AN: I own nothing! Many thanks to my awesome beta Myranda! Story title borrowed from the Gwen Stefani song of the same title I do not own it.-MM
It starts when Jemma is busy working on some alien specimens Will brought back with him. She's making a culture when she hears faint, bluesy music emanating from the front of the building. She strains to hear it, trying to figure out if the guitar riff seems familiar.
Director Coulson runs by, and she calls out before he can pass. "Sir, what's going on?"
"Music therapy sessions, Garner's new idea. Keep at it, Simmons."
"That's odd," she muses aloud, though Coulson is already gone and Fitz is so engrossed in his project he didn't even startle. "The only thing blues music has ever done for me is make me want to shag, which honestly seems counterproductive considering the male to female ratio around here."
She easily dismisses it and goes back to her cultures, but a few moments later, she can hear shouting.
"What the bloody hell?" she peeks out the door to shout.
"Specialists' drills, nothing to worry over," Skye returns, hustling her back in the door with shifty eyes before booting away herself.
Even when Skye calls Fitz away for an errand, Jemma doesn't give it much thought. Until she hears something hitting the far wall of the lab every few heartbeats.
"Sir, we should just tell her that it's is a freak hail storm. He'll go away eventually," she hears Fitz say.
"Who'll go away?" she asks as he and Coulson round the corner into the lab.
"Ward, hopefully." Coulson answers. "He's very drunk and demanding to see you." The older man rocks back on his heals.
Jemma sheds her lab coat. She closes her eyes and lists all reasons he could be here. "What's today? The day of the month?"
"The nineteenth, why?"
She knows exactly why he's here. Thinking about it makes a part of her ache so deeply it physically burns. She thought she'd buried this loss even deeper than she had the ending of their relationship. Maybe, she muses, you can never really move on from certain things.
"He's not going anywhere." She heads for the front bay doors, not far from the lab where she works, snagging her shawl from a chair on the way out.
"Where are you going? You cannot be serious!" Fitz says.
"Someone needs to diffuse the situation, and I promise you I'm the only one who can." She wraps her shawl more tightly around herself and steps outside. The huge doors snap shut behind her.
At least fifteen firearms in various stylings become trained on her before the door is even finished closing.
"She's mine, don't shoot her!" she hears slurred into the darkness. All the time on the other planet has made it easy for her eyes to adjust to a lack of light and she can make out Grant's wobbling from sixty feet in front of her with ease.
"Hey, baby!" he greets dryly, like he still sees her every day, like they're the something they used to be, and like he's not inebriated beyond all hope. His voice has a happy ring to it, but it lands wrong. It rings false as if he's lying, not just to her but to the both of them. He downs more Jack, if the unique bottle shape is anything to by.
She is suddenly reminded, as he guzzles the drink down, that in some ways they're broken in the same places.
"Hey Grant, what're you doing here?" She begins to step gingerly toward him, mindful of the firearms still trained on her.
"You're the desire of my heart."
"Quoting Proverbs?" she looks up at him.
He shrugs. "My mother would be proud." His eyes are so glazed and heartbroken her heart aches in return.
"And I think it's time you give me that bottle."
He grins. "Only if I get you as a replacement."
She steps easily into his arms when he gestures, trying not to think of the opinions of the others.
His hands ride low on her back, just above her bum. He's sloshed enough she can guide his movements. His hands are having an unexpected but sadly not entirely unwelcome effect on her. She needs his hands to stay exactly where they are; Grant gets grabby at times, and it won't help his case with anyone if he drifts any lower. She inches a bit closer and reaches between them to fish the bottle cap from his pocket and then reaches behind her back to snag the bottle from his hand. She tells herself it is strategic and not out of the desire to be touched. She pitches the bottle outward and he curses at her in Russian before the proximity of her body distracts him from the lost liquor. He pulls her flush against him. "Wanna dance? I played your song."
"I thought I recognized the guitar lick." She lets fondness creep into her voice to keep Grant pliable.
He leans his forehead against hers.
"Did it work?" he asks, nuzzling her nose with his. She should back out of his space, for Will if not herself. She can't begin to understand it, but she wants to stay there for… His mouth captures hers so softly, breaking off her thoughts. If the liquor on his breath didn't steal hers, the tenderness and longing in the kiss would have.
Jemma wants to stay here, in this moment, because it's real. As painful as it is, as she knows it will be to her heart later. Grant is too drunk to be anything but honest. He's unable to manipulate her right now, incapable of twisting anyone to his will. Now, with the cold wind whipping around them and his left over whiskey lingering on her lips, he is hers again. The part of her living in the "used to be" feels happier, and she wants it to stay that way. For a brief moment, it seems so easy to just sink into his kiss.
She realizes how absolutely fucked her world view has become. She can't stay here. She knows what she has to do. "Let's go inside."
"No! Coulson will lock me up! I just came to say I'm glad your safe and I love you and-"
She stops him before he speaks any further truth that could give her hope or break her heart.
"Considering the day? You get a free pass, Grant."
"On all anniversaries or just this one because…" His tone is conversational but she doesn't want talk about this, she still has enough love left for him to avoid it if she can. Picking at that scab and rubbing the extra salt in does neither of them any favors and it will only make her cry. Something she'll undoubtedly do later, in the privacy of her quarters.
"Grant! I'm going inside. You can join me, seeing it's seven different variables of chilly, or you can remain outside. The choice is yours but I'm going in."
"Fine, that's- it's fair, " he mutters as she steps to break his hold. To her surprise he follows, letting her back walk him into the base.
Fitz is the first to meet them as they come through the doors.
"Fitz dude! Dude. I'm sorry I threw rocks at you! I just- I needed Jemma. I'll get some science monkeys to make up for the rocks, okay?"
Fitz is wary. Jemma can see it. He knows they need to walk on eggshells because Grant is hair trigger drunk, and even now he's dangerous to anyone but Jemma herself. Grant is too drunk to notice.
"It's okay, Ward," Fitz says finally. "We all have bad days." Fitz pats him on the shoulder. Carefully, and damn near kindly. Fitz remembers now, she realizes, what today is.
Grant catches sight of someone out of Jemma's eye line. "Who's the new guy?"
"That's Jemma's-" Fitz starts.
"That's Will." Jemma says unwilling to elaborate for more reasons than her safety alone.
"He looks like me, that is some weird shit, baby," Grant mutters.
"Holy shit! He so does," Skye agrees. Jemma has never wanted to kick another human being so badly in her life.
"I see you invited Ward in for a night cap, Jemma," Coulson says mildly, but even his poker face can't hide his concern.
"Yes, I'm just taking him on a mini tour of the new additions to the base," Jemma says, trying to smile reassuringly.
"I'll have Bobbi and May extend the invitation to Ward's men. If you everything under control."
"We're fine…just perfect." Grant mumbles, the words muffled as he plants his face in the side of her neck.
"He's right, we are." Grant pouts when she backs slightly out of the range of his mouth, though it seems the slight is forgotten in the next three seconds.
"Hey baby?"
"Hey what?" She keeps her playful, acquiescent tone. The remaining team members have lined the hallway she's guiding Grant down, seemingly to keep him on track and monitor her safety.
"Will you make me a sandwich? I'm really hungry, and you make awesome grilled cheese."
"I'll make you a sandwich, Ward." Fitz offers.
"Please, you'd poison it," he scoffs. "Besides, as much as I like you, the only thing you can make is peanut butter and jelly. Jemma makes art with her food."
Skye laughs. "Drunk Ward is honest."
"I'm not drunk, I'm buzzed."
Hunter is losing his patience with how long it is taking to get Grant to the Vault. Mack holds him by the arm, speaking in low clipped tones.
Will looks on apprehensively but trustingly, not of Grant but of Jemma herself. There is too much compassion in his eyes and Jemma can't hold the contact even if she wanted to, for fear of arousing Grant's possessiveness.
As if he can read her thoughts, Grant gestures at Will. "Babe, babe, hey…babe. Who's the new guy?"
"Grant, that's Will. I just introduced you."
"If you say so."
-/-
When they're closed off into the containment cell, Ward leans heavily on her and they collapse into a heap of limbs. Somehow, Grant ends up with his head in her lap.
"Why're you here, love? Really? Obvious reasons aside."
He turns his head and presses a kiss to her jean-covered thigh.
"Somehow or another I always throw my lot in with people who try to hurt you." Her hand freezes where it's carding through his hair.
"What do you mean? Who wants me hurt?"
"Gideon Malick… Ugh, I hate the old southern bastard, but I need him for what he means within Hydra. I might need him but I don't have to let him use me and that's what he intends to do. Use me to get to you. Nope not in this life time, you bourbon-soaked dickhead!"
"Booze hounds in glass houses shouldn't throw stones."
"I'mma Molotov cocktail his southern fried ass for all he's done, just wait."
"Grant! What does he want? Focus, love."
"He knows Fitz got you back through the portal and wants to know how. Not to worry, no one experiments on my baby… You're safe."
"We destroyed it."
"He has more. No worries, I got you Jem." They're silent for a long time, her playing with his hair, him holding her free hand. "Jem?"
"Hm."
"That new guy Bill,"
"Will."
"Whatever. Is he good to you?"
She was loath to answer this because she couldn't guess at his reaction, but if he's being honest so can she be. She really should have taken a belt or two before tossing Grant's booze. "Yes."
"Good."
God, that simple acceptance makes her want to bawl. For so many reasons. She'd forgotten how much she used to love Grant until tonight.
She sits there stroking his hair. It's grown long on top, something Garrett would never have allowed. Grant falls asleep after a while, snoring loudly.
She sits there, trying to decide what to do. Coulson will want to keep him locked away but Grant had seemingly risked his safety and his plans to warn her. That will mean nothing to the rest of them but means a great deal to her.
She'd convince them set him free and send him back under as a double agent. It's not like he'll get caught at it. The others won't want to go for it, but it is her life to gamble with.
She raised their joined hands and kissed Grant's scraped knuckles. She wonders idly how he'd done that and promptly decides she doesn't need to know. She extricates herself from beneath him; getting tiredly to her feet, she goes to make her case to Coulson.
Will and Skye are standing outside the cell she'd just closed Grant up in.
They look at her expectedly.
"I can't right now, I really just can't."
"Why? What was the big deal? Wedding anniversary?"
"Some things aren't our business Daisy, all you need to know is some histories can never stay buried and some love it never dies," Will answers for her.
She didn't think it was possible to feel more conflicted. She was wrong. "I need to debrief Coulson, find me if Grant wakes, would you?"
She walks in the direction of the directors office.
This isn't the first time she's gambled on Grant Ward, nor is it likely to be the last. It is, however, is the first time she is unsure of her instincts. Her world and her heart have shifted imperceptibly to anyone but herself. She must move with the shift and so she does. No matter what it may mean, she's made her choice. She hopes she can live with it.