A/N: Amy writes Ward as a manipulative creep. No one is surprised.

This was for darkangelcryo's prompt of "That...was not water" in my 400 follower prompt meme. It got...kind of out of hand.

Title from Taylor Swift's Bad Blood.

After nearly seven weeks spent locked in this cell, Grant's far past the point of annoyance with the daily routine. It's been more than a decade since he had a routine, since the rigorously scheduled day-to-day dredge of military school, and it grates on him nearly as much as the imprisonment does.

He's bored.

It was a novel experience, at first: not having to run or fight for his life, not needing to worry that his sleep would be disturbed in the middle of the night by some emergency, not even forced to stay constantly alert for fear of letting his cover slip while his guard was down. He spent the first three weeks or so catching up on fifteen years' worth of missed sleep, and for a while, he almost enjoyed it.

But the novelty has long since worn off.

Which is why he's immediately interested when he hears the door at the top of the stairs open again not fifteen minutes after Coulson disappeared through it with his empty lunch tray. Usually he doesn't get any company at all between lunch and dinner; just for the change in routine, he's in the mood to be at least semi-cooperative for whatever's prompted the visit.

And that's before he sees who the visitor is.

Jemma.

He hasn't seen her since before he was locked in here—since Cybertek, the last fleeting glimpse of her he got while he was being dragged along at the end of a line of prisoners and she was enjoying a tearful reunion with Skye. He's demanded her presence every day—has made it clear he won't answer any questions that aren't addressed to him by her—but Coulson has steadfastly refused to provide her.

He wonders what's brought her here now.

He keeps his eyes locked on her, assessing, as he rolls out of bed and approaches the barrier. She's not injured, which is good. Her hair is shorter, cut to just above her shoulders—the way it was when they met, actually, and it makes him smile to himself. Her eyes are rimmed red like she's been crying. And, bizarrely, she's got a white-knuckled grip on a bottle of water.

She bypasses the chair, choosing instead to sit on the ground, knees hugged to her chest and back resting against the control tablet's stand. She's right up against the line, close enough that he could reach across it and drag her into his cell with him—if not for the barrier, that is, though his fingers itch with the urge to try anyway—and for a second he just stares at her, bemused.

Then she gives him an expectant look and, with a shrug, he follows suit, lowering himself to sit cross-legged on the ground, just barely far enough back to keep the barrier from activating.

She nods to herself, apparently satisfied, and rests her chin on her knees.

"Hello, Grant," she says quietly.

"Hi, Jemma."

She seems content to leave it at that, and for a while, so is he.

It hasn't even been two months yet, but it feels like it's been years since he was this close to her. Close enough to touch, if not for the fucking barrier—close enough to kiss. He's gone longer than this without seeing her—without touching her—but there's a big difference between missing her from half a world away and missing her in the same base. And down here, he's got nothing to distract himself but the work-out regimen he's designed and his own mind.

So for a while he just sits there, drinking in the sight of her. She's just as gorgeous as ever. Maybe a little paler, maybe a little sadder (and he does regret that), but still beautiful.

But he's missed her. He's missed her smile and her voice, and faced with the chance to experience them again, comfortable silence isn't gonna do it for him.

"So," he says. "What brings you down here?"

"Who says anything does?" she asks lightly. "Maybe I missed you."

It's an evasion, but there's enough truth hiding behind the words I missed you that he has to smile. His eyes linger on her rings—his rings, the rings he gave her, still on her finger—and the smile widens.

But personal satisfaction aside, he still wants answers.

"Come on, sweetheart," he says, gently chiding. "I've been asking to see you for weeks. Why today?"

Jemma lets out a slow breath and sits up straight, grip on her knees loosening.

"Do you know what day it is, Grant?" she asks. She doesn't wait for a response. "It's our wedding anniversary. Did you know that?"

Ah.

"I did," he says. He's allowed himself not to think of it in those exact terms, mostly because the separation has been pissing him off badly enough as it is, but his internal clock is still as strong as ever, and he's been keeping track of the date.

They've been married for four years, as of today.

"You wanted to spend it with me?" he guesses, making sure to keep the triumph he's feeling out of his tone. Considering the way they left things, he's honestly surprised she's not here with divorce papers (although like hell he'd sign them). Actually seeking him out for company on their anniversary is miles beyond what he was expecting. "And Coulson's okay with that?"

"It's our wedding anniversary," she repeats, calm façade cracking. "And for the first time since our actual wedding, we are spending this day not only in the same country but in the same bloody building. I don't care what—what else is happening. I am not spending this day alone again."

Interesting.

"I'm glad," he says softly. "I didn't want to spend today alone, either. And I've missed you."

"Missed me, he says," she mutters to herself. She picks up her water bottle, unscrews the cap, and takes a big sip of it. She grimaces as she swallows and screws the cap back on.

He doesn't know whether she means to or if it just slips, but she all but slams it down onto the ground next to her. Then she gives it a guilty look and pats the cap gently.

"Sorry," she says to it.

…Did she just apologize to the water bottle? For being rough with it?

He considers her current state with new eyes, adds it to the face she made after drinking, and comes to a startling conclusion.

"That," he says. "Was not water."

Jemma always personifies inanimate objects when she's drunk, which is one of her weirder (if endearing) quirks. He's never figured out why; she doesn't get drunk often, and when she does, he usually has other things to worry about.

Also, it's kind of early in the day for her to be drinking at all, let alone drunk.

Still, it explains the water bottle—and possibly why she's sitting on the floor instead of the chair. She might have thought the chair looked angry, or the floor looked lonely. Maybe both.

"No," she agrees evenly. "No, it was not." She toasts him mockingly with the bottle. "This is vodka. Hiding in a water bottle, which I understand is the done thing."

"Uh huh," he says. He watches as she takes another sip of it; the disgusted little face she makes is adorable, but kind of worrying. "And why are you drinking vodka from a water bottle at two in the afternoon, exactly?"

"It's our wedding anniversary," she reiterates. "The anniversary of our wedding. A day of happiness and celebration, except I've no one to celebrate it with because my husband is a murderous psychopath and my best friend isn't speaking to me." She toasts him again. "And thus, alcohol."

All right, murderous psychopath is a little harsh, but considering the circumstances, he'll let it slide. Besides, he's much more interested in the other half of that sentence.

"Fitz isn't speaking to you?" he asks, careful to shade his voice with concern. "Why not?"

She laughs like it's been punched out of her, and he twitches with the urge to reach for her.

"Jemma?"

"He's in love with me," she says, almost helplessly. "Did you know that? He says he's loved me for years."

Of course he knows. As if he wouldn't notice another man making eyes at his wife—and Fitz has never been particularly subtle about it.

If Grant had the slightest bit less in the way of self-control, Fitz would've suffered an unfortunate accident long before the wedding. It's been itching at him for years, the urge to take Fitz out of the equation—to make him pay for looking at Jemma like that.

If he's actually confessed to it—if he's made a move—then crossing him off just moved to the top of Grant's to-do list. (Right under escape this fucking cell, that is.)

But there's no reason to let Jemma know that.

"Really?" he asks, feigning surprise.

"Really," she says. She looks like she's about to cry. "He thought, since you're—you're you, and not who I thought you were, that we could be together. But I don't see him that way. I never have." She frowns down at her vodka bottle. "He…didn't take it well."

Yeah. He's dead.

"I'm sorry," Grant says. Practice makes it easy to keep his anger out of his voice; he sounds suitably sympathetic, he thinks. "I know what he means to you. That must be rough." He scrubs a hand along his jaw (they're—unfortunately—not stupid enough to give him a razor; he's miles beyond a five o'clock shadow, at this point, and while it's not the first time circumstance has forced him into growing a beard, it still bugs him) thoughtfully. "What about the others? They being okay?"

There was a notable lack of mention of her feelings for him in that little explanation. She rejected Fitz because she doesn't see him that way, but he knows Trip wants her, too. Would she accept a proposition from him? And there's no telling who else might be up there with her, watching her and having thoughts like just because Grant's in a cell he won't kill them for touching his wife.

He needs to know where she stands.

Jemma makes a face.

"They keep saying they understand," she says, rolling the bottle along on the floor. "As though they could possibly. As though six months on a team together is even in the same bloody library as four years of marriage." She scoffs. "They've no idea."

There's a little bit of resentment in her voice, but mostly she sounds…forlorn. She's heartbroken over what happened between them—over what she sees as his betrayal.

He can work with this.

"Try and be patient with them, sweetheart," he advises gently. He sees her swallow in response to his tone and suppresses a smile. "I'm sure they're doing their best. They just don't know how to handle this."

"This," she echoes quietly. "You being a traitor, you mean. They don't know how to handle you turning against us and trying to kill us."

She's obviously trying to sound matter-of-fact, but her voice wavers.

"Jemma, I…" He falters deliberately, forcing himself to tear his eyes away from her in order to stare at his hands. It's not easy, but it helps that she's so close; he can hear her breathing (slightly unsteady, but still the most beautiful thing he's ever heard, after seven weeks without it). "What I did…you have to know how sorry I am."

Remorse is a risky play, considering the way things went down in Cuba (and he actually does regret that; he let the freedom of being shed of his cover go to his head, and as a result showed his hand way too soon), but she's drunk and feeling vulnerable. This is the perfect time for it.

"Are you?" she asks. She sounds more curious than skeptical, which he'll call a win.

"I am," he says. "Not—not for all of it. Some of it was…inevitable." He swallows. "But most of it—if I could take it back, I would." He meets her eyes again, twisting his mouth in something (that looks) like shame. "I never wanted you to be afraid of me. I never wanted you to have reason to be afraid of me."

"But you gave me one," she accuses, almost childishly.

Actually, he gave her more than one. But he knows exactly which one she's referring to—the look she gave him when he lost his temper after bringing her and Fitz aboard the Bus is imprinted on his mind. That moment—the moment he's pretty sure she crossed the line from maybe there's a reasonable explanation to he's evil—has to be what she's talking about.

He seriously would take that moment back, if he could. He doesn't really hate her fearing him—there are worse things she could feel—but he wishes she didn't. It makes all of this so much harder than it needs to be.

Still, despite her fear, she's here with him. Drunk and lonely, she sought him out in his cell instead of cuddling with Skye or patching things up with Fitz. Even after everything that happened, she's still wearing his rings.

He can fix this.

"I know I did," he says, putting a waver in his voice for good measure. "And I know I can never take it back. But—if you'll let me—I'll spend the rest of my life making it up to you."

For a second, she just stares at him, and he can read the hope in her eyes. If he knows her at all (and he does, better than anyone), she's imagined this—imagined him repenting and offering penance. Imagined that the man he was after SHIELD fell was the cover, that the man she married really was the real him.

He's just handed her what she wants most (short of time reversing and erasing this whole mess, that is) and for a second, he watches her believe it.

Then her face crumples. "Making it up to me? To me?"

"Jemma—"

"What about everyone else?" she demands tearfully. "What about Skye? What about Izzy?"

…Izzy?

"Izzy gave this to me, you know," she says, shaking the bottle at him. "She's been so kind to me—which is big of her, considering that fact that you killed her girlfriend."

Ah. That Izzy.

Isabelle Hartley, level 7 specialist and long-time girlfriend of one Victoria Hand. He didn't realize she'd made it out of the uprising alive; if he had, he absolutely would have expected her to sign up with Coulson. Her presence in the base is a little worrying: she's a threat, especially since she—more so than any of the others, save Jemma—has reason to want him dead.

But it doesn't change anything.

"You're right," he says, placating. "Of course you're right. What I did—I have a lot to make up for, to a lot of people." He takes an unsteady breath and looks away. "But you're the first person who's been down here, other than Coulson, and I…"

He trails off into silence, waiting.

"You what?" Jemma prompts softly, and it's a struggle to keep his guilty expression.

"I can't stand to see you look at me like that," he confesses, meeting her eyes again. "I know I deserve it, but." He balls his hands into fists on his thighs, then deliberately relaxes them. "You were the first person to look at me like I meant something, Jemma. Losing that…" He laughs humorlessly. "Losing you? I can't take it."

She hugs her knees to her chest again, watching him and worrying at her lower lip. He can almost see the words she's holding back, the unspoken you haven't lost me, and it makes satisfaction swell in his chest.

He's got her.

Oh, this one conversation won't do the whole job, of course. It'll take time—weeks at the least, probably months—before he wins her back over entirely. (And like hell he's gonna spend the rest of their life together living his cover, so he's gonna have to acclimate her to the real him, which will take even longer.) There will be set-backs; as soon as she sobers up, her anger will take over again, and he'll lose a lot of the ground he's gaining right now.

But he was expecting it to take years. He can handle months. He can absolutely handle months.

"If I thought about everything I've done," he continues. "About everyone I've hurt—I'd drown in it. There's no way I can make amends to everyone. It would take centuries." He gives a stiff, one-shouldered shrug. "But if I can make it up to you…"

He trails off pointedly. Jemma is hiding her face in her knees, shoulders hunched, and he takes the opportunity to consider his next move. He's obviously getting under her skin, and he's inclined to push her a little further.

But how far is too far? He has to keep in mind that she's going to be revisiting the memory of this when she's sober; if it's obvious, when she's clearer headed, that he's playing her, the damage could be irreversible.

He needs to be careful. It might not take him years, but this is still the long game. He's not going to win her back over in one day, and trying will only ruin his chances entirely.

Still, he can push her a bit more.

"Can I make it up to you?" he asks, uncertain. "Will you let me? I know I don't deserve it—"

"Stop," Jemma interrupts. Her voice is slightly muffled, but he can hear that she's on the verge of tears. "Please—I can't—"

"Okay," he says instantly, shading his voice with panic. "Okay, I'll stop. I'm sorry. Please don't cry."

Her ragged breathing is loud in the silence, and he waits patiently for her to regain her composure. It's…not easy. He's not in the habit of watching his wife suffer without doing anything about it. If this fucking barrier weren't in the way, he would draw her into his arms, hold her close and rub her back, let her match her breathing to his and use his calm to find her own.

The fact that he can't is just one more thing to hate SHIELD for.

It takes a while, but eventually, her breathing evens out again. When she sits up, her eyes are dry, but there's a bruised look in them that sets him on edge even as it pleases him.

He's hurt her, which is what he was aiming for. But it pisses him off that it's necessary.

"You okay?" he asks softly.

"Fine," she says unconvincingly. "Let's just…talk about something else, if you please."

"Okay," he agrees. He drums his fingers on his knee. "What do you wanna talk about?"

"I…" Jemma reaches for her bottle of vodka again, which he's pretty sure is just her stalling for time.

"Why don't you tell me what you're working on?" he suggests. "Did you ever get that thing with the cacti figured out?"

It's the right move. She can't hide how pleased she is that he remembers the experiment she was talking about starting before SHIELD fell, and she's drunk enough not to be worried about him possibly fishing for information, so she speaks freely.

She relaxes gradually as she does so, and by the time the door at the top of the stairs opens, she's unfurled herself from her defensive position and is leaning against the barrier (still invisible; apparently it only reacts to contact from his side) with her legs curled up under her, gesturing wildly as she complains about one of her lab techs.

Coulson's face is a picture. May looks like she's seriously regretting not killing him when she had the chance.

Jemma doesn't notice them at first. It's only when he fails to respond to a question she addresses to him that she glances over her shoulder and finds Coulson and May behind her.

He only sees it in profile, so he can't quite decipher the expression that passes over her face when she lays eyes on May, but it's definitely not one he's ever seen from her before.

It only lasts for a moment, though, before it's replaced by a smile.

"Hello, sir, May," she greets brightly. "I didn't see you there."

"Hi, Jemma," Coulson says, in a carefully even tone. "Whatcha doing?"

He sounds like an adult talking to a child who's in danger and hasn't realized it yet—like he's preparing to try and talk her down without alerting her to the fact that she's at risk. It takes supreme effort for Grant to keep his amusement off his face.

"Celebrating my anniversary," Jemma replies, turning back to face Grant, and Coulson's face does something indescribable but hilarious.

May, on the other hand, looks sympathetic—under her usual blank expression, that is. She crouches down next to Jemma and gently tugs the vodka away from her.

"You really think this is the best place to do that?" she asks, voice carefully devoid of judgment.

Jemma shrugs carelessly, but there's something tense behind it. The ease she was displaying before the door opened is gone. "Where else would I celebrate?"

May rests her hand on Jemma's back for a moment, then stands.

"Come on," she says, almost gently. "Let's go back upstairs."

"Skye's been looking for you all afternoon," Coulson adds, turning away from the glare he's been giving Grant. "I'm sure she'd be glad to celebrate with you."

(Grant thinks the dirty looks he's getting are a little unfair. It's not like he dragged her down here and poured that vodka down her throat. She's drunk and with him of her own free will.)

Jemma gives Grant an uncertain glance.

"Go ahead," he offers with an understanding smile. May gives him a suspicious look. "Go have fun with Skye. I'll be fine here."

"I don't know," she wavers, and it takes all of his self-control not to give May and Coulson a smug look. She'd rather stay in this dark basement cell with him than go upstairs and hang out with Skye. It's a victory.

Some of it's the vodka—alcohol, in addition to making Jemma personify things, tends to make her more open, more honest, and more trusting—but some of it's not. Just like her still wearing his rings has nothing to do with her being drunk, some of her desire to stay is all her.

Coulson and May must realize it, too; they exchange troubled looks.

"Let's go, Simmons," May urges.

Huh.

Simmons, is it? He wonders if she's actually gone back to using her maiden name, or if that was just a crack at him. Judging by her complete non-reaction, it might be the former.

That's all right. She'll be using his name again soon enough.

Jemma's still hesitating, and Coulson gives her a stern look.

"Come on," he says. "You know you're not supposed to be down here."

That does the trick. Jemma sighs and, pouting, pushes herself to her feet.

"I just wanted to see him conscious for once," she mutters.

There's a sulky undertone to her voice—which suggests she's reaching the belligerent stage of inebriation, so it's probably just as well that they're taking her away—but he's more concerned with the words themselves.

See him conscious for once. Implying that she's recently seen him unconscious.

…She's still their only medic.

It's the only explanation. He was in pretty bad shape when they first threw him down here, beat all to hell after his fight with May, and while they provided him with treatment, they always sedated him first. They'd pump some kind of gas into the cell, he'd pass out, and when he woke up, he'd have clean bandages or new stitches or whatever else he needed.

Somehow, it never occurred to him that Jemma was the one treating him. Mostly because he never would've thought Coulson could be cruel enough to make her see him like that.

It makes sense, though. More than that, it explains that little look she gave May. Even if she knows, intellectually, that May didn't have a choice in kicking his ass (and he doesn't hold it against her; fuck knows he was doing his best to kill her—and would've managed it, too, if he hadn't gotten cocky), there has to be a part of her that blames May for hurting him.

It gives him an idea.

Coulson's determined not to send Jemma down to question him, apparently to the point that he's forbidden her from coming down here at all. Eventually he'll have to reverse his position on that; sooner or later, they'll be backed into a corner and he won't have a choice. But there's no telling how long that might take, and after this—after seeing her again, having her this close—Grant finds himself impatient.

Coulson can deny him Jemma for interrogation, but he can't deny him her medical care. If he's injured—if he needs treatment—Coulson'll have to send Jemma down. And even if Grant's unconscious for it, Jemma won't be. Seeing him wounded, again, can only soften her heart towards him even further and, even better, widen the gap between her and the rest of the team.

He doesn't need to talk to Jemma to sway her. It would be easier, sure, and less painful—but pain is nothing. Pain is his oldest friend.

He doesn't protest as May and Coulson guide Jemma up the stairs. In fact, he returns her mournful goodbye with a smile.

He's made a lot of progress with her today. It's not permanent—in fact, he imagines he'll lose most of it the moment she sobers up—but some of it will stick with her. Including, he hopes, the image of Coulson and May pulling her away from him, leaving him all alone in the dark.

Soon enough, she'll have serious reason to regret that image. And in the meantime, he's no longer bored. In fact, he's got an excellent idea for how to pass the time.

He noticed when he was getting dressed this morning that there's a cracked button on his pants.

He thinks he'll see about breaking it.