Disclaimer: I own nothing.
AN: Written for wardsimmonsdays winter challenge: civilian/domestic au.
Jemma is a scientist. She understands pressure and torque and how each might be applied to her current predicament. Sadly, understanding and ability to use are two very different things, which is why she finds herself standing in the hall outside her apartment, jar of pickles in hand, wondering which of her neighbors to ask for help.
Fitz is her first choice. Just across the hall and a man, which should lend him some natural upper body strength. Only Fitz volunteered to help repair the university's planetarium. He and Mack are probably with Dr. Foster right now.
Jemma's rather intimidated by most of her other neighbors. Skye swears up and down that the super is a former mob hitwoman, currently in the witness protection program. Jemma refuses to believe it. Mostly.
The building manager is nice enough but he's also fresh off a major heart surgery.
There's Skye too of course. She's been taking self-defense classes; certainly she's strong enough by now to open one silly jar. But if Jemma goes to her, it'll be just another opportunity for her to bother Jemma about joining her at those self-defense classes. Much as Jemma appreciates Skye's enthusiasm, she doesn't want to practice fight that enthusiasm.
That leaves G. Ward. What the G stands for, no one has any idea. Surely Mr. Coulson and Ms. May know - he would have had to include his full name on his application, after all - but no one seems up to asking. They only know as much of his name as they do because it's printed, like all the rest of theirs, on the buzzer outside the building.
She's caught a glimpse or two of him when he's coming and going at all hours. He looks only a few years older than Jemma and seems the sort to have stuck around town after graduating from university. Skye claims he didn't graduate at all, that he's a drug dealer who dropped out to avoid police investigation. Jemma thinks Skye has too many conspiracy theories about their neighbors.
His apartment's on the ground floor even though Skye's was open when he first moved in. Apparently he prefers it.
"Because he's a drug dealer," Skye insists whenever the subject comes up. "He's gotta be able to make a quick escape."
It's absurd. Jemma tells herself so multiple times on her way down the stairs and firmly reiterates when she finds herself hesitating before knocking.
"He is not a drug dealer," she says to the little voice of worry in her head that sounds far too much like Skye. "Mr. Coulson would never allow such a person to take up residence in the building."
"But you'd feel better about knocking if you'd taken those self-defense classes," the Skye in her head says sweetly.
Jemma knocks just to silence her.
A crash sounds in the apartment. It's followed by cursing, a second crash, even more cursing, and a fair bit of stomping.
Jemma considers running for the stairs as multiple locks (really, who has this many locks?) are undone.
G. Ward throws the door open, giving Jemma her first clear look at him - and what a look it is. He's wearing nothing but a pair of sweatpants. His exposed upper body region is … well, she's always had a healthy appreciation for the human form and his certainly deserves to be appreciated.
"What," he says levelly, more a warning than a question. His eyes land on her a split-second later and he winces. "Sorry." He runs a hand through his hair and leans against the doorjamb.
Seeing as she was the one ogling him, she feels she should be the one apologizing but her tongue has gone numb on her and she settles for keeping her eyes on his face. It's not a terrible hardship, she finds. His face is as appealing as the rest.
"I had a late call last night," he yawns. "You woke me up."
"Yeah, a call for drugs," the Skye in Jemma's head crows.
"Something wrong with your door?" he asks. "Lock your keys in your car?"
"I- no." She's so confused by the odd turn in conversation that she can't seem to find any further response.
They're left staring at one another for several long seconds. She begins to wish she'd taken more care with her hair this morning - or at least run a brush through it before leaving the apartment. Her earlier embarrassment returns, compounded by every passing second. Past experience tells her talking is a serious risk at this stage so she settles for holding out the pickle jar.
He pulls back slightly at the abrupt motion but takes the jar with tentative fingers.
"Ican'topenit," she says softly.
He puzzles over that for a moment before a slight grin tugs at the corners of his mouth. He obligingly twists the cap. Or tries to. His smile falls as he grunts. He turns away from her and she has a fine view of the muscles in his back as he strains. He throws a look over his shoulder and shifts to the side. A moment later she hears the unmistakable sound of the jar tapping against the doorjamb.
She bites back a giggle at his attempts to hide it from her.
"I've tried everything," she says, embarrassment forgotten. "Maybe it's just unopenable."
"Nothing is unopenable," he grits out. The tension in his shoulders eases but when he moves, she sees the jar is still unopened. "I have a professional reputation to maintain. Come on in."
Entering a stranger's apartment seems an unsafe move, but Mr. Coulson would never let an axe murderer into the building and she really does need her pickles back. Still, she leaves the door open just to be safe.
His apartment's bigger than hers, likely to make up for being on the ground floor, and is almost painfully neat. She finds herself wiping her feet on the mat despite not having stepped outside once today.
Water runs in the kitchen and she considers telling him she already tried that trick, but figures his greater strength - as evidenced by his impressive physique - might make all the difference.
Everything in the apartment is straight lines and muted colors, so when she enters the kitchen and sees a stack of neon flyers, it's only natural she read them.
"Oh!" she cries. "You're a locksmith!" She actually has one of his flyers in her car. It never occurred to her it might have come from someone in the building.
"Yeah," he says over his shoulder. "I thought Coulson would've told everyone." He turns off the water and uses a towel to grip the lid.
Much more relaxed now that she knows his completely legitimate form of employment requires odd hours - and won't Skye be green with envy that Jemma found out - she leans over the counter. "Oh no. Mr. Coulson likes his secrets. You've been something of a mystery ever since you moved in."
He mulls over that for a moment, brow furrowing as he adjusts his grip. Whatever he might think of Mr. Coulson - or of the rest of them gossiping about him all these months - he keeps it to himself.
"You might have to live without the pickles." Something about the way he says it makes it sound like he's hurt and lashing out. Which is silly. Even if he is hurt, withholding pickles is just an absurd form of retribution.
"Oh, I can't," she says seriously. "They're completely necessary."
"I'm sure your sandwich will survive."
"No, it won't. There is no part of this sandwich that is not integral to the overall taste. Removing one ingredient throws off the entire palette."
"Really? Just what goes into such an amazing sandwich?"
"Fresh rolls from the deli across the street, salami, bologna, tomatoes, peppers, pickles, and my secret dressing number four."
His mouth twitches like he's holding back a smile. "How many secret dressings do you have?"
"That's a secret," she says automatically. She can only imagine the ribbing she would have to endure should Fitz or Skye ever discover she has twenty-seven secret dressing recipes to date.
Her answer has G. Ward laughing, which wipes away any signs of the hurt he may or may not have been feeling. The overall effect on his facial features is terribly pleasing. The man is really far too attractive for his own good.
A loud, satisfying pop sounds and both of them look to the jar in shock. He places it on the countertop and easily untwists the lid.
"There you go," he says. He replaces the lid before sliding it to her, careful not to tighten it too much.
"Thank you. I'll … just be going then." Now that the jar's open she feels completely out of place in his home, and yet strangely loathe to end the conversation.
"What are neighbors for?" he says weakly.
He trails her out to the door, no doubt to lock it against any other annoying neighbors. Still, she should repay him - and if it means a chance to get to know him better…
"Would you like one?" she asks, whirling so that he almost runs into her at the door.
"A … pickle?"
She shakes her head. "No, no. Well, yes. But I mean in a sandwich. If you'd like to join me. I have plenty of everything and you certainly earned it." She fears for a moment she's made a terrible misstep, but then he smiles.
"Honestly, I've gotta taste that secret dressing."
"Great! I'm 3B. They should be ready in, say, fifteen minutes?"
"I'll be there."
She smiles and hurries for the stairs, mainly to hide how absurdly big her smile feels. She makes it three steps up before stopping and leaning over the railing.
"Wait!" she calls.
He's still standing in his door and leans further out, looking mildly worried.
"What's your name?" she asks.
"Grant."
Grant. She twists it around in her brain. It suits him.
"What's yours?" he asks.
"Oh! I'm Jemma. Very nice to meet you."