A/N: First of all, before I forget, the title comes from "Don't Think About It" by Charlotte Church.

Second, this is all weasleyspotter's fault. She prompted me "Arranged Marriage AU" and I started to fill it, then I got another idea, then another, and now here we are.

Third, as the summary suggests, this will be a collection of five unrelated arranged marriage drabbles, of varying length and happiness. Follow-ups in the various universes are possible but unlikely.

Fourth, I already have the first two written. When the rest of it might be up, I have no idea.

I think that's it. Thanks for reading and, as always, please be gentle if you review!

Jemma never gives any serious thought to trying to get out of the arrangement.

She imagines it when she's a little girl, of course, as all little girls do. She spends the first few years of her life picturing a handsome prince sweeping her off of her feet and carrying her off into the sunset (after, of course, negotiating the cancellation of her contract—Jemma is a very conscientious child, and would never dream of jilting her intended). But those are only childish dreams, and they fade as she grows older.

Marriage is a duty. It's what's expected of her. And while Jemma actually is in the habit of breaking expectations, it's always in a positive way. (Gaining two PhDs by the age of seventeen, for example—no one expected that.) All of those fairy tales about girls finding true love are just that: fairy tales.

By the time she turns eighteen and the contract comes due, Jemma has long since accepted her lot in life.

And it's not such a bad lot, not really. She's been well educated, allowed to pursue her dreams, and she has two kind, loving parents who have always doted on her. There are women all over the world in far, far worse circumstances than hers. Compared to what they suffer—well, having to marry a man she's never met isn't that much of a hardship, is it?

So Jemma isn't upset as she's led into the room where she will be meeting her intended for the first time. She isn't resentful, or scared, or plotting a last-minute daring escape. She is a touch nervous, but that's only to be expected, isn't it? She's about to meet the man with whom she's expected to share the rest of her life. She's spent all of her life wondering about him and now, after eighteen years, she's finally going to get answers for all of her many, many questions.

All she knows about her intended is his name, and 'Grant Ward' doesn't give her much to go on.

The first meeting is, traditionally, conducted in private, so the woman who led her to the room leaves as soon as Jemma sits down. Grant isn't here yet, which does nothing for her nerves, and she folds her hands on the table and concentrates on keeping her breathing even.

She never thought she could be more nervous than she was when presenting her first doctoral dissertation. It appears she was wrong.

She's sitting with her back to the door, and she's grateful for it when she hears the door open, because it gives her one last moment to steel herself. She does so, then stands and turns to face her future as he steps into the room and closes the door.

Well. He's certainly…something.

In fact, he's gorgeous. And very tall. Jemma is well aware that she's rather on the short side, but facing her future husband, she feels positively tiny.

They spend a few moments just standing there, taking one another in. She wonders what he sees when he looks at her—wonders what he thinks of her, in her jeans and pink shirt and favorite earrings. She meant to dress up for this, she really did, but she was up so late last night on the phone with Fitz, discussing the problems with the sonic staff prototype, that it entirely slipped her mind when she woke up this morning (half an hour late).

For her part, Jemma is rather impressed. His personality is much more importance to her future happiness than his appearance, of course, but…still. Aesthetically speaking, she really has lucked out.

"Hi," he says eventually.

"Hello," she says. Unable to stand the thought of continuing the awkward silence, yet completely lacking in anything to say, she motions vaguely to the table. "Would you like to sit?"

One corner of his mouth ticks up in what might be a smile. "Sure."

She settles back into her seat as he rounds the table to take the chair across from her. Her hands are shaking a little from her nerves, so she folds them in her lap this time, hiding them beneath the table. Perhaps it's silly—surely he wouldn't begrudge her a little bit of tension—but she hates the idea of his first impression of her involving her shaking like a frightened child.

She is not frightened. She's just…anxious.

"It's…nice to finally meet you," she ventures after another long moment of silence. "Grant."

"You, too," he says. "Jemma."

His tone when he says her name is a touch mocking, but in a somehow inoffensive way. Actually, it makes her smile, realizing how ridiculous she's being, and he smiles a bit in response.

He doesn't look nearly as uneasy as she must. In fact, he looks entirely relaxed. He's lounging back in his chair, elbows resting on the arms and hands loosely clasped in front of him. She wonders whether he's really as unconcerned as he appears, or if he's just better at hiding his nerves than she is.

It's something of a comforting thought, that he might not be as nervous as she is. She doesn't know why—misery, as they say, loves company, so surely she should prefer that he be anxious, too—but, there it is. It, along with the half-smile still lurking at the corners of his mouth, relaxes her enough to give conversation another try.

On the table is a list of suggested questions for getting to know one another, and Jemma leans forward a little to examine it. They're all very banal questions—age, interests, friends, and the like—but, for lack of anything better, she decides to follow them.

"So," she says. "I'm eighteen today, as you know. How old are you?"

"Twenty-two," he answers. "And happy birthday, by the way."

"Thank you," she says, and glances back down at the list.

Before she can read the next question, however, Grant leans forward and slides the list down the table, out of her reach.

"I don't think we need that," he says, sitting back. "Just…tell me about yourself."

Jemma has never been very good at speaking about herself. She can go for hours on science—on her work and her theories and the fascinating recent developments she's heard about—but when the topic is her, she can barely manage ten words. As evidenced by this very moment.

"What do you want to know?" she asks, a little hesitantly.

He shrugs a little. "You're eighteen. Are you in college?"

Ah.

"Actually, I've finished university already," she tells him, trying to match his casual tone (and mostly failing).

"Really?" he asks. He sounds impressed, and it warms her. "You're eighteen and you've already got a bachelor's? In what?"

"A PhD," she corrects. "Or, well, two of them."

He stares at her silently for a long moment, and she shifts a bit in her seat.

"Wow," he says finally. He chuckles slightly and rubs at one eyebrow. "Can't say I was expecting that."

She shrugs helplessly. She makes no apologies for her intellect—and, quite frankly, wants nothing to do with anyone who expects them—but it does tend to take people off guard, and she never knows what to say to smooth past the initial reaction.

"Two PhDs," he muses. "So, what do you do? Are you working towards more? Gonna go for a full dozen?"

She laughs a little, amused by how reasonable he makes it sound—like it wouldn't surprise him, or bother him, at all if she said that yes, she does intend to spend the next twenty years collecting PhDs.

"Tempting," she says. "But no, I…have a job." She tucks her hair behind her ear, some of her nerves returning. She has no idea how he's going to take this. "I do research for a multi-national organization dedicated to the betterment and protection of mankind."

It's inconvenient that SHIELD's existence is mostly classified. She won't be able to tell him more than that until they're actually married, which won't be until next week, and such a vague statement is bound to make him suspicious. Fitz has been joking about it for months—that her intended will think she's a spy or a member of a cult or some such nonsense. (It's easy for him to say; he's still two years away from marriage.)

Grant blinks a little then leans forward, resting his elbows on the table and pinning her with an unreadable look.

"Jemma," he says slowly. "Do you work for SHIELD?"

She stares at him, stunned. The only way he could possibly know that is if…

"Yes," she admits, carefully. "Do you?"

"Yeah," he says, and chuckles incredulously. "I do."

"Well," she says, and can't resist the impulse to throw his own words back at him. "I can't say I was expecting that."

He shakes his head, smiling a little. "So, you're SciOps, then?"

"Yes," she confirms. "I'm a biochemist. I've just been assigned to the Hub."

"Really?" he asks. "Two PhDs at eighteen doesn't rate the Sandbox?"

"Oh, it did," she assures him. "There was…a slight incident. We were reassigned last week."

He looks entertained. "Do I want to know?"

"Probably not," she says, and elects to change the subject. "What about you? Operations or Communications?"

She's assuming that he's not SciOps, since he doesn't seem to have heard of her. She doesn't mean to boast, but her early graduation from the Academy has earned her (and Fitz, of course) some measure of fame amongst her SciOps colleagues.

"Ops," he says. "I'm a specialist."

She's not entirely certain what she should say in response to that. She's never met a specialist before, and all she knows about them is what she learned in her Orientation course at the Academy: namely, that they undertake SHIELD's most dangerous missions and utilize a wide variety of skills, including elimination and infiltration, to accomplish them.

It all sounded very ominous to Jemma, not to mention perilous. She doesn't know how to react to the news that her future husband makes his living in such dangerous pursuits.

When she remains silent, Grant gives her a searching look, then evidently decides to change the subject.

"Who's we?" he asks, somewhat abruptly.

"Sorry?"

"Earlier, you said that we were reassigned," he reminds her. "You and who else?"

Finally, a less awkward topic.

"Fitz," she says. "Leo Fitz. We're partners."

She tells him all about Fitz and then, at his prompting, a little about her work. He asks some surprisingly astute questions about her research and listens patiently when she digresses into stories about her time at the Academy. When she questions him about his work, he dodges gracefully, claiming that all of his ops are classified above her clearance level—although she suspects that he just doesn't want to talk about it. She doesn't push him. She simply makes a mental note of the sore spot and allows him to steer the conversation back to her.

Before she knows it, their time is up.

Traditionally speaking, the first meeting lasts for only an hour. There will be six more such meetings, each progressively longer, until their wedding, which will occur one week from today. It's intended to give them time to know each other gradually, without becoming overwhelmed, and Jemma has always thought it a sensible tradition.

In practice, however, she finds herself reluctant to part ways with Grant.

She thinks he might feel the same; once he's walked her out of the building, they linger on the front steps in silence.

"So," he says finally. "I guess I'll see you tomorrow."

"Tomorrow, yes," she agrees. Then she pauses, glancing down at the curb, where a SHIELD fleet vehicle is idling, waiting to take her back to her hotel. She looks back at Grant. "Where are you staying?"

"The Sheraton," he says. There's a hint of a smile teasing at the corners of his mouth and, for perhaps the twentieth time in the last hour, she wonders what he looks like when he actually, honestly grins. "Can I catch a lift?"

"I think we can manage that," she agrees, beaming up at him.

She's surprised, but delighted, when he takes her hand for the short walk down the steps. He does it silently, pointedly not looking at her, so she swallows down her initial reaction and pretends not to notice—as though gorgeous men that she's meant to marry in a week hold her hand on a regular basis.

It's all gone so much better than she had dared to hope. And as he opens the car door for her, she can't help but allow herself to hope for a little bit more.

She's always thought that she could be content in her life with her husband, whomever he may be, because she's an expert at making the best of things and, if worse came to worst, she could always file for permission to live apart from him. It's a little soon to tell—they've only known each other for an hour—but she thinks, as Grant slides in next to her, that she might just end up more than content.

For perhaps the first time since she was a child, Jemma dares to hope that she might be happy.