After the tears, comes the silence.Lincoln is sitting on the arm of the couch, his foot tapping nervously against the carpeted floor, deep dark rings under his eyes; he is full of nervous energy, ready to bolt out the door, withdrawal oozing of the outer layer of his skin, and Jemma is glad he hasn't kicked her out yet.Lincoln breaks the silence when Jemma is still drying her cheeks. "I am just trying to be fair with you, Jemma." His voice is raspy and sounds like he is barely keeping it together to not break into tears himself, and that only makes Jemma madder. "There is nothing fair about trying to make decisions for me like I am a child!" Lincoln opens his mouth to reply, but finally only sighs, his shoulders slumped down. She had known something was up for some time now, but how did she fail to put together all the signs before? He looks too tired to retort, and she presses on. "If you don't want me by your side, own up to it and tell me." She crosses the flat towards him, their hands finding each other out of instinct, and when he looks down at her fingers tangled in his lap, his eyes start to water. Good. Crying it out will be good for him. "But if you still want me, and are only doing this because you think it is the best for me... then don't. Give me a chance. I promise that what is best for both of us is that I stay."He is crying now, silent tears falling down his cheeks, and Jemma presses her forehead against his."I don't want my failure to drag down your brilliant future." His voice is tiny, scared, and Jemma's heart clenches. What others may read as weakness is only strength to her. "You won't." She assures him, and though she feels terribly emotional, her tears stand at bay now. She knows that she can carry this through, and she will. "I will stay and we will be good for each other, okay?"His lips are trembling, and Jemma kisses him softly, pouring all her love for him onto the kiss. When they break apart, his eyes are soft, and Jemma smiles."Okay."
A/N: some way-too-short JemmaLincoln for Brotp week day 2, fannon brops.
~900 words
The classical music draws her in. She’s the only one in the residential hall to hear it at one o’clock in the afternoon, lying uncomfortably against an awkward stack of pillows, and trying, for the fourteenth day in a row, to find something in her tiny bunk to distract her from the searing, itching hell of her burns. The music is a welcome relief.
She knocks, but he must not hear her over the swell of the violins, and when she tries the knob it’s not locked so it can’t be anything too private. And besides, she reasons, the fingers of her left hand absently trailing the stitches on her abdomen through her shirt, he’s been privy to some pretty intimate things when it comes to her, so fair is fair.
Lincoln just about has a heart attack when his less-than-graceful heel pivot brings Simmons into his eyeline. She’s leaning in his doorway as if she’s lived there for ten years, lips curled in a loose smile and he’s not sure if it’s mocking or not.
“Please, don’t stop on my account,” she implores when his arms drop like lead from his imaginary partner and he stutters to a halt as the piano crescendos. “This is the most extravagant part.”
She sounds genuinely chagrined to have interrupted him so he decides the smile was not mocking after all. All the same, he hastily smashes the spacebar on his computer and freezes Strauss in his tracks.
“I was - um - May’s testing me later,” he explains in a mumble. “Apparently being able to waltz is a pre-req for spy school.”
Jemma’s eyes roll just a little bit. “Anyone who’s seen a James Bond film could have told you that. Your stance is all wrong by the way. You’re meant to float on the dancefloor, not stomp around like a bull about to charge.”
“Thanks, that’s helpful,” he says sardonically.
“I can show you if you like,” Jemma offers.
He eyes her skeptically. “You can waltz?”
She brushes aside a few wisps of hair that have escaped from her mess of a ponytail and tips her chin a bit haughtily. “Second best in my class and only second because Frankie Tucker kept stepping on my toes.”
She extends her hand to him like a princess, and he takes it bemusedly, pushing to his feet. “Are your ribs up for this?”
“They better be because I cannot let you do what you just did in front of May.”
He lays his hand very gently on her hip, knowing which places to avoid because he dressed her wounds. She presses the spacebar to release the music and slips her hand firmly into his other one.
“It’s about the timing,” she says, pushing and pulling him (none-too-gently) with the tide of the music. “One-two-three, one-two-three, it sounds silly but it helps if you count it out loud.”
He tries it, counting along with her and watching his feet move clumsily next to her light steps. She’s actually pretty good at it for an awkward scientist with fractured ribs. Like really good.
“I’m a privileged prodige child who grew up in the English countryside,” she says when he comments on this. “Ballroom dancing, horseback riding, and walking with books on our heads are the staples of childrearing.”
There’s a teasing quirk to her lips that’s starting to surprise him less and less.
“So you’re a rich kid, huh?” he says, trying very hard not to smash her toes under his loafers.
“Born and raised,” she admits with a grimace he doesn’t entirely understand.
The song changes and with it Jemma’s tempo. He was just starting to pick up the rhythm of the last step and the abrupt change in direction trips him up, but she steadies him and takes a decisive lead.
He thinks about the big house he grew up in, his mother’s pearls, cars going too fast. And it surprises him how easy it would be to say something about that now, with her hand firmly on his shoulder, guiding him through the steps.
“How did Daisy get away with never learning this?” he asks instead.
Jemma smirks. “She’s the golden child. May and Coulson let her get away with everything.”
She goes to twirl herself under his arm but ends up staggering against him with a small hiss of pain.
“Okay, I think that means we’re done here,” he says, gentle as he steadies her.
“Hardly,” Jemma scoffs but she’s a little short of breath.
“You are not cleared for strenuous physical activity.”
Hands on her shoulders, he walks her to the edge of his bed and forces her to sit.
“Do you know what’s strenuous?” she demands, scowling up at him. “Doing nothing but lying about all day thinking about how much breathing hurts. If you were a good doctor you’d give me a distraction.”
“Hey,” he says slightly offended.
She just sets her jaw, sticking to it.
And what he’s surprised by - because he joined SHIELD for Daisy, that’s no secret, and hadn’t planned on fitting in with anyone else, hadn’t expected it - what he’s surprised by is that he actually doesn’t want to kick her out.
When Daisy swings into his room an hour later, sweaty from working out and still buzzing with excess energy, she finds Lincoln practicing a waltz once more with his invisible partner, and Jemma, critiquing his form from a throne of pillows on the bed.
