A/N: Guess who should be studying for the final she has tomorrow and is instead writing completely pointless fic? Yep, that'd be me.
Title from Morten Harket's End of the Line. Thanks for reading and, as always, please be gentle if you review!
It doesn't take long for Jemma to realize that she's been spoiled by her time on the Bus.
The Cube's labs are wonderful and extensive, but they also happen to be fairly crowded. After months spent sharing work space with only Fitz, she's almost forgotten what it is to work in a communal lab—to be subject to restricted counter space and forced to keep an ear out for signs of impending catastrophe.
Not to say that working on the Bus doesn't come with its own share of catastrophe, but at least that's almost always mission-related. At the Cube, three out of every four disasters are caused by experiments or trials gone wrong.
It only takes three days for Jemma to remember why, precisely, she prefers working in a private lab with Fitz, but it's three weeks before she becomes really, honestly annoyed by it.
On Thursday morning, they're forced to evacuate the lab corridor—for the sixth time this week!—when a trial for a prototype flash grenade goes awry in the next lab over. Jemma's colleagues—such as they are—remain clustered by the security checkpoint, muttering and trading mutinous looks as the Disaster Response Team works to make the lab safe again, but, as she honestly isn't sure whether she'll last another ten minutes amongst them without resorting to drastic measures, she decides to stretch her legs.
"Simmons?"
The familiar voice stops her in the Command corridor, and she turns to see Ward leaving the room she's just passed. For a moment, she's left wrong-footed—there's something almost jarring about seeing him here, an integral part of her daily life dropped into her time off without warning.
Then she shakes it off and beams at him. "Oh, hello, Ward! What brings you here?"
"Had a debriefing," he says, indicating the room he's just exited. "You?"
"I've been granted lab space here for the duration of our downtime," she says. "I was lucky to get it; our old lab at the Sandbox was reassigned within days, so if there hadn't been a spot open here, I would have been out of luck."
"You're on your own?" he asks, frowning. "No Fitz?"
"No, he's visiting his mum," she says. "He was supposed to join me last week, but it's been so long since he's seen her that he decided to extend his…"
She trails off as the implications behind his earlier words suddenly process and gives him another look. He's wearing the uniform he always wears in the field—tac gear, he calls it. He doesn't have the vest, but she recognizes the shirt. (It's distinctively clingy.)
He's also looking a bit battered. She scowls.
"Have you been in the field?" she demands.
"…Yes?" he asks, uncertain.
"Ward! I told you to take it easy over the break!" she reminds him. "Your shoulder—"
"Is fine," he interrupts, a small smile tugging at his lips. "I was very careful, Simmons, I promise."
"You forget, I've seen your idea of careful," she says. "Have you had your post-mission check-up yet? Did you tear any stitches?"
"Yes," he says. "And no, my stitches are fine. I'm fine."
She eyes him dubiously—there's some very nasty bruising coming in along his jaw, extensive enough that she suspects its source was impact with some form of blunt object, rather than a fist—but lets it go.
"Well," she says, reluctantly, "I suppose if you've been cleared…"
His smile grows wider. "You want to check for yourself, don't you?"
"Don't be ridiculous," she scoffs. "The medical team here is fully qualified, and I'm a biochemist, not a physician. They'd know better than I would, I'm sure."
He raises a skeptical eyebrow and says nothing.
She lasts less than thirty seconds. "But, I suppose—I mean, if you're offering…"
"Yeah, that's what I thought," he says, grinning.
"It's not that I don't trust the Cube's medics," she says, feeling the absurd urge to explain herself. "It's just that—that—"
She can't quite put it into words, and Ward's grin softens into something less teasing and more sympathetic.
"It's just that Coulson put you in charge of seeing to our health," he says. "And it's hard to leave that to someone else."
"Yes," she sighs, relieved to be understood. "That's it exactly. I'm sorry; I know it's ridiculous."
"It's not," he assures her. "That kind of responsibility isn't easy to let go of. Besides, we're a team, right? There's nothing wrong with worrying about your team."
He's wearing that earnest, encouraging look he sometimes gets when he does things like offer advice about her fear of heights or ask if she's okay during particularly nasty turbulence, and Jemma's heart gives an almost distressingly hard thump.
(She's in some trouble, she thinks, when it comes to Ward.)
"Thank you," she says, and decides that a change of subject (sort of) is just the thing. "Now, about your shoulder…?"
"Right," he says, and motions down the corridor. "My room's just down the hall."
"After you," she says, and falls into step beside him. "So, you're not staying long, then?"
If his room is so close, he must be in the temporary quarters set aside for those agents just passing through. The barracks reserved for long-term visitors are on the other end of the Cube from here; that's where Jemma's own room is.
"Just for the night," he confirms.
"Then back into the field?" she asks.
"Yep."
"That doesn't sound like a very restful holiday," she says.
Ward shrugs his good shoulder. "It has its charms."
He's scanning the corridor as they walk, eyeing every passing agent with suspicion, and shortening his stride to match hers. He's also walking very close. It's exactly the way he behaves when they're in the field together—when he's anticipating a threat—and while it's a little silly of him to be so cautious here, in the heart of a SHIELD facility, she decides not to mention it. Apparently she's not the only person who finds it hard to let go of the responsibility a team brings.
And she's not unaware that their team has developed something of an us-versus-them mentality over the last few months, even in regards to other SHIELD agents. Perhaps this time apart—as unfortunate as the cause—is exactly what they need.
"So, what about you?" he asks as they turn the corner into the next corridor. "You've spent the whole time here?"
"Yes," she says. "Well, I stayed on the Bus for a few days longer than the rest of you, getting that memory machine Raina used on Agent Coulson scanned and catalogued—Fitz and I will be using the holotable to investigate its properties in our spare time during the coming months—but after that, yes. I came straight here."
"Huh," he says. "You didn't want to spend Christmas with your folks?"
She grimaces a touch before she can stop herself, and she sees Ward note it.
"I thought you patched things up with them?" he asks.
"I did," she says. "Mostly." She shrugs, uncomfortable, as he stops outside one of the many unmarked doors along the corridor and keys in an access code. "We…do better with some distance, that's all."
He gives her a searching look, but doesn't comment, simply motions for her to wait in the corridor as he ducks into the room. She thinks he's actually searching it for hidden dangers, which is…such a very Ward thing to do.
She considers the affection swelling in her chest with some alarm, but before she can—what? What could she possibly do about this?—Ward returns to the door and holds it open for her.
"All clear?" she teases lightly.
"Yep," he says, shameless. "No enemy agents here."
"Glad to hear it," she says, and enters the room.
"You can have a seat," he offers, motioning to the tiny kitchenette. "If you don't mind, I'm gonna take a quick shower first." He grimaces. "Think I brought half the desert's sand back with me."
"Go ahead," she invites, taking the offered seat and suppressing her natural curiosity about which desert he was in and what he might have been doing there. "I don't mind at all."
"Thanks," he says. "Out in a minute."
It is, of course, more than a minute, but not by much—certainly it's less than ten. Jemma is both impressed and fairly suspicious; Skye has complained often of Ward's tendency to hog the shower after their morning work-out.
The question of whether he takes deliberately long showers on the Bus solely to irritate Skye is on the tip of her tongue as soon as the shower turns off, but she forgets it entirely once he returns to the main room.
He's shirtless. It only makes sense, of course—the whole reason she's here is to check his shoulder, and it would be silly of him to pull a shirt on after showering only to remove it three seconds later so she can examine him—and it's hardly the first time she's seen him shirtless. Even if he weren't in the habit of removing his shirt to work-out in front of the lab's windows, she's certainly bandaged and stitched and otherwise treated his bare torso often enough over the last four months to have become inured to the sight.
So she has no idea why the sight of him wearing only his jeans affects her so strongly.
Perhaps it's the rest of it. He's barefoot, and he's toweling his hair dry as he enters the room. He looks exactly like what he is—fresh out of the shower—and it's putting all sorts of terribly unprofessional thoughts in her head.
"Sorry about that," he says. "So, where do you want me?"
Jemma ruthlessly suppresses all of the suggestions that spring to mind and stands, motioning to the chair.
"Here is fine," she says. "And there's nothing to apologize for. It seems rather cruel of them not to let you shower before you debrief, I must say."
"Gotta report while it's fresh," he shrugs, settling into the seat. "And it's better that way, really. Debriefs are boring; if you're not at least a little uncomfortable, it's too easy to fall asleep in the middle of the sixth round of revisiting the same information."
"Well, I can't argue that," she admits, thinking of Morocco—it was only the chill in her bones that kept her from falling asleep on his shoulder as they were questioned again and again about how they ended up in the ocean. "Now, let's have a look."
A quick examination proves what Ward has already said—his shoulder is fine. The bullet wound is healing nicely and none of the stitches have been torn. It's a relief, even if it leaves her feeling a little foolish for this whole production. Of course SHIELD's medics wouldn't have missed any damage—would have been far more likely to spot it than she would, in fact.
Still, it's a weight off her shoulders to have seen it for herself, and she gives him a thankful smile as she straightens from her position leaning over him and takes a step back.
"Thank you," she says.
"Feel better?" he asks with a hint of a teasing smile.
"Much," she confirms. "Though I'm sorry to have wasted your time."
"It wasn't a waste," he says. "Actually, I kind of feel better, too." His teasing smile grows. "You have no idea how weird it was to be cleared so easily. Guy didn't fuss at all."
She scowls at him. "I do not fuss."
"You do," he disagrees. "But I don't mind. It's cute."
…Did Ward just call her cute? She has no idea how to respond to that (except possibly to check for a concussion, because that doesn't seem a very Ward sort of thing to say. Gentle teasing, yes. Blunt and not at all awkward compliments? Not so much), and casts about for a change of subject.
"How's your hand?" is what she settles on. "I notice you're not wearing the split any longer."
She's tempted to take him to task for it, but in his defense, none of his bones were ever actually broken. The splint was merely a precaution, meant to keep him from injuring his hand any further after he put his fist through the wall in the wake of Coulson's kidnapping.
"Fully healed," he claims, and holds it out to her, palm up. "See for yourself."
She suspects she's being mocked, after his comment about fussing, but it's not as though she can just let it go. As much care as Ward takes with the team's safety, he's just as careless with his own. It would be just like him to suffer through a fractured metacarpal for the sake of his mission.
Fortunately, in this case, he appears to be telling the truth. There's no bruising or swelling, and he demonstrates full range of motion with no visible signs of pain. (Not that that means much, when it comes to him, but she's willing to take it on faith.)
"It does look to be in order," she says as she releases his hand, satisfied. "Thank you for indulging me. I know it's silly."
"It's not," he says. "I wasn't kidding when I said it makes me feel better, too." He shrugs, discomfort clear on his face. "Funny how quickly you get used to having a team, I guess."
"Yes." She smiles to herself. "It is."
"Yeah."
After a moment of contemplative silence, Ward shakes his head and stands. Jemma takes a quick step back; it's completely absurd, but sometimes she almost forgets how tall he is. At times—like now—the sheer size of him catches her off-guard.
"Whoa." Ward catches her by the shoulders, steadying her. "You okay, Simmons?"
"Yes," she says, a touch slowly. His hands are warm through the thin fabric of her shirt. It's a distracting sensation. "Yes, I'm fine. I just…"
She trails off, unable to think of a way to say your height caught me off-guard without sounding completely ridiculous, and he frowns down at her—not unhappy, simply considering. He looks to be thinking very seriously about something; after a moment, he takes a deep breath, as though steeling himself.
"Let me know if I'm reading this wrong," he says, voice low, and before she can puzzle out what he means by that, he's kissing her.
It's awkward at first, of course, because Jemma isn't expecting it at all and she's momentarily frozen by her surprise. Once she recovers, however, and actually returns the kiss—well.
It's quite the kiss.
Ward's mouth is warm and sure—as warm as his bare skin, when he pulls her up against him—and as one kiss becomes two becomes three, the slow slide of his tongue against hers sets liquid heat racing through her veins. It's almost startling, how quickly she becomes aroused, and she might be embarrassed if not for the low groan in the back of Ward's throat and the insistent press of his hips against hers—evidence that she's not alone in her state.
When the need for oxygen eventually separates them, his eyes are darker than she's ever seen them. The naked desire on his face makes it difficult to control her own—she's almost lightheaded with it.
"Was that okay?" he asks, voice rough and breathing ragged.
She laughs, breathless and nearly giddy. "More than."
"Good," he says, plainly relieved. "That's…good."
There are all sorts of questions buzzing in the back of her mind—questions about why he did that and what it means and whether it's really a good idea to let herself become intimate with a member of her team—but he's so close still.
So she'll blame the next six kisses on proximity, and the three following those on the way his fingers dig into her hips when she scrapes her nails along the nape of his neck.
For the way she tugs him into his bedroom, however, she has no one to blame but herself.