Skimmons week is here. I'm so excited even though I don't have stuff written for all the prompts. Oh well. Posting things from the future and now I'm off to read everything else...

Day 01 - Mission

For a small team with a relatively open structure where protocol was a suggestion and independence from the larger body they'd spawned from a way of life; co-operation and friendliness with colleagues was key. This is why – when the mission briefing devolved into a heated argument – Jemma was rolling her eyes at everyone in the room. Such missions as this one were normally undertaken by Triplett, but he hadn't even been asked.

"I volunteer," Fitz had exclaimed, over eager for a chance to prove himself as always. He'd even thrust one hand up in the air. "If they've been doing so much of their thieving with technological aid I can definitely be of use to them."

May sighed but it was Coulson who replied in his usual temperate tone. "They already have hackers, Fitz," he explained. "They won't need you. I'm sure if they've been using these toys for as long as they have they know how to fix them."

"Then what?" Triplett asked, shrugging his shoulders. "Do they need more muscle? Unless that's the case I'd say May and I are ruled out."

Coulson bobbed his head, folding his arms and fixing Jemma with an expression much more serious than she was used to. "Me?" she squeaked. "But… But I have no field experience," she blurted. "The least of anyone in the room. I'd be useless in the field. Plus I'm a terrible liar. Oh dear, just ask anyone. I'd be a massive failure. I can't possibly be the only person you could–"

"Relax, Simmons," May whispered. "We're not asking you to go rob a bank with them. All we want is for you to be the one who patches them up."

"They lost one of their number in their last raid," Coulson added. "He died, shot dead, remember? And another sustained a rather serious injury. They'll be looking for someone with medical experience to… fix him." That last was accompanied with a standard vague Coulson-is-trying-to-say-something-science hand gesture. "Just grab a first aid kit and let them wrangle you into sewing up his holes." He paused, turning to glance at May who was rolling her eyes some more. "That sounded awful didn't it?"

At her blank face he just sighed.

"You can't let Simmons go into the field," Fitz babbled then, obviously coming out of whatever zone he'd been frozen in. Shock would do that to a person. "What if she gets shot? Or worse – arrested!"

"I don't think arrested is worse than getting shot, Fitz," she mumbled.

His mouth hung open, eyes shifting to each of the older team members in turn, pleading with them on Jemma's behalf. They didn't pay him any heed. She sucked in a deep breath, resigned to being the only one capable of doing this particular mission and liking it not even a little bit.

This is how she found herself standing on the sidewalk in a rather scruffy neighbourhood with an umbrella arched above her to keep the rain off. What a dreadful place to live. She had a duffle bag thrown over one shoulder and a much heavier coat than she was used to wrapped tightly around her middle.

Her breath misted in front of her upon every last exhalation as she squinted through the downpour. The little medical centre she was staring at had peeling paint and two of the neon letters in the sign hanging crookedly from the roof were broken. Actually, one was broken – she amended her previous observation – the other was simply temperamental. It flickered fitfully for a few seconds and gave up again. Evidently it found existing in this dreary neighbourhood equally as taxing as Jemma thought it would be.

She was just about to bite the proverbial bullet and step out across the street when someone called out. And maybe she shouldn't have looked around, but there was part of her brain suggesting she was the only one dumb enough to be standing in this godforsaken monsoon. Which of course meant the hollered, "Hey, lady," could only be directed at her.

So it was pure instinct – naturally – that prompted her to spin wildly and almost slip over in the wet. A tall fellow with a serious face sporting a five o'clock shadow and dressed all in black stopped beside her, offering a hand to steady her when her balance failed her. His lips curved up into a disused smile as he peered at her.

"You okay?" he asked softly. It was the kind of tone that said he often spoke softly. Even when angry. Jemma was instantly wary of him.

"Yes," she replied in an equally quiet tone. "You just startled me."

His eyes darted down, taking in her attire, a funny expression dancing across his face when she spoke. Duh. British.

Eventually (after visually weighing her worth and possible threat status) he muttered, "Are you a doctor? Is that why you're here?" The second question was accompanied by a nod in the direction of the centre.

"Yes," Jemma told him cautiously. "I'm looking for work."

His brows knitted together. "What kind of qualifications have you got?"

Oh, I'm a biochemist, she thought tartly. Since her two PHDs in the area would be so useful when it came to sewing up bank robbers. "I have a doctorate in medicine," she informed him. It was only stretching the truth a little bit.

He bobbed his head for a moment, thinking. Then, "So you can do minor surgical things?"

She arched an eyebrow, gesturing at the clinic. "Shouldn't the interview be inside?"

His blank stare was answer enough.

Jemma sighed. "I suppose I could sew up wounds, diagnose diseases, offer aid with broken bones, concussions, administer drugs… that kind of thing. Is that what you mean?"

The man's head fell to one side, still eyeing her in that calculating way Jemma was concluding she didn't like at all. "Yeah, that's what I meant." Then he jerked his head in a sharp nod over her shoulder.

Jemma did not expect the canvas sack that was thrown over her head and consequently squeaked in rather an undignified manner. She felt her umbrella being ripped from her hands and the rain began to patter on the material blinding her.

That also happened to be when the chloroform kicked in.

Spluttering was another rather indecorous act she could add to her list of activities of late that were unbecoming. To be fair, having the sack ripped rather abruptly from her head, leaving her disoriented and still a little dazed from the chloroform was not particularly nice. The dark of the room didn't help. Nor did the whole kidnapping thing. In fact, the very realisation that her heart was currently not trying to escape the confines of her chest was quite remarkable.

And then the adrenaline kicked in and that was no longer the case.

Surprisingly, Jemma found that she wasn't tied down. Or bound in any way. Despite her animal urge to leap to her feet and try to escape, she remained seated. She did, however, indulge in staring wide-eyed around the room.

It was a house; that much was blatantly obvious. She was currently sitting in what might once have been an office but had in recent times been cleared out so a single bed could take up the space. On the bed, a man lay. And he was not looking particularly well.

The man who'd ripped her bag off shifted to one side of the room and the movement made Jemma jump, eyes whipping around to fix on him. He moved again, a swarthy man from the looks of his silhouette and – as he stepped out of the dimness of the corner – she placed him roughly in his fifties with short greying hair. He had a serious face like the other fellow, only his eyes were wrinkled with laugh lines and his mouth curled at the edges as if he found something vaguely amusing.

Jemma was not finding anything about her current situation even remotely amusing.

The faux-smile didn't touch the man's eyes though and it made her tingle – terrified – from head to foot.

"Can you help him?" the man asked in a surprisingly warm voice.

She blinked back down at the man on the bed. "What's wrong with him?" she responded, her words sounding incomprehensibly small in the room.

"He was shot." The man shuffled to the other side of the bed, lifting the covers, exposing a white bandage stained red wrapped across the bed-guy's shoulder. "We think it came close to his heart but none of us can fix it." His eyes lifted to meet Jemma's. "Can you?"

She hunched her shoulders. "I can try. Do you have implements?"

He pointed to a dresser pushed up against the wall behind her. "In there. Should be everything you'll need. Not that any of us know what tools are needed for this kind of thing or we'd have tried it ourselves." A ghostly smile flashed across his face. "Call if you need anything."

Jemma watched him stride through the door and sighed when she heard it rattle locked. Deciding that it was probably in her best interest to help the poor man on the bed, she turned her attention back to him. A brief inspection of the wound told her it wasn't overly serious, but the bullet was still in there and would fester if she didn't get it out.

Rummaging through the dresser turned up nearly all that she could've asked for. As far as the rest went… she could improvise.

The whole time she worked she muttered about the audacity of arrogant criminals. The words were bitter, but at least it helped her focus.

"Sorry for the theatrics," the older man chuckled as he stepped back into the little office room a few hours later. "My good man sometimes gets carried away." He paused by the bed. "Will he live?"

Jemma nodded her head tiredly. "More than likely. He just needs rest and some fluids."

"Good, good," he muttered, not really paying her much mind. Then he spun on his heel to grin that strangely disconcerting smile at Jemma. "Welcome to the team, I suppose. Apparently we need a doctor just as much as we need a good driver."

She blinked. That was it? Just like that?

"Team?" she asked instead of voicing any of her other questions. "What team?" And do I get a say in the matter or are you sticking with the kidnapping thing?

"Our little family of Robin Hoods," he chortled. "Come on. I'll show you where you'll be staying. And no, it's not a dungeon. We're not medieval, despite what the press might tell you."

"What would the press have to say about it?" she enquired. "Other than how terrible your manners are that you're kidnapping foreign doctors off the street to sew up suspiciously wounded men."

He beamed at her. "Spark! I like it." He threw a door open in a hallway upstairs without bothering to answer her question. "This is your room. You'll have to share since this place is only small and we don't really have enough rooms to go around."

At her scandalised jaw-on-the-floor expression he cackled, heading back for the door. There were no reassurances that this would be a perfectly safe set up, however. And honestly, Jemma hadn't expected one. Even if it was a bold-faced lie, it might've been nice to hear just the same.

"Don't worry," a voice murmured in the dark of the room as if reading her thoughts. Jemma jumped about a solid foot in the air, spinning to face the sound. Low laughter trickled from the only bed in the room. A soft glow that she'd somehow missed completely lighting up a face in washed out blue.

"Why shouldn't I be worrying?" she asked tremulously. "I've been kidnapped. Pretty sure that's a basic reason to start panicking."

"Oh, I just meant that you don't have to worry about rooming with one of the guys," the voice went on. "They might be crude sometimes and have a nasty habit of breaking every law they can, but they're not cavemen. Flick the light on."

Jemma glanced around until she found the switch and did as the mostly disembodied voice had requested. Well… not requested, but she'd consider it a suggestion rather than a demand.

The yellowed light sputtering to life revealed a young woman, probably not much younger than Jemma, actually. She had her long dark hair pinned up in a loose ponytail and her skin – which looked like it wanted so desperately to be olive – seemed rather pale. It might've just been the lighting however. It was god-awful. The woman smiled gently, a devious half smirk that looked like it was making its best attempt at being reassuring but really only reinforced Jemma's concerns.

The woman proffered a bangled wrist. "I'm Skye," she said bluntly. "You must be the doctor I heard Ward wrangled off the street."

Jemma eyed the hand dubiously, but figured if she was going to be a captive here; the least she could do was play nice with her gaolers. "Jemma Simmons," she replied.

"Doctor?" Skye asked in an almost teasing tone. Only they didn't know each other half as well as they'd have to for it to be teasing.

"Yes," she said acerbically. "Doctor."

"And British. Wow, Ward did a good job finding you."

She tsked. "He hardly found me," she told the other woman, shuffling her feet uncomfortably. "I was standing in the middle of the footpath in the rain."

"He found a doctor, I mean," Skye corrected herself. "Good thing too. Garrett just about had a heart attack when Mike got shot." She rolled her eyes. "Wow. Meltdown much."

Jemma folded her arms indignantly. "And what do you do here?" She paused a moment. "Actually, where is 'here'? And who are you people?"

Skye laughed, which was actually (surprising Jemma should even notice given the circumstances) quite a nice sound. "We're those bank robbers who have been all over the news lately. Or… they are. I'm just the girl who reroutes the security systems and changes traffic lights for them. They do all the robbing."

"You're still an accessory," Jemma informed her flatly, frowning.

Skye shrugged. "If that's what you want to call it."

"You call it something else?"

She sighed. "I call you nosey. Just don't ask too many questions and when they're done, they'll let you go. If you know too much they'll just kill you." There was something unspoken on the end of that sentence that Jemma found herself unexpectedly curious about.

Still, she took Skye's advice and didn't ask. There would be time for that later.

Later, apparently, was an indeterminate and rather fluid notion. Meals were brought up twice a day for her and Skye, if they needed a bathroom they had to be thankful they got the room with the en suite. Because apparently neither of them was allowed out of their stifling room. At least it had a window. A barred window, sure, but it was a window nonetheless.

For the first two days, Jemma was ushered back and forth by the guy who'd abducted her off the street (Ward, Skye kept calling him), between the little office and its resident nearly-dead-man (who she gathered was Mike) and her dungeon of a room. The man with the creepy semi-permanent smile (whom she figured must be this Garrett guy Skye spoke so quietly of) might've told her they didn't have dungeons. And maybe if she was inclined to be picky about terminology he was right. But that room with its one and a half bed and dingy little bathroom qualified as a cell in her mind. Especially when she couldn't come and go as she pleased. Yes, it was a dungeon.

On the third day Mike woke up in a cold sweat. Garrett looked as though murder was on his mind when he realised the man was having a mild panic attack. Jemma had to snap (and regretted it two seconds later when she realised the man might actually kill her) at him to get him to listen. At which point Ward – with his surprisingly cool head – had to drag Garrett from the room.

Mike wasn't dying anymore, but he was undernourished since they didn't have any way of getting the nutrients he needed into his bloodstream. So she settled on feeding him mushed up vegetables. It would serve in the circumstances. And she knew better than to bring up hospitals.

He gained a modicum of awareness on the fourth day and frowned when he saw her stirring the horrible concoction he'd been drinking the past few hours. Dark brows drawn together, face still a little strained, but confusion evident on his features.

"H…" he rasped. "Who're you?" God, but it was painful just listening to him try and speak.

"Shush," she ordered as softly as she could. "I'm a doctor. You've been shot and I've had to patch you up. Do you remember?"

His eyebrows knitted together tighter but he bobbed his head in a semblance of a nod. "Mmm," was all he could get out.

"Don't speak," she told him. "You just need to rest and drink this." Jemma offered him the tall cup with a lid and straw on top. "You'll start to feel better in a few days."

Mike made that funny almost-nod gesture again and let her slide the straw between his teeth. He pulled a face when he tasted it but kept drinking. How cooperative.

"Do you ever leave this room?" Jemma asked a little more harshly than she'd initially expected when she was led back to the bedroom on the sixth day. Skye glanced up from her laptop and smirked.

"Only when they need me to. Then I get to sit in the Power Chair downstairs and hack into all the city's infrastructure. Why?" And her smirk became at least fifty percent more obnoxious then. "Am I annoying you?"

She slumped onto the pile of rags and cushions Garrett had the nerve to call her 'bed' and sighed. "I'm just not used to having company every minute of the day," she explained.

"Wow," Skye laughed. "This must be quite the shock to your system."

"Being held captive by a bunch of criminals is not what I expected when I moved to America," she replied tartly.

Skye's expression softened inexplicably at that. As if the thought had only just occurred to her then, she asked, "Will your family be missing you?"

"I thought we weren't supposed to ask questions."

Her rather waspish statement was met with a smile, curiously enough. "You're not supposed to ask questions," Skye corrected gently. "I can find out whatever I'd like about you easily enough." She gestured at the laptop. "But apparently it's common courtesy to ask before snooping."

"How polite." Jemma didn't really know how to respond to that question though. Her parents knew she worked in a highly delicate position so keeping her distance was advised. She only called them once a month. If that. The scariest part of this situation was the possibility that Skye really could find out about them with just her laptop. Perhaps she should've invested in an alias.

"Doc? You alright up there?"

"Hum?"

"You looked lost in thought."

"I guess I was," she murmured. "My parents and I don't speak much. They… didn't like the idea of me moving to America. It put strain on our relationship." There. That was a suitable answer that wasn't even all that far from the truth. In actuality, it was her joining the SHIELD task force that had put strain on the relationship, but they were based in America so it's whatever really.

"I'm sorry," Skye consoled, actually managing to sound remorseful. "That must suck."

Jemma shrugged one shoulder. "I guess it could be worse," she acknowledged. "What about your parents? What do they think of you being a bank robbing hacker?"

Skye's expression soured. "I don't think they have a right to care, to be honest," she muttered bitterly. "Since they abandoned me on a doorstep they gave up the right to have a say in my life."

And that's all that was said.

But it got Jemma wondering just how much freedom Skye had.

"How's this, doc?" Mike asked.

She eyed him carefully, watching for any sign of the strain causing damage, but he looked just fine. "You're healing remarkably well," she assured him.

He brightened. "So I can go back to running?"

Jemma stepped over to him as he dropped the weights he'd been lifting to test his recovering shoulder. She slid a hand up his sleeve to inspect the scarring of the wound by feel. "Can you tense your arm for me? Slowly."

Mike didn't stop smiling as he did as instructed. Honestly, feeling the way his muscles moved under her fingers was fascinating. He lifted the arm up a little and then lowered it, relaxing just as she'd asked every time she ran this check. "So am I good?"

She pursed her lips, slipping her hand free. "I don't want to say 'go crazy' but you're doing well. Take it easy for a few more days. Running should be fine, but try and steer clear of heavy lifting for me."

"Got it, doc," he assured her, grinning. He collected the weights and headed off. No doubt to the training room they had set up somewhere.

Jemma still hadn't seen the whole building – not even after nearly two weeks with these people – but Skye had given her a run-down of a few things they had here. Apparently there was a room full of the technology things Skye used in her hacking and a gym room for Ward and the others to beat up harmless sacks. She supposed there could be any number of things here that she never got to see because she was either in this little office, or locked in her room with Skye.

As always, the door clicked open as Ward came to walk her back to the dungeon. She sighed. "Yes, I know, just give me one moment," she tutted. "Your impatience will not be the reason these tools aren't properly cared for."

"Actually," said a voice she didn't know. Jemma spun in alarm, snatching up a pair of forceps to wave at the newcomer. A young Chinaman stood in the door way, hands in the air. "Relax," he muttered. "Are you the doctor? Ward said you could have a look at a burn for me."

Jemma lowered the forceps. "Yes, that's me. A burn?"

Smiling now, the man pushed up his sleeve revealing a nasty burn. "Yeah. I dropped explosives this morning and it ended badly. Hurts like a devil."

She actually fumbled with the tube of cream at that. "Um… explosives?" she enquired in a tiny voice.

"Yep," he agreed happily, beaming at her. "I'm the explosives technician for them. I don't work every case but Garrett wanted me to come in on this one." He leaned forward as if imparting the secrets of the universe. "Apparently the next bank's pretty big."

Somehow she managed to squeeze the ointment from the tube despite her shaking hands. "And… uh, what name should I have them carve onto your tombstone," she asked, voice trembling as much as her hands.

He chuckled. "Chan Ho Yin is me," he told her, still in that really cheerful way. It was like he didn't think he could possibly blow himself up accidentally. Or end up shot like Mike. No, burns, that's all he had to worry about. He kept babbling about how explosives were actually really safe if you know how to handle them correctly and that he didn't often end up hurt by it and that this is an anomaly for him. Jemma tuned him out though. It kept her hands from wobbling too much.

Once he'd bounced back out the door (probably to practice blowing stuff up), Jemma exhaled. She didn't have long to pack away her things though (as always) before Robo-Ward popped his head past the doorframe to walk her back to the dungeon. He didn't speak, just stood there staring at her blankly for a moment. Jemma deliberately took longer than she needed to, hoping it would garner some irritated expression but when she turned to leave his face was just as emotionless as always.

What a guy.

Once locked safely away in her cell it took her longer than it should've to notice something was wrong. Well, wrong might be incorrect, but Skye sure looked peeved. She paced the length of the bed, glaring at everything. When she saw Jemma though, her face flashed through surprised and apologetic before landing on resigned.

"Something the matter?" Jemma asked softly, sinking into the pile of cushions in her corner.

Skye huffed. "Garrett says we've got a job," she grumbled. "In two weeks."

"Oh." Jemma blinked, instantly wondering if she'd be able to signal the team somehow. She wanted to ask why that had Skye in this… mood. Somehow though, she didn't have the words.

Inexplicably, Skye seemed to know what she was thinking. "I hate it," she breathed, collapsing onto the rug beside Jemma. "I hate what they make me do. I hate the stealing and the fact that I'm a criminal and that I'm an accessory to… stuff. Probably murder. I hate it."

Jemma tugged her bottom lip between her teeth, thinking. Then she stopped thinking (because it hadn't helped her yet) and blurted, "How did you end up here?"

There was a cautionary glance from Skye then, a reminder that this could end with Jemma's body being tossed into the river. But she maintained eye contact and after a wordless moment, Skye broke. "Miles." The word came out in a sort of half-whisper that rasped audibly in the back of Skye's throat. "Miles and I were at the orphanage together. First we were friends, then we dated, then decided it was weird because we were like siblings so we went back to friends. This was his idea." She nodded at the door. "Let's rob some banks, Skye," the woman murmured, trying to put a little light-heartedness into her fake male voice. "It'll be fine. Quick cash and we're out."

Jemma suddenly felt so very sad for her. So she did the only thing she could think of, she wrapped an arm around Skye's shoulders and hugged her. For her part, Skye seemed stunned.

"We were broke, homeless and pretty good at hacking anyway," she went on. "It made sense. Only Garrett knew I had my reservations, knew I might leave if things went south. So he locks me in here unless I'm needed. Which wasn't often, to be fair. Not then." She sucked in a deep breath. The rest of her story came out in a rush. "But Miles had to go with them last time, something about no remote access for the servers. He was the one who got killed. That only leaves me. I'm it. I have to do all their hacking now, all their surveillance. And it sucks."

"I'm sure you'll be fine," Jemma murmured, hoping to god she sounded more convincing than she felt. "It'll turn out okay in the end."

Skye scoffed into her collar. "Not likely. When I said you shouldn't ask questions because they'd kill you? I meant it. I'm as good as done just as soon as Garrett decides he's finished with me." Jemma opened her mouth to argue but Skye rode over her. "It's nice to have company now though. Since I'm on death row, you can consider my final request that you keep your head down." Skye's mouth smiled, but her eyes were deadly serious. "Get out of this alive for me."

She nodded her head mutely and made no more of it.

One month with these people. Four and a half weeks. Thirty-two days.

That's a long time no matter how she looked at it. The fact that Garrett's people all called her 'doc' (except Ward who maintained an almost complete silence whenever she was around) didn't mean it was comfortable to be there. Just because Skye smiled at her so happily whenever they were locked in together didn't mean anything either. It didn't.

Although in a month of living in such close proximity to another person, one gets to know them. Even if they put up resistance. It was a natural progression really. From late night talks about what the outside world was like, about childhoods and friends and all the aspirations they'd ever had; it was simple logic that saw them falling asleep together on the one bed. Skye didn't have internet access in the dungeon, but she did have a few hard drives filled with movies that they watched a lot.

And maybe finding out things about Skye was a bad idea. Knowing her allergies, her fears, her bone-deep terror of hoping for and losing things that meant anything were probably too much. In turn, telling Skye about Jemma's fear of the dark (and the things that it hides), reminiscing about Christmas dinners with her family (because Skye never had that) and regaling her about Fitz was her opening up to someone in a situation where that really wasn't advisable.

As Jemma watched Skye's face light up, her lips quirk into a brilliant grin once more she fought off the fuzzy feeling in her chest. It wasn't okay to consider this woman her friend. It just wasn't healthy.

But there was that little voice in the back of her head reminding her that Skye was just as much a captive here as she was. That this was not her willing participation. This voice was the only reason she continued to tell Skye things about herself. Continued to share things against what probably passes as better judgement.

And she continued to wonder if this is what Stockholm syndrome feels like.

Jemma amended that thought two days later, her heart wrenching as Skye was lead downstairs to the mysterious computer room. Skye was not her captor and thus didn't fall under the umbrella of Stockholm syndrome. This was something else.

The door closed behind Ward and Skye (the latter flashing a quick grin at Jemma as they left) and she slumped back into the wall; suddenly needing the support. It didn't stay closed. Garrett whipped it open a moment later. Like Ward had been, he was dressed in dark clothing of the body hugging variety. He had a balaclava bunched up on his head and a tool belt full of things Jemma didn't want to think about cinched around his waist.

"I want you down in the room with Skye for this," he told her. "It's not that I don't trust her, but… Well, I don't trust her. She needs a babysitter just in case she gets any funny ideas. So just make sure she keeps her pretty little butt on that chair and we'll be fine. Crystal?"

"Yes," Jemma replied, nodding. In fact, there was an overwhelming instinct rising up in her throat to tack 'sir' on the end. But the rest of her was just horrified by the possibility that Garrett was looking at Skye's butt.

Why that would bother her was a dilemma to mull over another time.

Presently, she followed him quietly down the stairs and past the medical room to a part of the house she'd never before been allowed to see. There were a few doors along here, all locked she assumed. Garrett led her to the door second from the end and pushed it open before shoving her inside.

"Play nice and behave, ladies," he said with his usual grin. Then the door clicked shut and he twisted the lock into place, trapping them in the room.

Skye glanced up from her computer and smiled, only a little bit confused.

"What brings you down here?" she asked.

"Garrett wants me to watch you apparently," she explained, sliding gingerly into one of two other swivel chairs in the dark room. It had no windows. So there wasn't even that pretence to cling to. "Perhaps he finds me responsible."

Skye laughed that delightful laugh. "You have done everything he's asked without question. I'd say you're the most responsible hostage we've ever had here."

Jemma risked a sideways glance at her companion, but Skye's eyes were glued to the various monitor hung up on the walls. They filled the room with an unearthly blue light and displayed black and white footage that Jemma supposed were those closed circuit monitors people on cop shows talk about.

"How many others… like us… have been here?"

Her soft question was met with raised eyebrows and wide eyes. Jemma had a feeling Skye hadn't missed her wording. "Um… two. There was one woman – Akela – I only met her once. I think Garrett had her killed. She was a soldier I think; he used her for her fighting skills."

"How did he manipulate her? If she was a soldier surely she fought back?"

Skye shrugged. "He had her daughter somewhere. I think she was let go, but I didn't ask. Just in case. The other was a young guy. I don't know his name because we never met. I only heard about him from Chan. This guy was their last explosives expert. He died in the getaway. Apparently he dropped a sewer on his head because he wasn't careful with his bombs."

"That's terrible."

"Yeah," Skye sighed.

"Skye," Jemma began, careful. When the other woman looked over at her she almost lost her nerve. "How long have you been here?"

"Going on five years."

The response was honestly scarier than Jemma had been expecting. There were so many things she wanted to ask, so many questions that burned in her lungs. But none of them could escape. So she pushed her chair over to Skye and wrapped her up in the best approximation of a full body hug she could manage while seated.

Reciprocation wasn't instantaneous. She was probably shocked, but after a moment Skye's arms wound around Jemma's middle and she buried her face in her hair.

"I'm so sorry," she muttered, her words muffled by the collar of Skye's jacket.

"Me too." She leaned out to fix Jemma with that same serious expression from before. "Promise me you'll be careful, okay?"

Jemma ran her thumb across Skye's cheek, trying not to think about the tremor the action drew from the other woman. "I'll get you out of here. I won't leave you behind."

Skye's face told her everything. That she didn't believe her. That her words were a lie. So Jemma figured now was as good a time as any and slipped a hand into her bra, pulling out the tiny little locator beacon Fitz had made her. It was no bigger than the nail on her pinkie, no thicker than it either. The device had been inserted loosely to the fabric right around the underwire so a rough search wouldn't find it.

She pressed the button (because basically the whole thing was just button) and shoved it back into her pocket. Skye's eyes tracked her movement the whole time.

"What was that?" she asked.

"A GPS beacon," Jemma told her matter-of-factly. She leaned forward slightly to press a kiss to Skye's cheek. "I'm not leaving without you. Promise."

Skye spent the following twenty minutes alternating between monitoring the feeds on the computers and cutting glances at Jemma. The little looks were always accompanied by the tiniest tint to her skin tone. Jemma pretty much failed at not thinking about kissing Skye again. She really shouldn't be wanting to do that, but she did. Oh well.

Maybe next time she'd be braver.

On the twenty-first minute the house shook to its foundations. There was yelling outside so Jemma leapt to her feet and pounded on the door a few times. Then – knowing exactly how dramatic Trip could be – she jumped back, knocking into Skye, who was also on her feet. Sure enough, the door exploded inwards when Trip kicked it. He was inside – gun up – in the blink of an eye, taking in everything.

Coulson filled the doorway behind him and May slithered up a moment later, shaking her head to indicate that the rest of the house was empty. Jemma was so relieved to see them she pretty much collapsed backwards. Thank goodness Skye was there to hold her upright.

"Where are they, Simmons?" Coulson asked gently. He eyed Skye briefly and disregarded her. May though fixed her with her deadliest glare.

She pointed at the monitors. "Skye, what bank?"

"Principle First," she muttered. "Who are you people?"

"We're the good guys," Coulson told her. "And we stop the bad guys from robbing banks and killing police officers."

Skye's face drained of what little colour she had instantly. "They… they killed someone?" she asked in a tiny voice, trembling with the implications of her involvement.

"Four policemen are dead," May explained while Coulson tapped pointlessly at various things plugged into the computers. "Two more are in hospital and one was seriously injured. Who are you, is the better question."

"Skye's a captive too," Jemma interjected before the hacker could say something compromising. "Their hacker was killed in the last robbery. She's a hostage as well. A replacement."

It wasn't so far from the truth. Not really. Skye's look of mild bafflement meant they'd probably need to talk about this later. Jemma didn't mind. Just as long as there was a later.

May continued to inspect her minutely but then did that weird thing she does with her face where it goes from wary and prepared to kill to bored in an instant. And there isn't a single muscle that so much as twitches in the process. It's like magic. Only Jemma doesn't believe in magic.

"Trip, why don't you take the ladies back to the bus," Coulson suggested. "Give them a bit of a debrief and send Fitz here for me. I have no idea what buttons to click. It's all nonsense to me. May, call the local authorities and notify Hand if you would. Tell Hand which bank and get the police here to find the stolen money."

"It's in the basement," Skye supplied quietly. She waved a hand to her right. "The last door in the hall leads to the training room. Under the blue mat in the far right corner is a trap door. The stuff is in there. It's not trip-wired."

Coulson bobbed his head and May disappeared in her catlike way to go investigate. "I still want you two in the bus. I'll take Simmons' word for it that you were held here against your will, but I doubt the local boys will be as forgiving. Better get you off-site, pronto. Trip?"

He nodded and led the way out of the building. The very first thing Skye did when she stepped outside was tilt her face up against the sun. She smiled.

"I haven't seen the sun in years," she whispered.

"How long were you held there?" Trip asked once they started walking again.

"Four years and few months," Skye told him. "I would've left but I knew too much so they just locked me in a room until I was useful. It sucked."

"They could've killed you," he pointed out.

"I'm glad they didn't," she acknowledged. "But it still sucked." Skye fell back a step then and Jemma slowed to maintain the same pace. "So… you're like a cop?"

She smiled. "No. I'm a doctor. This is my first time in the field."

"Second," Trip corrected.

"Oh yes. My second. It's nerve wracking, to be honest."

Skye looked at her disbelieving. "Doctor of what?"

Jemma felt her face warm. "Biochemistry primarily. At least, I have two PHDs in that area."

"Plural?"

"Um… yes."

"I feel like I don't know you." Skye looked apprehensive again. It was the same look she'd worn like armour for the first few days. "How much of what you told me was true and how much was Undercover Jemma?"

"It was all true," she admitted. "I'm an awful liar."

"She is," Trip agreed. "The worst."

Skye's head bounced from side to side as she thought. "Am I going to prison?" she asked quietly.

Jemma took a risk, winding her fingers together with Skye's. "No. You're not."

"Can you promise me that?"

They paused in front of one of the big black cars. Skye looked at it like she thought they might lock her up again. And honestly, Jemma knew that Skye was hoping she could be free again, that she could live a normal life. As normal as a hostage can manage anyway. Jemma didn't want to squash that for her. She didn't want to be the one who proved all her fears were well founded.

So while Trip stepped around the car, Jemma used the leverage she had with Skye's hand to tug her closer. For what felt like a very long and awkward minute, they just watched each other. Then Skye dipped her head and kissed her. Not on the cheek. So Jemma kissed her back and it was much nicer than last time, definitely.

"I don't want to be put back in a little box," Skye sighed when she pulled away. "We've only just been reunited – the sun and I – and I think I might miss it."

Jemma squeezed her hands, sliding her own up Skye's arms to frame her face. "I won't let them put you in another cell. I won't. I've decided I quite like having you around. You're good company."

Skye smiled, a tentative one – aware of the problems still to come but okay with them for now. "Yeah? Cause I quite like your company too."

"I promise."

"I'm going to hold you to that."

"Get in the car, lovebirds," Trip yelled.

Skye's face went the most brilliant shade of crimson that Jemma couldn't help but laugh. "It's a bit early for that," she grumbled as she climbed into the car, Jemma piling in behind her.

"Oh, you just wait until you meet Fitz," Trip warned. "You'll just love how upfront he is."

At Skye's horrified expression Jemma could only laugh harder.

Sure, there were still things to be resolved. But now was a pretty good moment. She wouldn't ruin it.