a/n: Hello! Thanks for reading. This is my first time writing fanfiction, but I love this ship too much not to write something for them. I hope you enjoy it! Big thanks so much to Amanda and Stone for beta-ing this! I really appreciate your help!

This chapter is takes place about a month before S01E01, and is set in NYC

I Can't Get No Satisfaction

The bar was dimly lit and not especially busy, perfect for blending in, which is exactly how Grant liked it. He had just come off a clusterfuck of a mission and wanted nothing more than to be left alone with a glass of whiskey, neat, and his thoughts.

His seat in the far corner of the room offered Grant a clear view of the bar. There were a few couples scattered throughout and a small stage in the front of the room. While Grant considered himself an excellent singer (he excelled at everything, actually), he wasn't particularly fond of karaoke. He did however enjoy listening to live music, if the singer was efficient. The two girls singing Journey's "Don't Stop Believing" though, most certainly were not. Another good song ruined by overzealous coeds, Grant thought to himself. As the girls finished, another walked up to the stage. She looked quite young.

Almost too young to even be in the bar in the first place, Grant thought.

"Wonderful," he grumbled quietly, "What now?"

Grant couldn't help but take her in though; it's what he does. Lesson one: always be aware of your surroundings. Notice everything. And notice he did. She was on the shorter side, 5'3" he would wager, and slender. She was still mostly hidden in the shadows, but he could tell her hair was on the lighter side of brown, with eyes to match. She looked completely average, but Grant didn't think that was the case. Her eyes were alight with laughter as she smiled into the crowd shyly. She had a wide, full mouth, and good lord, Grant wondered, how long had it been since he'd gotten laid?

Soft, vaguely familiar sounding music drifted across the room, but Grant was beyond caring what song she was about to ruin. He was too busy noticing everything about her. The way her hair curled softly around her face and tumbled down her back. Her straight, almost aristocratic nose, and that completely fucking luscious mouth. Who knew Grant Ward was so fucking poetic, practically salivating over some random girl, in a bar no less, like a lovesick sap. And he hadn't even spoken to her yet.

Yet? Grant asked himself. But who was he kidding? He would talk to her. Grant wanted her, and Grant Ward always got what he wanted.

Her voice was soft and seemed to carry hints of an accent. English, he'd guess.

"I can't get no satisfaction, I can't get no satisfaction…" Fuck. She was singing The Stones. Grant Ward, champion of the practical, follower of protocol, was practically ready to propose to this perfect, bordering on obscene, specimen of womanhood; all because she was singing the damn Rolling Stones, with that fuckable mouth of hers. But really, how long had it been since he had gotten laid? Too damn long, Grant decided.

"'Cause I try, and I try and I try. I can't get no, I can't get no," she continued softly. Their eyes locked for a brief moment, and Grant wanted to pull her off the stage and fuck her right then. He really needed to get laid.

##

Jemma Simmons was terrified. It was her last night in America before returning to London and her still fairly unbelievable career in the research division of S.H.I.E.L.D. Jemma had come to New York on a brief sabbatical, before immersing herself in what she had only been told will be a "long term project" for herself and her partner, Leo Fitz.

Jemma wasn't a particularly adventurous person, which is why she found herself standing on stage singing. Yes, Jemma Simmons, singing in front of an actual audience. Her friend Darcy had suggested Jemma live a little before once again becoming consumed by work. Actually, Darcy's exact words had been, "It's about time you lost your v-card, before you're as dried up as my Aunt Ethel."

She didn't know Darcy's Aunt Ethel, but she certainly did not want to one day realize that she had never really lived. And it didn't hurt that Darcy hadn't had a "v-card" in several years. Jemma Simmons was actually quite competitive, you see, and really did not like knowing that Darcy had accomplished something Jemma had not. So here she was, living a little, on a stage in a dark bar in New York City, on a mission to let loose for one single night in her entirely proper existence.

"When I'm drivin' in my car, and the man comes on the radio. He's tellin' me more and more, about some useless information. Supposed to fire my imagination."

Jemma noticed the man in the rear corner of the room. He wasn't looking like that at her, was he? It wasn't that Jemma had any sort of self-esteem issues, but she knew perfectly well that she was superior in all but the physical. She had come to accept that, in that category, she was only average. But the man in the corner looked like he was positively ready to devour her. A curious feeling filled Jemma's body, and gave her a sort of confidence that she hadn't felt only a moment before.

She stood a bit straighter, head a little higher and smiled at the man watching her.

"I can't get no, oh no, no no. Hey hey hey, that's what I say. I can't get no satisfaction, I can't get no satisfaction".

Yes, she was sure now that the man was indeed watching her, and it thrilled her. There were some beautiful women in the bar, but he was watching her as if none of them existed. As Jemma finished her song, she took the opportunity to watch the man watching her. He was mostly in the shadows, but she could make out broad shoulders under a leather jacket, and an intense, hard look on his face. He was positively beautiful, Jemma thought, and she wondered if the others could feel the tension between them. She let her eyes roam across the few remaining patrons, but it seemed as if only Jemma felt the electricity in the air.

As her song finished, Jemma's eyes once again returned to the man in the corner. She felt wonderfully, amazingly, glorious, and she decided in that moment to just let go, and go for it. To go for him. She gathered her courage and walked towards him.

"Can I buy you a drink?" she asked, smiling slightly, still nervous.

"I think that's my line," he said. His voice was hard, but not unkind, and it sent shivers down Jemma's spine.

"You were a little slow in asking, so I suppose it's mine now," she replied, sounding more confident than she actually felt.

"Fair enough," he said as he rose from his seat. Oh boy, Jemma thought, he practically towered over her. He stepped closer towards her, and Jemma had to consciously remind herself not to take a step in retreat.

"Whom do I have the pleasure of drinking with tonight?" he asked.

Jemma thought quickly, as she was wont to do, and decided giving her complete name wasn't the best course of action, "Call me Jewel, and you?"

"Jewel, pretty name," Grant noted aloud, instinctively knowing she was keeping her real name to herself. She didn't have much of a poker face, after all. "You can call me Ward,"

"I'll take that drink now, if you don't mind," Jemma responded. Her confidence was wavering, and she could use some liquid courage. She felt suffocated by the thickness of the air, the minute distance between them. He was so…large, Jemma thought.

"Or you're just short," Grant said, chuckling lightly. Had she said that out loud? Jemma could feel her face flush, and ducked her eyes. Grant could see that his Jewel was a bit skittish, but she raised her head and their eyes locked once more. The spark ignited between them.

If he were the romantic sort (he secretly was), Grant would say in that moment he looked clear into her soul.

If Jemma were the romantic sort (she wasn't), she would point to that moment as when she felt alive for the first time in her life.

"C'mon. Let's get out of here," Grant said softly.

Jemma was a confused for the briefest of moments, before understanding his meaning. Oh dear, Jemma thought. She was definitely in over her head.

"A drink would be nice, but I think we both want something a bit stronger than nice," he said, and he closed the distance between them. His hands touched her first, whispering across her hips. But when his lips glided across her own, slowly at first, Jemma was undone. She gasped at the incredible feeling welling up in her chest.

Grant took that opportunity to skim his tongue across her lower lip and into her mouth. Grant had kissed his share of women, but never one quite like his little gem. She tasted so fresh and eager, and if he didn't know better, Grant would suggest she hadn't had a fair share of kisses. But that thought quickly left his mind, because holy fuck she was sliding her tongue along his and making mewling sounds, fucking mewling sounds, low in her throat.

Grant pulled her flush against him and again, Jemma gasped in surprise. He was so hard against her. She felt all of him, and it consumed her. He consumed her. Jemma lifted her hands into his hair, grasping soft handfuls, and holding him to her. More. She needed more. She wanted all of him. On her. In her. Everywhere.

But suddenly, he was jerking away, leaving Jemma feeling cold and restless. Needy.

Gasping slightly, Grant said, "I hate, really, really, hate, to cut this short, Gem. But I promised my brother I'd babysit my nephew tonight."

Jemma startled, had he actually guessed her name? No, he couldn't have, "Jem?" she asked, tentatively.

He shrugged, "It's just a nickname, and it suits you," He removed his hands from her hips, and Jemma could feel his heat burning into her, "I've really got to go, but—will you meet me?"

"When?"

"Tomorrow, here. I'm meeting my brother and his wife to drop off Brett at seven. Oh, Brett's my nephew," Grant clarified, "After? About eight?" he asked. Grant wondered why he so easily shared details of his personal life with this stranger. Why he so wanted to see her again.

Jemma hesitated. Her flight was tomorrow. Could she delay it? For what? A stranger in a bar, who didn't even know her name? "Yes, I'll be here," she said before she even knew she had opened her mouth. She didn't know why she, Jemma I-plan-everything-to-meticulous-detail Simmons, was changing her plans for this man.

He smiled quickly, the first, real, uninhibited smile she had seen from him. It wasn't predatory or hungry. It was simply happy, and it filled Jemma with a bubbly sort of feeling.

She laughed, "This is mental."

"You're probably right," he replied.

"I am always right," Jemma shot back, before thinking to curb her highly competitive nature. But he laughed too, a deep sound coming from his chest. He pulled her close once more, pressing his lips against hers.

"Tomorrow," was all he said, before releasing Jemma. He cupped her face with his hand, and looked at her. Grant really looked at her. Tried to memorize her features. Tomorrow couldn't come soon enough. He kissed her once more, then quickly left the bar.

Jemma watched him go, touching her fingers to her lips. When had this become her life?

##

Jemma sat in the same corner of the bar where she had first kissed her mysterious stranger. It was precisely eight o'clock pm, on the dot. Jemma firmly believed in the motto "if you're not early, you're late. Thus, she had arrived twenty minutes prior to their arranged meeting time.

Upon arriving to her hotel the previous night, she had called Darcy to discuss the events of the evening. Darcy, as Darcy was prone to do, screamed and giggled and offered suggestions for Jemma's undergarments. Or current lack thereof. Jemma couldn't believe she had taken Darcy's advice to go to the bar sans knickers. Jemma Simmons didn't not wear knickers. To the same frequency she did not use double negatives, apparently. Regardless, here she was; face practically painted on, with possibly irreparable damage done to her hair, and shoes that should be illegal they hurt so badly. Her thoughts were running wild. She had committed to do this, and Jemma never quit something once she'd set her mind to it. But would it be okay? Would she be okay? What if she was no good at it? It's not that she didn't know what to expect. While Jemma had never had sexual intercourse herself, Darcy had told her of her exploits, and she had taken several health courses. It's not like she lived under a rock. She was a scientist. She knew what to expect. She just didn't know what to expect, so to speak.

Jemma checked the time, only to discover that ten minutes had passed while she was lost in her thoughts. She decided to sit at the bar, maybe order a drink. Finally get that liquid courage she hadn't actually needed last night, but most surely needed now.

"Vodka and cranberry, please," she requested of the bartender. He readied her drink and placed it on the bar before her. As Jemma sipped, she watched the entrance to the bar. Ward had said "about eight", but how long should she wait? She was starting to have a dreadful feeling in the pit of her stomach. It was now half past eight, with no sign of him.

How stupid can I be? Jemma thought to herself. Of course he wasn't coming. He probably had plenty of more beautiful, sophisticated women lining up to share a drink, and certainly more, with him.

Why would he choose me? Jemma hated herself for thinking that. She threw back the rest of her drink and gathered her belongings. As she stepped into the cool night air of New York City, Jemma pulled out her cellular and dialed a familiar number.

"Darcy," she gasped, suddenly feeling the abject sadness choking her. Why did it hurt so much? "He didn't come."

a/n: Thank you so much for reading! Please let me know what you think!