. As she’s heading to bed on Christmas Eve, she hopes her last ditch effort will reap results. If not, she might have to resort to actually just locking them in a room together in the morning and throwing the mistletoe in with them for good measure.
—
Late that night, Ward is heading through the lounge after his evening workout when he notices a figure bent over by the tree. He recognizes Jemma instantly, and watches as she carefully arranges packages under the branches. He can’t help but smile at the way the white lights from the tree cast a radiant glow on her.
Careful to make enough noise not to startle her, he moves towards her, not really sure what he even wants to say to her.
“Oh, Gra… Agent Ward,” she greets, coughing slightly to cover her slip. “How was your workout?”
“Fine, thanks, Simmons. Uh, last minute gifts?” he inquires, pointing to the brightly coloured boxes by her feet.
“Oh, no, I’ve had these ready for a while. I just um, never mind, it’s just silly,” she blushes. He just looks at her, silently urging her to continue. She sighs.
“I like the idea of the gifts being by the tree in the morning. You know, like Father Christmas was here…” she trails off, looking anywhere but at Ward.
“That’s really nice, Simmons. A bit of normal, in our decidedly not normal lives,” he replies.
“Precisely!” she agrees, glancing at him. As her eyes sweep up, she suddenly notices something on the ceiling and her eyes widen and a small gasp escapes her lips.
“What?” Ward questions, before taking his own glance up. “Oh…”
They both stand there, shocked, as they take in the dozens of bunches of mistletoe pinned to the ceiling all around the tree. A step in any direction would still leave them in the same predicament.
“I am going to have a serious talk with Skye about her obsessive need to recreate terrible Christmas movie scenarios,” Jemma finally says. “This is getting out of ha-“
Before she can finish her sentence, she finds herself being pulled forward and pressed to Ward’s chest. One arm is banded around her waist, and the other is cupping her cheek tilting her face up.
"We would’t want to disappoint her,” he murmurs.
“No, I suppose not,” she whispers. And then, the world stops as Ward (finally, Jemma thinks), kisses her. His lips are firm and soft, and a warmth spreads through to her finger tips. She instinctively wraps her arms around his neck as she returns the embrace.
Ward can hardly believe it when he feels her arms around him. He smiles into the kiss and grips her a little tighter so that her toes are barely brushing the ground to lessen their height difference.
A moment or an age later, Jemma’s toes touch the floor again, and Ward is tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
“Merry Christmas, Jemma,” he smiles softly.
“Merry Christmas, Grant,” she replies, giving him a dazzling smile in return.
—
A few days later, Skye finds a box set of Lifetime Christmas movies on her bunk, with a note simply saying “Thank you” in Jemma’s loopy handwriting.
