A/N: So, here's the promised side-story of Grant and Jemma's time in Italy. I hope you enjoy it!
The next chapter of sometimes might be a while, as we're finishing up the summer session, and I've got two major projects due and two finals in the next two weeks. So I really need to focus on those. Of course, I may end up working on fic whenever I get sick of multiple regression analysis...in which case the next chapter will be done in about ten minutes. Anyway, what I'm saying is I have no idea when the next chapter will be out. It may be Monday, it may be August. Keep your eyes peeled, I guess.
Title comes from Ashes Remain's "Right Here." Thanks for reading, and, as always, please be gentle if you review!
The goodbyes stretch out long enough that they don't leave the airport until more than an hour after they land. Fitz and Skye both fuss over Jemma, obviously reluctant to see her leave, and Grant doesn't blame them at all. He has no idea how, or if, he'll ever be able to tear himself away from her side, ever again.
Eventually, Coulson has to intervene with the reminder that they need to get going, and after gently ordering Jemma and Grant to call if they need anything at all, he ushers Fitz and Skye back into the Bus. The door shuts behind them, and Grant turns to Jemma.
"Ready to go?" he asks.
"Yes, please," she says, accepting his offered hand.
They maintain a comfortable silence as they walk through the airport. It's crowded, as is to be expected of an international airport in one of the most popular countries for tourism in the world, so Grant keeps hold of Jemma's hand.
That's a lie. He keeps hold of her hand because he can't bear to let go, because six hours ago he thought he would never hold her again. He has to concentrate to keep his grip gentle, to not squeeze with all of his might. He doesn't want to hurt Jemma, and right now he's all too aware of how delicate, how fragile, she is, compared to him.
He had actually been considering something like this. Or, not like this, not Jemma nearly dying, but he'd been considering bringing her to one of his properties for a little vacation. It's hard to find privacy on the Bus, and he'd thought he might take her somewhere the next time they had more than a day of downtime. So, the last time they were near one of his storage lockers, he fetched some of his alias boxes—boxes containing currency, documentation, and other assorted items relating to the cover identities SHIELD doesn't know about—and brought them on to the Bus.
And it's a good thing he did, because it means he has the keys to the villa, as well as Lorenzo Marchetti's driving license and credit card. This makes it possible to rent a car, and soon he and Jemma are outside of the airport, getting into a silver sedan that's on the high end of mid-range. Which is to say, it's expensive enough to suit the wealthy Lorenzo Marchetti, but not flashy enough to draw attention.
"I feel I could sleep for a week," Jemma says as he pulls onto E45. "Where are we going, exactly?"
"Sant'Agnello," he tells her. "It's a small town near Sorrento, about fifty kilometers south of here. I have a little villa there."
She gives him a thoughtful look, and he glances at her quickly before returning his eyes to the road.
"What?" he asks.
"Well, I was just wondering," she says. "Why is it that you own a villa in southern Italy? And at the rental desk…I didn't get a good look at your credit card, but it definitely did not say Grant Ward."
"No," he agrees, smiling a little. She's just such a scientist, still noticing tiny details even after nearly dying (twice) today. "It didn't. The villa—and the credit card—belong to Lorenzo Marchetti, one of my aliases."
"Someone from one of your undercover missions?" she asks curiously.
"No, it's not from an op," he says. He would never bring any of those covers within a hundred miles of Jemma. The thing about working as a specialist is that it tends to make you a lot of enemies—he's pretty sure he doesn't have even one former cover that doesn't have at least one person still gunning for him. "It's a back-up alias."
"A what?" she asks, her brow scrunching in confusion.
"Part of working undercover is preparing for things to go wrong," he tells her. "Sometimes you need to lie low and you can't afford to go back to base yet, for whatever reason. So you have to make your own arrangements. I keep back up aliases—IDs, credit cards, houses, and everything—all over the world, just in case."
"And Lorenzo Marchetti is one of your back-up aliases?" she checks.
"Yeah."
"Should I address you as Lorenzo, then? Won't your neighbors get suspicious if you appear with a strange English woman who calls you by the wrong name?"
"The villa's pretty secluded," he says, smiling to himself. He's impressed that it even occurred to her, and he'd like to think that that particular piece of caution is his influence. "None of the neighbors are close enough to notice that I've got a guest at all, let alone what you call me."
"Good," she says, settling back in her seat. "I'm not terribly suited for undercover work. I haven't any talent for deception."
"I know," he tells her, thinking of yesterday morning's fairly pathetic attempt at lying about the night-night pistol.
She smiles a little, like she knows what he's thinking, but doesn't say anything, and they slide back into comfortable silence.
He can't keep from glancing over at her every few seconds. He tries to stay focused on the road, but it's difficult. He feels like she'll disappear at any moment, like he'll blink and it will turn out that he didn't actually save her, that this is just some fantasy his mind constructed to comfort him after losing her.
He forces himself to concentrate on the road as he merges on to SS145. He needs to get control of himself. This is ridiculous. Jemma's fine. They saved her, he and Fitz and Jemma herself, with that anti-serum and that parachute. He can't let his emotions rule him. It's a weakness.
But he keeps seeing that look on her face when they thought the last mouse died. The moment she gave up. And, in retrospect, the moment she decided she would have to jump.
Throbbing pain from his bruised hand brings him out of his thoughts, and he loosens his white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel.
"I'm fine," Jemma says suddenly.
"Sorry?" he asks, a little startled. They've been driving in silence for nearly twenty minutes.
"You keep looking at me like I'm going to disappear," she tells him gently. "But I won't. I'm fine."
He takes a deep breath. "I know. I'm sorry. It's just…"
"Long day," she supplies when he trails off.
"Yeah."
She reaches over and puts her hand on his knee, and he relaxes a little. They're far enough away from Naples now that traffic is lighter, so he feels safe taking one hand off of the steering wheel and resting it over hers, lacing their fingers together. Some of the tension leeches out of him at the contact, and it's easier to keep his eyes on the road.
The next time he looks over at her, she's staring out her window, at the sun setting on the water. Apparently sensing his gaze, she glances at him briefly and then returns her attention to the sunset.
"It's beautiful, isn't it?" she asks quietly. Her voice is unsteady, and he squeezes her hand a little, concerned. "I didn't think—I was so focused on finding a cure, and then on what I had to do, I didn't…there was no time to think of everything I was going to miss. Oh, I thought of the obvious, of course—you, and Fitz, and Skye, and my parents—but. Things like sunsets and fairy lights and—and all of the things I haven't discovered yet…"
She breaks off with a shuddering breath, and he runs his thumb over the back of her hand. He's been expecting this. He knows it's going to happen a lot, over the course of the next few days, as she realizes again and again just how close she came to death. It's why traumatic leave is mandatory, and the fact that this is Jemma's first experience like this is why she gets five days, rather than the one that he usually gets.
She was at risk of dying when Reyes took over the plane, sure, but it was nothing like this. Nothing like facing a deadline knowing exactly what would happen to her when her time ran out. Nothing like standing on the cargo bay ramp, looking down at the empty air below, and then throwing herself into it.
The next few days are going to be very difficult for her. He wishes he could take it away, suffer through it so she doesn't have to, but he can't. He as useless here as he was in the Bus, standing helplessly by as she searched for a cure. At least here he can hold her hand. He can try to distract her, too, but he doesn't know that science is going to cut it right now. Or at least, not the level of science he can come up with.
Jemma clears her throat. "What I mean to say is, it's a beautiful sunset."
She's trying to brush off her confession, and he decides to let her. She has five days to face this, and it's better to let her do so at her own pace. So he goes along with her attempt to redirect the conversation.
"I did promise you beautiful scenery," he reminds her lightly.
"You did," she agrees. She sounds relieved. "You also promised me good food and great wine."
"Are you hungry?" he asks, checking the time on the dashboard. The sun sets early this time of year—it's a little before five, which is just…mind-blowing. It feels like it's after midnight. Well, technically it is, as it was sometime after 3 am, Bus time, that Jemma jumped, and that was hours ago.
"Not terribly," she says. "I just wanted to make sure you don't forget."
He smiles at her playfully stern tone, and he knows he was right not to push her.
"I won't," he promises.
"How much longer?" she asks.
He takes a quick glance at the odometer. "About another fifteen kilometers."
She nods a little, then resettles herself in her seat, bringing their clasped hands to rest in her lap instead of his.
They return once again to comfortable silence, and this time he's much less tense, holding Jemma's hand as her free hand gently traces his bruised knuckles.
x
It's fully dark when they reach the villa. It has an attached garage, and he has to get out of the car to open the door, which he does with a little reluctance. He's well aware of how ridiculous it is, but he has serious difficulty leaving Jemma behind in the car—even though it's for less than a minute.
When he gets back into the car, Jemma is still staring at the villa with wide eyes. "I thought you said it was small!"
"For this area, it really is," he assures her as he pulls the car into the garage. "It's only 4500 square feet. Most of the places around here are at least twice that."
"Only," she mutters, shaking her head. He completely understands. The first time he went undercover as a wealthy man, the hardest part of the op was keeping himself from gaping like an idiot at his surroundings—marble floors, chandeliers, and butlers were far from his area of expertise.
But that was nearly ten years ago, and he's long since adjusted to the level-of-income related whiplash that goes along with his various covers. This villa—two stories, white stucco exterior, hardwood floors, and monthly maid service—is far from the nicest place he's ever stayed. Of course, it's miles beyond the worst.
He has nicer houses, in even nicer places. But he thinks this is a good balance, the kind of luxury he wants Jemma to have without being so extreme that she'll feel out of place.
"You ready to go inside?" he asks her, turning off the car.
"Oh, yes, of course," she says, quickly moving to unbuckle her seatbelt.
He gets out of the car and walks around the back to pull their bags out of the trunk. Jemma takes them from him long enough for him to pull the garage door back down, then he takes them back and leads the way into the villa. The door from the garage opens into the kitchen, and he can see from the bowl of fresh fruit on the counter that the maid service has already delivered the groceries he ordered on the flight over. Good. He really doesn't feel like going anywhere tonight. It's not even six yet, but he's only had five hours of sleep since Jemma was infected—and she hasn't even had that.
"I'm going to get some dinner started," he tells Jemma as she pulls the door closed behind her. "You wanna take a look around, pick out a bedroom?"
She hesitates. "Which do you usually sleep in?"
"The one down here," he says, gesturing vaguely down the hall. "But you're welcome to it. It's got the best view."
And both of the upstairs bedrooms have pretty large windows. It's possible she'll be uncomfortable on the second floor, after what happened today.
"We'll take that one, then," she says, taking their bags from him.
Wait.
"Jemma, I don't expect—"
"We're soulmates, Grant," she interrupts. "There's nothing improper about sharing a bed with one's soulmate."
He'd like nothing better than to share a bed with Jemma. That's definitely not the problem here. He just doesn't want her to feel pressured, like he only brought her here to sleep with her. Because as much as he's looking forward to that particular stage in their relationship, he wants it to happen when she's ready, not when she's traumatized and feeling obligated to him. Before he can find a way to put that into words, she takes off down the hall in the direction of the bedroom.
"I'll put our things away," she calls over her shoulder. "You start dinner."
He shakes his head and moves to the refrigerator. Discussion closed, apparently. Well, it's not like he doesn't want to share a bed with Jemma, and if she wants it too then he's perfectly happy to accept it.
Grant is actually a pretty good cook; he once went undercover as a chef at a five-star restaurant, so he knows what he's doing. Still, he keeps it simple tonight, just a quick, easy pasta. Neither of them is really in the right state of mind to appreciate a four-course meal. Hell, Jemma's been awake for nearly forty-eight hours. He'll be impressed if she doesn't fall asleep at the table.
As he cooks, he can hear Jemma moving around the house, exploring. He hears her go down into the basement, and all over the ground floor, but she never goes up to the second. He doesn't know if that's because she's nervous about it or because she just doesn't have time before he's calling her for dinner.
"Oh, this looks delicious, Grant," she says as he sets a plate in front of her. "Thank you."
"My pleasure," he tells her, taking his seat. "You like the villa?"
"Mm, it's lovely," she says. "It's not very you though, is it?"
"No?" he asks, amused.
"The training room in the cellar, that's you," she says. "But the throw rugs and the vases and the…interesting metal sculpture, definitely not. I suppose that's Lorenzo Marchetti's taste?"
He's touched that she knows him that well, and impressed that she's made the connection to his alias.
"Yeah," he says. "Lorenzo's house means Lorenzo's decorating, and his taste is a lot different from mine. And that sculpture is modern art, by the way. Very expensive modern art."
Her mouth is full, so she just makes a little face to tell him what she thinks of that. He's in complete agreement; that sculpture is hideous.
They spend the rest of dinner talking about the villa and the surrounding town. Jemma doesn't exactly doze off, but he can tell she's flagging, so once they're done with dinner he gently suggests that she get ready for bed while he does the dishes.
"No," she protests. "You did the cooking, Grant, which means that the washing up is my job."
"You're falling asleep on your feet," he points out, taking her by the shoulders and turning her in the direction of the bedroom. "Go to bed. I'll be in just as soon as I finish this."
"Fine," she says, heading down the hall. "But I'm going to make it up to you tomorrow! Don't you dare make breakfast!"
"Wouldn't dream of it," he calls after her, amused.
He's exhausted, too, so he doesn't waste time in washing the dishes and leaving the pan to soak. Still, by the time he gets to the bedroom, Jemma is already fast asleep. He keeps an eye on her as he moves through the room, pulling clothes out of his duffle bag, but she seems to be sleeping quietly. He hopes, for her sake, that she's too exhausted to have any nightmares tonight.
She still looks peaceful when he returns from the bathroom a few minutes later, and she doesn't even twitch when he slides into bed next to her. He hesitates for a moment, but he honestly can't resist, and he curls himself around her, pressing his bare chest to her (sadly not bare) back and sliding his arm over her waist.
All of his lingering tension disappears, and he buries his face in her hair. She's alive. She's fine. She's right here, safely in his arms, and the only thing to worry about is how he's going to be able to let go in the morning. It doesn't take him long at all to fall asleep.
He dreams.
He's back in Wyoming, in that forest that was his home for so long. He's holding a gun, and Garrett's there, talking to him, speaking those too-familiar words.
"You can't ever get attached to anyone or anything. You have to fight that weakness inside of you," he's saying.
"Yes, sir," Grant answers, automatic, the only acceptable response. He thinks he knows what's going to happen next, this is a familiar scene, but then—
"Now take care of Jemma, and we'll get out of here," Garrett orders, and starts to walk away.
Kill Jemma? He wants to laugh. That's ridiculous. Garrett must be joking. Why would he kill Jemma?
"That's not a weakness, is it?" Garrett asks him.
"No, sir," he answers, the only acceptable response.
"Isn't it?" Garrett asks. "You jumped out of that plane for her, didn't you? You didn't even think first. You didn't even have your parachute on all the way. That wasn't planning. That was emotion."
"She's my soulmate," he says, which is not an acceptable response. "She's…"
"She's what?" Garrett demands, turning back around to face him. "She's everything? The mission is everything. She is a weakness. Now take care of her, or I'll do it for you. And I won't be nice about it."
Suddenly Garrett is gone and in his place is Jemma. She's sitting there on the ground, her knees pulled to her chest, the way she was sitting in the lab when Coulson told him and Fitz that she was infected. She looks up at him, smiling, and doesn't flinch when he brings the gun up to point it at her.
"You can't save me from yourself, Grant," she tells him reasonably. "This man? The weakness inside, that's you. Obedience to Garrett, betraying the team—that's you. Courage, and kindness, and protecting the weak? Definitely not."
"It's just a mission," he tells her, and he pulls the trigger.
He wakes with a start, the image of Jemma's sightless eyes lingering in his mind. He's still wrapped around her, and he takes her wrist in one hand, finding her pulse and using the steady beat to calm his breathing.
Once he's calmer, he pulls away from her and sits up.
What the hell was that?
Grant would never kill Jemma. Never. And it's a completely moot point becauseGarrett would never order him to, anyway. There's a huge difference between his dog and his soulmate, for fuck's sake, and Garrett knows that. Garrett understands. Just because, after all these years, Grant still doesn't know who or where Garrett's soulmate is doesn't mean…
He shakes it off. No. It was just a nightmare. Just his brain punishing him for his weakness today, his inability to stay in the cargo bay and support Jemma the way he should have.
Grant would never, and neither would Garrett.
He scrubs his hands over his face, forcing himself to put the dream away. It's nothing. Just a nightmare.
The room is still dark; he checks the clock and sees that he's only been asleep for an hour. He lies back down and curls himself around Jemma again. There's absolutely no way he's getting back to sleep after that, but there's also no way he's leaving her side.
He's never had any trouble staying still with nothing to keep his mind busy, or else he wouldn't be able to do any sniper work. Lying next to Jemma, holding her, keeping himself calm by listening to her breathe, is the easiest thing in the world.
Unfortunately, it doesn't stay that way.
He's only been awake for half an hour when Jemma begins to whimper. He pushes himself closer to her, presses his lips to her neck, and can feel her heart racing. She's having a nightmare.
"Jemma," he says loudly. "Wake up. Jemma!"
She comes awake with a choked gasp, and he immediately lets go of her when she begins to struggle. All she does is turn to face him, and she buries her face in his chest, sobbing. She's shaking like crazy.
"Hey," he says, holding her close. He strokes a hand through her hair. "You're okay. It was just a dream. I've got you. You're safe."
It takes a while, but eventually her crying slows, and then stops. He presses a kiss to her hair, trying to get control of his own emotions while she seems to be trying to steady her breathing.
He thought nothing could ever be more painful than waking to an empty wrist after his timer was removed. He was wrong. This? Listening to Jemma cry, unable to do anything to help her? It's a hundred times worse.
Jemma pulls away a little, and he loosens his grip on her.
"Sorry," she says, patting his chest. "I've got you all wet."
"It's nothing," he says, propping himself up on his elbow. "Are you okay?"
"I'm fine," she tells him with a shaky smile. "Just a bad dream."
"Wanna talk about it?"
She takes a deep breath. "It's about what you'd expect. Falling. Dying. Letting out an electrostatic pulse and killing all of you."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be," she says. "You saved my life, remember?"
Right.
"Do you wanna get up?" he asks her. "Or do you think you can get back to sleep?"
"I'm fine now," she says. "I can go back to sleep."
She's not fine, and he has a feeling that that won't be her last nightmare of the night, but her eyes are already drooping, so he just presses another kiss to her hair and lets her resettle herself to her liking. It's not long before she's fast asleep, breathing slow and steady.
She's still facing him, so he can feel her breath against his bare skin. It might be erotic, he thinks, if he couldn't so clearly see evidence of her tears on her face.
It's a long night. She wakes three more times, always with a choked gasp, like she can't breathe. He keeps his arms around her, strokes his hand through her hair as she shakes and cries into his chest, and tells her again and again that she's okay, she's safe, he's got her.
The third time she wakes is just after four in the morning, and when she's done crying and her shaking has stopped, she sits up. He props himself up on his hands as she runs her hands through her hair.
"This is pointless," she says quietly. "I don't think I'll ever sleep again."
"You will," he promises her, sitting up properly. He rubs a hand across her back. "It's only been one night. Just give it time."
She sighs and slumps against him. "This is why the traumatic leave is mandatory, isn't it?"
"Pretty much," he agrees, wrapping his arm around her. She leans further into him, and they sit like that for a while, just breathing together.
Because of the craziness of the mission—spending all night at the firehouse, then finding out Jemma was infected, the dive out of the Bus, and the post-dive debrief—it's actually been a few days since the last time Grant worked out. Between that and getting so little sleep, he's buzzing in his skin, too much energy with no outlet, and he itches to go down to the training room and use up some of it.
But Jemma needs to be distracted right now, and their usual morning habit of talking about whatever comes to mind definitely won't cut it—since he's pretty sure her near-death experience is the only thing on both of their minds.
He can wait. If she's feeling a little better tonight, he'll get some time in then. If not…he'll deal.
"Come on," he says finally. He slides out of bed and offers her his hand.
"Where are we going?" she asks, taking his hand and letting him pull her out of bed.
"Not far."
He leads her to the kitchen, where he lets go of her hand so that he can pull the kettle out of the cabinet above the stove.
"I had some of that tea you like delivered," he tells her, motioning to one of the other cabinets.
"Thank you," she says, squeezing his arm and moving past him to open said cabinet.
He goes back to the bedroom and kneels down next to his duffle bag to open the front pocket. Thanks to all of the games of twenty questions he and Jemma played when they first started getting to know each other, he knows a lot about her taste in entertainment. He knows the movies she watches when she wants to laugh (anything Monty Python or Mel Brooks ever did), the movies she watches when she wants to think (movies he has no hope of understanding), the movies she watches when she wants to be scared, and the movies she watches when she wants comfort.
But she's exhausted right now, working on very little sleep after spending two hours racing a clock to try and save her life, and she doesn't need to laugh or think or be scared. She needs comfort.
He knew she would, after what happened, and so he took the opportunity to grab her go-to comfort movies while she was packing before they left the Bus. So he pulls Contact, 2001: A Space Odyssey, and the original Star Wars trilogyout of his duffle bag and takes them to the living room.
He puts Contact in the DVD player, starts up and pauses the movie, then goes back to the kitchen. Jemma's leaning against the counter, staring blankly at the kettle. His heart aches a little, just looking at her. She looks drained, pale and a little shaky, and he wishes again that he could take this away from her. He can't, though. All he can do is offer comfort and distraction.
He joins her at the counter, slinging an arm around her shoulders and pulling her close. She immediately cuddles into his side, slipping her arms around his waist, and it still gives him such a thrill, the way she welcomes his touch.
"You can go back to sleep, if you like," she offers contritely. "I'm sorry I kept you up all night."
"You didn't," he says.
She pulls back slightly to give him a disbelieving look. "Really? So, it was some other man who spent all night comforting me?"
He can't help smiling, just a little. "No, that was me. But…"
"But?"
With Jemma, conversation is easier than it's ever been with anyone else, but it's still not effortless. Lying is—lying is like breathing. He wants to be honest with her, and he struggles with honesty.
"But even if you hadn't had a single dream," he finally continues. "I wouldn't have slept at all last night."
Her eyes soften. "You had nightmares, too."
He's saved from replying by the kettle going off, and Jemma moves away to make her tea. He pulls a bottle of water out of the fridge, then grabs a bag of pretzels from the pantry and pours a good amount into a plastic bowl.
"Pretzels for breakfast?" Jemma asks curiously.
"I promised not to make breakfast," he reminds her. "This is just a snack. Come on."
He leads her to the living room and directs her to take a seat on the couch. As she gets herself settled, he puts the pretzels and his bottle of water next to her tea on the coffee table, then pulls the blanket off the back of the couch.
"Oh, an early morning film," she says. "Excellent idea. What are we watching?"
He sits down next to her, once again relishing the way she immediately cuddles into his side, and hits play on the remote.
"Contact," Jemma realizes as the movie begins. "Is Lorenzo Marchetti a science fiction fan?"
"Something like that," he tells her as he tucks the blanket around them. It's not all that cold in the villa. Honestly, it's mostly habit. They've made a bit of a tradition of movie nights on the Bus, and they always share a blanket.
They spend pretty much all day on the couch, only getting up for meals, bathroom breaks, and to change out the DVDs. He's not used to this sort of inactivity, and it drives him a little crazy, but mostly it's nice. He enjoys being so close to Jemma, having her pressed up against him, and he likes watching the emotions play on her face as she watches the movies. He's especially happy to watch her smile after she spent all night crying in his arms.
During A New Hope's credits, Jemma stops him from getting up to change the DVD.
"These weren't already here, were they?" she asks.
"No," he agrees. "I brought them from the Bus."
"Because you know they're the films I watch when I need comfort."
"Yeah."
She toys with the edge of the blanket. "You were expecting me to have nightmares, weren't you?"
"You came within literal seconds of dying, Jemma," he reminds her. "I would have been surprised if you hadn't."
"Do you ever have them?" she asks. "After you nearly die, I mean."
"Sometimes," he admits. "Not as often, anymore, but the first few missions that went bad…"
"How did you deal with them?"
"I didn't, mostly. Just moved right on to the next op, or trained until I was too exhausted to dream. But I hear talking about it helps."
She's quiet for a long time. When she finally speaks, her voice is uneven.
"I was falling," she says slowly. "And the Bus was just…following me down. The nearer I got to the ground, the nearer the Bus got to me. And I knew that I wasn't far enough away, and all of you…" She takes a shuddering breath. "You were all going to die, and it was my fault."
"Hey," he says, squeezing her shoulder. "That wouldn't have been your fault."
She just shakes her head, obviously done talking about it for the moment, and it's best not to push, so he just kisses her temple and gets up to change the DVD. He makes a mental note to force the issue at some point, though, if it doesn't get dealt with naturally. He can't have Jemma blaming herself for what might have happened to the rest of the team.
x
After the final movie (2001: A Space Odyssey) is over, they make dinner together. The day of movies, although enough to have Grant nearly vibrating in place with all of his pent up energy, was enough to cheer Jemma up, and she's laughing and smiling all through their meal. He knows it won't last, that she's going to be up and down for the next few days, but it's nice to see.
They do the dishes together, too, and it's all strangely appealing, the domesticity of the whole thing—cooking and cleaning together, spending the whole day doing absolutely nothing. He finds himself wishing that it could last, that they could just stay here and be happy, never go into the field again, never risk Jemma's life again. He knows it's not possible—she would never agree to it and he'd probably be bored within two days—but it's nice to imagine.
Later, he won't be able to remember how it starts. One minute they're talking, and the next he's pressing kisses down her neck while her hands slide up his shirt. Then he's carrying her, her legs wrapped around his waist and her arms around his neck, as he navigates the hallways by memory alone because he's too busy kissing her to watch where he's going. He's drowning in sensation—the taste of her mouth, the tug of her hands in his hair, the warmth of her breasts pressed against him, the sound she lets out when he nips at the curve of her jaw.
When they reach the bedroom and he finally finally finally learns the feel of her, the way he's learned everything else—well, that he'll remember perfectly.
x
Jemma only wakes twice during the night, and neither time seems as bad as last night. For his part, he doesn't dream at all, and wakes only when she does. Which is to say, the small sounds of distress she lets out during her nightmares always snap him right awake, and then he wakes her up.
The first time, it only takes her about ten minutes to get back to sleep. She cries a little, but nowhere near as badly as she did last night. The second time, it doesn't even take that long, and she doesn't cry at all.
He knows it's the closest she's going to get to a good night for a while.
x
In the morning, he wakes to the feeling of Jemma's breath on his neck. He's lying on his back, and she's draped over him, her legs tangled with his and her head resting on his chest. She seems to be sleeping peacefully now.
Glancing at the clock, he's shocked to see that it's after nine. He can't remember the last time he slept this late. And sure, he just spent three days running on six hours of sleep, but he's gone longer than that with no trouble. It must be the company.
Jemma shifts a little, her hand sliding across his abdomen, and he looks down at her. She looks so peaceful, and if she's sleeping well he doesn't want to disturb her, but it's been more than three days since the last time he worked out. He will literally go out of his mind if he doesn't get in some time in the training room right now.
He carefully shifts her off of him and slides out of bed, moving slowly and silently so as not to wake her.
He'll have to go easy with the punching bag, since his hand is still bruised all to hell, but that's okay. He broke his right wrist once, about six years ago now, and he had to wear a cast for five weeks. Now that was torture.
x
Grant's just finishing up the cool down from his ten mile run on the treadmill when he hears the sound of footsteps on the stairs. He takes a moment to switch off the treadmill, then steps off of it and turns to see Jemma standing on the bottom step. He's relieved to see her—he's been getting a little twitchy about being away from her so long. (Long being a relative term, as it's been less than two hours, but…whatever. She almost died, he gets points for leaving her side at all.)
"Morning."
"Good morning," she says brightly.
He crosses the room to the stairs and bends to kiss her. And he does have to bend, even with her standing on the step. She's just…tiny. Tiny and irresistible and perfect.
"How are you feeling?" he asks when he pulls back. She looks well enough, not as pale as yesterday at the very least.
"Better," she says. "I suppose I should have known I'd find you down here. How close were you to being driven mad by inactivity?"
"Seconds away," he tells her. "I had to sprint the last few feet."
It makes her smile, as he knew it would. She goes up on her toes to kiss him again, then gives him a little shove.
"Well, don't let me keep you, then," she says. "I need you sane. But do be careful with your bad hand."
"Actually, I'm done," he tells her. "I was just about to go upstairs and shower."
Jemma scrunches up her nose a little. "Oh."
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing," she says. "I was just coming down to say hello before I showered. You can have the first one, since you're all…sweaty."
They've reached the stage in their relationship where he can make this suggestion, he thinks. He hopes. (Relationships are hard when you're not manipulating the other person.)
"We could shower together," he suggests. "Conserve water."
"Actually, water conservation—" she begins, then breaks off with a smile. "You know what? That's a brilliant idea. Race you to the bath?"
(He's a little disappointed to miss what he's sure was going to be a very amusing lecture on the technicalities of water conservation. Not disappointed enough to delay their shower, obviously, but he makes a mental note to bring up the topic later—he knows he won't understand it, but he enjoys listening to her talk science.)
"Sure," he agrees. "I'll even give you a head start. Is three minutes enough?"
He pays for that remark later. But in a really, really great way.
x
It's a nice day, so they eat lunch on the patio. Jemma entertains herself by providing the common and scientific name for every visible plant in the surrounding area, as well as critiquing their relative health while Grant listens on in amusement. The trees, grass, and flowers look healthy enough to him, but she comes to the conclusion that he should hire a new gardener.
"So," he says, when she's finished lamenting the state of his Ulmus canescens. "What do you want to do today?"
"Actually, I was hoping we could go into town."
"Sure," he agrees easily. "Any particular reason?"
"Just feeling a little restless," she says. "You said the other day that the town is within walking distance, and it sounds like just the thing. A chance to…stretch our legs."
"Sounds good," he says, and it really does. His morning training (and the subsequent shower activities) was enough to take the edge off, but he's still itching to do something. "After lunch, then?"
Jemma's mouth is full, so she just nods in agreement.
x
Sant'Agnello is only about half an hour away on foot, and there's a nicely marked trail leading directly to the center of town. They take their time on it, enjoying the scenery. Or rather, Jemma's enjoying the scenery and Grant's enjoying watching her smile. They hold hands the entire way, and it's easier now for him to keep his grip loose. By the time they're back on the Bus, he might even be able to let her out of his sight for more than half an hour without getting twitchy.
Almost as soon as they enter Sant'Agnello, a man stops them in the street and asks for directions to the docks. Grant slides into Lorenzo's personality automatically, making friendly conversation with the man (local, Grant learns, just moved to Sant'Agnello yesterday, born in Paolisi, two children) as he sketches a quick map on the back of a napkin the man provides.
It's been nearly five years since the last time Grant stayed at the villa, but he has the surrounding area of all of his safe houses memorized. That's just common sense.
The man thanks him and continues on his way, and Grant looks down to see Jemma staring at him in amazement.
"What?" he asks.
"Did you just go undercover?" she asks him. "I didn't understand a word of that, of course, but I've never seen you so chatty with someone who isn't me."
"Sorry," he says, although he's not sure if that's the right word. "Habit."
"Oh, it didn't bother me," she clarifies at once. "I've just never seen anyone do undercover work before. It was fascinating, actually. Your body language, your facial expressions, even your unconscious gestures, they all changed. You were like an entirely different person."
She sounds impressed, but he wonders if he should be concerned that she just got an up close and personal look at just how easy it is for him to become someone else. She's pretty much the only person, aside from Garrett, that he's ever been honestly himself with, and he doesn't want her to doubt that.
"And you really are entirely fluent in Italian, aren't you?" she continues. "What did that man want?"
"Directions to the docks," he tells her, and tugs on her hand a little to get her moving again.
As they walk through Sant'Agnello, he discovers that Jemma is strangely fascinated by his mastery of Italian. She keeps pointing at random objects, and he patiently supplies the Italian word for each one. He can practically see her filing it all away, and he's willing to bet that if he asks her six months from now, she'll still remember every word he teaches her today.
"Why the sudden interest in Italian?" he finally asks.
"Oh, I've just always wanted to learn another language," she says. "I learnt Latin, of course, as it's very useful for my research, but it doesn't have much use in social settings."
"No, I guess it wouldn't," he agrees. He considers offering to teach her Italian, but he doesn't know that it's a good idea. Languages come naturally to him, and he's never had any trouble learning them, but that doesn't mean he's good at teaching them. He tried to teach Trip a bit of Russian, once, when they were tracking a mercenary in Ukraine, and the two of them nearly came to blows over it.
Considering what an easy-going guy Trip is, that's really saying a lot.
"Anything in particular you want to do while we're here?" he asks instead.
She taps one finger against the back of his hand thoughtfully. "Perhaps we could find some souvenirs, for Fitz and Skye? I felt terrible, leaving them on the Bus when they were so upset."
"Sure," he agrees, amused. It's typical Jemma, to be so concerned about how Fitz and Skye are feeling in the wake of her near-death experience that she wants to bring souvenirs back from her traumatic leave.
Sant'Agnello isn't as popular a tourist destination as other cities, but it does get some tourists, and he knows there are souvenir shops over on the other side of town, near the Circumvesuviana station. He leads Jemma through the narrow streets, past the houses, apartment buildings, and hotels. He takes the long way, avoiding streets that would put them near the ocean. This part of Sant'Agnello is fairly high above sea level, and he doesn't think looking over the edge of a cliff would be an enjoyable experience for Jemma right now.
x
They get back to the villa a little after nine, having stayed in town for dinner. As Grant unlocks the gate, Jemma is laughing, telling him about a presentation she and Fitz gave at the Academy that went disastrously wrong.
"So the paint went absolutely everywhere," she's saying. "And there's Fitz, dripping blue, and he looks at Professor Drucker and says, 'any questions?'"
Grant snorts. Say what you like about Fitz, but no one can deny he's got plenty of nerve. His amusement fades as he's suddenly reminded of Fitz in the cargo bay, struggling with a parachute, about to go after Jemma despite having absolutely no jump experience.
He shakes off the picture as he holds the door open for Jemma.
"So how'd you do?"
"Hmm?" she asks, looking up from the bags she's fussing with.
"On your presentation. How many points did you lose for the explosion?"
"Actually, we got twenty bonus points," she tells him, a little smugly.
"For redecorating the classroom?" he guesses. "Drucker never liked the wallpaper in there anyway?"
"No," she laughs. "Thomas Edison once said something to the effect that he had not failed ten thousand times, he had successfully found ten thousand ways that wouldn't work. SciTech is all about finding success in failure, so Professor Drucker gave us until the end of term to find a success from our presentation's failure. When we recreated the circumstances which led to our little…mishap, it led us to a discovery which eventually contributed to our invention of the sonic staff. And thus, bonus points."
"Wait, the sonic staff?" he asks, distracted from his efforts to find a place to fit their leftovers in the refrigerator. "You invented that?"
The SHIELD file he read on her before the assignment began contained a list of her inventions, both individual and with Fitz, but he only skimmed it, since the first few entries went way over his head. He must have somehow missed the sonic staff, so he's genuinely surprised.
"Yes, in our first year at the Academy," she confirms.
"Wow," he says. He leans against the stove and watches as she pulls the souvenirs she bought in town out of their bags, lining them up on the counter—a hand-painted ceramic monkey figurine for Fitz, a hand-carved wooden jewelry box for Skye, and limoncello in decorative bottles for Coulson and May. "I guess I owe you one—or several. Those staffs have saved my life more than once."
"What?" she asks, distracted from the wrapping paper she's unrolling. "Really?"
"Really," he confirms. "They've gotten me out of a few tight spots. I guess I'll have to figure out a way to repay you."
She grins and looks him over. "I have an idea or two."
"Oh, do you?"
"Yes," she says, then gives him an innocent look. "But they won't work if you're all the way over there."
Needless to say, the souvenirs do not get wrapped that night.
x
Jemma has two nightmares that night. The first time isn't so bad—she wakes on her own and doesn't cry, just gets some water and then goes back to sleep.
The second time is horrible. When he wakes her up, she's hysterical, insisting that he's dead and she killed him, and he has to grab and hold her wrists to keep her from hitting him. It takes her a few minutes to wake up enough to realize that it was just a nightmare, at which point she starts crying and just doesn't stop.
He pulls her into his lap, holds her and tells her everything's okay, she's safe, he's safe, it was just a nightmare, but nothing helps. He's never felt so completely helpless. Even when she was dying, he could at least stand on guard to make sure no one followed protocol and tried to throw her from the plane, but now? There's absolutely nothing he can do to stop her crying.
It seems to take forever for her tears to slow, but eventually they do, leaving her leaning weakly against him as she takes deep, shuddering breaths.
"You okay?" he eventually asks. It's a stupid question, but he has to say something.
Jemma just nods, wiping at her face.
"Liar," he teases quietly. He's hoping for a smile, but he's not really surprised when he doesn't get one. "That sounded like a bad one."
She nods again.
"You wanna get up?" he asks.
"No," she says at once, clutching at his arms like she thinks he intends to shove her off the bed. "No, if we could just stay here for a moment…"
"Yeah, of course," he agrees. "That's fine."
They sit there in silence for a long while, Jemma taking deep breaths while he rubs her back, until finally she sniffles a little and clears her throat.
"Sorry," she says quietly. "I just…sorry."
"Nothing to be sorry for," he tells her, equally as quiet. "You wanna talk about it?"
"No."
He hates to push the issue, but he thinks he needs to, considering what she said when she woke up. He obviously should have pushed the issue about her guilt when they were watching movies, because clearly it's playing a bigger role in her dreams than he thought.
"You remember what you were saying when you woke up?" he asks her.
She tenses. "No."
"You told me I was dead," he informs her. "You said you killed me."
Her face crumples a little, and he hates to do this to her, but he can't let this stand.
"Yesterday—or, I guess it's the day before, now—you said that you dreamed you were pulling the Bus down when you fell. Was this that kind of dream?"
Jemma hesitates, then shakes her head.
"Jemma."
"I touched you," she whispers.
"What?"
"In my dream. I touched you before I knew I was infected, and I infected you. Only it—the virus progressed faster in you…because it was a dream, I suppose. And I couldn't figure out the anti-serum in time, and you died."
Her voice breaks on the last word, and he tilts her chin up to make eye contact.
"Even if that had happened," he says. "It wouldn't have been your fault."
Jemma tries to look away, but he doesn't let her.
"Do you blame Aaron Cross?" he asks.
"What?"
"Aaron Cross. It was his body that infected you. He, Whalen, and Diaz brought a goddamn souvenir back from an alien invasion, and you nearly died because of it. Do you blame them?"
"No, of course not. They had no way of knowing…" she trails off, apparently seeing where he's going, and shakes her head. "It's different. They were firefighters. They had no idea how dangerous alien artifacts can be. I'm a scientist—a SHIELD scientist. I should've known better than to get so close to Cross' body without protection."
So that's what this is about. She's not feeling guilty about how close she came to frying the Bus—or not just that, at least. She feels guilty that she got infected in the first place, that she didn't recognize that it was a virus until it was nearly the end. That's why her unconscious mind is tormenting her with images of him and the team dying—because any of them could have been infected before she realized what was going on.
"You had no reason to think that a virus killed him," Grant points out. "None of us did."
"But you're not scientists, either," she protests. "You're a specialist, of course your first thought was that it was a weapon. I—"
"Fitz didn't know," he interrupts. "You blame him?"
"No," she snaps. "Of course not."
"There is not a single member of our team," he says deliberately. "Who would ever blame you for something like that, any more than you would ever blame them."
"I should have—"
"You're a genius, Jemma, but you're not omniscient. There was no way you could have known that a virus was behind the anomaly."
She hesitates, then nods a little. He knows she's not convinced, but honestly, that'll take a lot more than one night. And it'll need to come from more than just him. He makes a mental note to bring it up with Coulson when they get back to the Bus.
In the meantime, it's a good sign that she's not going to argue the subject with him anymore, so he decides to let it go for the night.
"Glad that's settled," he says. "Now, you wanna get up, or you wanna try sleeping again?"
She swallows. "I don't…"
"That's fine," he assures her when she trails off. "Come on."
He waits for her to slide out of his lap, then gets out of bed and goes to his duffle bag.
"Why don't we see how you feel after watching a movie?" he suggests. She definitely looks like she needs a laugh. "Robin Hood: Men in Tights okay?"
She pauses, sitting on the edge of the bed. "You brought my Mel Brooks films, too?"
He holds a few of them up. "Yep."
She scoffs a little, but she's smiling. "You're ridiculous."
"Yep," he repeats. "So, Men in Tights?"
"Yes, please."
x
She falls asleep twenty minutes in, and he has to rescue her hot chocolate before she spills it all over the both of them. He sets it on the end table, then looks down at her, considering. He could carry her to bed, easily, but the movement might wake her.
After some mental debate, he decides to leave her be. It's not like one night on the couch is going to kill them.
He looks back at the movie, contemplative. He's never tried to comfort anyone after a nightmare, except Ashton. The SHIELD agents he's slept with wouldn't have welcomed it, and the people he's seduced while undercover aren't generally the type of people to have nightmares about the awful things they've done. (Hence the need to seduce them so he could bring them in.)
Ashton's nightmares were always about Maynard, things Maynard had done or might do, and they were easy enough to deal with. Grant would promise to protect Ashton, remind him that he would stop Maynard, and Ashton would be soothed easily. There was nothing difficult or complex about dealing with Ashton's nightmares.
So he has no idea if he's on the right track with Jemma. There's a lot at play there: her near-death experience, sure, but also, as he just discovered, her guilt over not realizing it was a virus. There's also all the ways things could have gone wrong, which he's sure have been featuring in her nightmares as well.
What he does know is that the thing that will help the most is time. Eventually, as they get more distance from this clusterfuck of a mission, she'll dream less. The mental scars will fade.
Until then, all he can do is what he's been doing. And if that makes him feel helpless, and useless, and just as weak as he did when he was a little boy watching Ashton drown…
Well, this isn't about him, anyway.
x
In the morning, she wakes them both by trying to roll over and nearly falling off the couch. He snaps awake the second she moves away from him, and he's able to catch her in time.
"Well," she says, pressing her hand to her heart. "At least we know your reflexes are in working order. Thank you."
"Any time," he tells her. His heart is racing, too, and he's a little concerned by his quick reaction. He's glad she didn't fall, of course, it's just that his instant wake up in response to the absence of her touch doesn't speak well of his probable ability to go back to sleeping alone. Which he's going to have to do soon, since the team will be back to pick them up tomorrow night.
"I fell asleep," Jemma realizes, looking around. "During the film?"
"Twenty minutes in," he confirms. "You sleep okay?"
"I don't think I dreamt at all," she muses as she sits up. "Perhaps sleeping on the couch is the key to a good night's rest."
"That or Mel Brooks movies," he suggests. He stands and stretches a little. "Maybe we can test that hypothesis tonight."
Jemma grins up at him. "I love it when you talk science to me."
"I know," he says, deliberately smug. The sight of her smiling helps ease a little of the tension he's still feeling after last night. "I'm gonna go down to the training room. Interested in joining me?"
"Perhaps in a little while," she says, standing. "First, I'm going to wrap those gifts before you can distract me again."
"Hey, you started it."
"I have no regrets," she declares, squeezing his arm as she passes by. "But the gifts still need wrapping."
"I'll be downstairs," he calls after her.
He detours briefly to brush his teeth and change into his workout clothes, but he's soon in the basement, working on his training.
Once again, it isn't long before he starts worrying about Jemma. Intellectually, he knows that she's just upstairs, perfectly safe and happy, but he can't help that his mind starts to summon up all sorts of terrible scenarios. Maybe she tripped and hit her head and she's slowly bleeding to death while he does his push-ups. Maybe she burned herself making breakfast and she's upstairs, crying, waiting for him to come up and help her while he does his sit-ups. Maybe someone broke in and is murdering her as he works at the punching bag.
Luckily for his nerves, Jemma comes downstairs just as he's headed for the treadmill. He smoothly adjusts his course to join her at the bottom of the stairs and bends to kiss her.
"Morning."
"Good morning," she returns. She looks him over briefly. "Have you finished already?"
"Yeah," he says, deciding to skip the run. He's been skipping a lot, lately, but he's sure he'll make up for it in the field. And, to be perfectly honest, he really doesn't want to be any further from Jemma than he has to be, right now.
"That's good," she says.
"Why's that?" he asks.
"Because I want a shower," she explains with a serious look. "But I need someone to wash my back."
x
Over breakfast (although by the time they finish their shower, it's closer to lunch), he remembers to prompt her on the subject of water conservation, and he enjoys the enthusiastic lecture, even though he doesn't really understand it. It's just nice to watch the shifting of emotion on her face and listen to her excited explanation of the 'fascinating' strides being made in that field.
For a little while, he's able to forget that she was crying her heart out in his arms twelve hours ago.
"Now," she says once they've washed the dishes. "I chose what we did yesterday, so I believe it's your turn."
He considers this. There's nothing he particularly wants to do, aside from spend time with Jemma, and despite the nearly eight hours they spent asleep on the couch, she's still looking pretty exhausted.
"How about a quiet day?" he suggests. "Maybe get some reading in? I know you brought some scientific journals you've been wanting to read, and I've got my book."
"That sounds lovely," she agrees happily. "Perhaps we could do our reading in the back garden? It's such a nice day, again."
"Works for me," he says.
So they spend all afternoon out on the patio, reading. Aside from Jemma occasionally talking to herself about something in one of her articles, they don't speak. It's nice, being able to just relax, with her right there in his reach.
He does get up, around four, and go down to the basement to do a ten-mile run on the treadmill. Apparently he's just not built to be inactive for so long. Still, once he's done with his run he goes right back to the patio and resumes reading. Jemma just rolls her eyes fondly.
For dinner, they heat up their leftovers from yesterday. They eat in the living room, in front of the television, and watch Robin Hood: Men in Tights—without Jemma falling asleep this time—and Young Frankenstein.
After three and a half hours of listening to Jemma laugh, he's feeling relaxed enough that he doesn't mind leaving her to finish her articles as he goes downstairs for his evening training. She must not feel the same, though, because he's only been at it for ten minutes when she comes downstairs. She takes a seat on the bottom steps and reads her articles as he goes through his routine, and as happy as he is to have her there, he's a little worried, too.
"Everything okay?" he asks her casually as he finishes his push-ups.
"Fine," she says with a bright smile.
She doesn't look like she's lying—and, as previously established, it's pretty obvious when she's lying—so he just goes back to his routine. He keeps one eye on her the entire time, but she looks fine. Maybe she just wanted company.
x
The next day is more of the same. Jemma only has one nightmare during the night, and it's nowhere near as severe as the one from the night before, so they're both a little more cheerful in the morning, but aside from that, they follow yesterday's routine.
(He hates to do it, but he does warn her that just because the night was so much easier than the night before doesn't mean she's 'cured'. She'll have bad nights and good nights as she recovers from this experience, and one good night doesn't mean she's all better. She's disappointed to hear it, but he knows it's better than leaving her unprepared.)
They do some reading on the patio, play a few games of Mancala (a board game Jemma brought along), and watch a few episodes of Monty Python's Flying Circus, which is bizarre but kind of hilarious.
At one point they briefly debate going into town again, but in the end they both decide they'd rather just take it easy. The team will be picking them up tonight, and soon they'll be back to work, and all of the craziness that entails, so they'd rather relax while they have the chance.
After lunch, they have a fantastic round of what Jemma calls 'mandatory leaving sex' (somehow maintaining a straight face, which is almost as impressive as that thing she does with her tongue), and then pack their things. They do a brief walkthrough of the villa to make sure they haven't left anything behind, and then load up the car and leave.
Grant can practically feel the tension he's lost over the last few days building again as they get closer to Naples. He's not built for the idle life, and honestly he's been getting a little bored, but he's not ready to go back into the field. Or rather, he's not ready to take Jemma back into the field.
She nearly died. She nearly died, and she'll probably nearly die again sometime in the near future. It's the nature of field work, and he thought he had dealt with his issues on that score, but this experience has shown him he hasn't. He doesn't know that it's even possible.
He drives one-handed, keeping the other one wrapped around Jemma's, and he tells himself again and again that all he can do is protect her to the best of his ability, but it doesn't really help. Eventually, as they approach Torre del Greco, he decides that he needs a distraction.
"So, what else have you invented?" he asks. "That I might recognize, I mean."
"Oh, all sorts of things," she says cheerfully. "Fitz and I have been very productive, over the years. You'll forgive me if I say there's a very good reason that we're considered the best of SciOps."
"I'll forgive you," he agrees. "It's the truth, after all."
That earns him a bright smile, and he relaxes a little as she begins to list the inventions she, sometimes with the help of Fitz, has contributed to field work. He's surprised to realize just how many of the tools he's been grateful for over the last ten years were invented by her, and a little troubled that he didn't notice any of them on her list of accomplishments in her SHIELD file.
Until, that is, she mentions something with a twelve-syllable name, then corrects herself with a simple 'quick concrete', and he realizes that the list of accomplishments must have used all of the inventions' actual (complicated) names, rather than the easy-to-understand nicknames that field agents and specialists use.
Between that mystery being solved and Jemma's cheerful diversion into the projects she's been considering starting, he's in a much better mood when they pull into the rental service's parking lot. He's still not entirely happy, of course, but he no longer feels like he might shoot the first person who looks at him wrong, so he's willing to call it a win.
He keeps his hold on Jemma's hand as they head into the airport, and that helps, too. He cheers himself up slightly with the memory of how difficult it was to keep his grip on her gentle the last time they were walking through this airport. It's not a happy memory, obviously, but it's a sign of how much this little vacation helped that he doesn't have any trouble now.
He knows it'll be a while before he's willing to take more than five steps away from her in the field, and he has no idea how he's going to be able to sleep after spending four nights holding her, but that's trouble for later.
When they reach their gate, they find Fitz and Skye in the waiting area. Grant lets go of Jemma's hand as Skye throws herself on her in a hug.
"Ward," Fitz greets him. His tone holds none of the usual suspicion or wariness, and Grant thinks that maybe his wasn't the only opinion changed by the events in the cargo bay. Or maybe it's just how happy Jemma looks, how excited she sounds as she tells Skye all about the villa. Grant decided weeks ago to appreciate Fitz for the happiness he brings Jemma, and maybe Fitz has finally decided the same about him.
Or maybe he's getting way too much out of the way Fitz says his name.
"Fitz," he returns, shaking off his contemplation.
Jemma finally turns away from Skye to hug Fitz, and the expression on the engineer's face reminds Grant of the fact that while he's had five days to deal with Jemma's near-death experience, Fitz has had five days without her. He resolves to give them some time alone on the Bus, no matter how difficult it may be. (Unless, of course, Jemma gets frightened being in flight, in which case all bets are off.)
"Hi, Ward," Skye says cheerfully. "Did you have a nice vacation?"
"Traumatic leave," he corrects her automatically, even though he's been referring to it the same way. "And yeah, we did."
"Did you bring me anything?" she asks playfully.
"Yeah," he says, slightly lifting the bag that holds the souvenirs. "Presents for everyone."
"Wait, really?" she asks, surprised. She gives him a weird look. "Who comes back from traumatic leave with presents?"
He silently tips his head in Jemma's direction, and Skye gives him a 'fair enough' look. She looks at Jemma fondly, with just a hint of worry, and he makes a mental note to take it easy on her in training for a few days. The separation's obviously been hard on her, too.
"You ready to go?" he asks Jemma, who sounds to be discussing one of the articles she read yesterday with Fitz.
"Oh, yes," she says, picking up the bags she dropped when Skye hugged her. She sounds a little wistful, though. "Do you think perhaps we could come back sometime?"
"Sure," he says, as Fitz and Skye lead the way down the jet-way. "Anytime you like."
She nods happily, and he hates to bring the mood down, but he has to ask.
"Are you gonna be okay?" he asks. "With the flight, I mean."
She bites her lip, which would be distracting if it weren't for the worried look on her face. "I believe so. I think perhaps I'll be avoiding all of the windows, but aside from that, I should be fine."
"Okay," he says, deciding to take her at her word. "But if it gets to be too much, come find me, okay?"
"Come find you?" she echoes, obviously surprised.
"I thought I'd let you have some time with Fitz while I catch up with Coulson, see if we missed anything."
"Really?"
"Yeah," he says. "I've had you all to myself for five days, while Fitz has been alone. He deserves some uninterrupted science time, don't you think?"
Jemma stops walking, and he turns to look at her, concerned. She looks a little like she's about to cry.
"Or not," he says unsurely. "You don't have to if you don't want to."
"Oh no, I do," she assures him. She shakes her head a little. "It's just…sometimes it just takes me a little off guard."
"What does?"
"How much I love you," she says simply, like it's obvious.
They both said the words days ago, sitting on that raft in the ocean, giddy with relief at Jemma's survival. Somehow, here, steps away from the Bus with Skye and Fitz waiting impatiently, obviously wondering what's taking them so long, they seem to mean more. Said not in the aftermath of near disaster, but casually, during a normal conversation…it seems more real.
So he honestly can't resist the urge to drop the bags he's carrying and bend down to kiss her, even though it earns them disgusted sounds from Skye and Fitz. Jemma returns the kiss eagerly, and when she pulls back for air, he cups her face in his hands and presses a kiss to her forehead.
"I love you, too," he says.