Written for RarePair Fest 2014, for angelette. The usual disclaimers apply - not my toys, just borrowing. Also, watch out for vaguely implied polyamory and lots of angst.

"I'm not going anywhere."

The expressions on Ward's face were only there for a few seconds, but it was long enough for Fitz to notice and catalogue the new data: pleased surprise followed by something darker. Almost immediately, though, the specialist assumed his normal emotionless mask and turned to the task at hand.

They worked well together, Fitz decided as he raced through the complex on Ward's heels. Ward was a bit of an automaton, certainly, but then again, Fitz was well aware of his own need for a grounding presence to balance his chaotic tendencies. Ward's slavish devotion to his programming, to rules and standards and practices, was a good contrast to Fitz's habit of pushing any button presented to him. Between them, they had proven to be quite adept at problem solving. They were a good team.

Ward stopped running and Fitz stumbled to a halt beside him. They were clear of the building, and Fitz could hear the faint whine of the Bus's approaching engines. He turned to congratulate Ward on a successful mission, and there it was again: surprise and more uncomfortable emotion, like sadness or regret. Fitz would be the first to admit that he wasn't a genius at figuring out what other people were thinking but this time the realization hit him like a concussion grenade.

Ward had expected the entire team to just walk away and leave him to die. He was actually surprised that they hadn't.

Fitz was grateful for the sudden blast of the Quinjet's downdraft; it gave him an excuse to wipe the tears from his eyes.

Fitz fidgeted with the heavy ear protectors that were squeezing his skull.

"Don't take those off."

Ward's voice, tinny in the in-ear speakers, made Fitz jump and drop his hands to his side. He knew better than to take off the muffs in the gun range. Of course he did. It was just that there was sweat pooling in his ear and it itched, dammit.

"I wasn't..." he said guiltily before realizing that Ward wasn't even looking at him. "I mean, what are you talking about?"

"You were." Ward turned from his target to smirk at Fitz. "I could see your shadow." He gestured to where an elongated silhouette stretched across the floor.

Fitz resisted his instinctive urge for shadow puppetry and glared at Ward instead.

"Now get over here," Ward ordered. "You're the one who wanted firearms training, which I agree you should have. If you're going to make me the perfect gun, you're have to know how to use one first."

Fitz rolled his eyes. "I know how to shoot a gun, Ward," he pointed out. "I passed my proficiencies, after all."

"You mean you managed to hit a paper target eight times out of ten, in a controlled environment," Ward countered. "That's not exactly what I'm talking about."

"I'll have you know that I hit the target all ten times," Fitz protested. "And anyway, I prefer controlled environments. Much easier to focus on what's relevant without extraneous variables cluttering up the system."

Ward stared at him for a long moment before shaking his head. "I have no idea why Coulson lets you go into the field at all."

"Neither do I," Fitz agreed. "But if I have to go, I might as well be able to protect myself. And Jemma."

Ward sighed. "You just need to learn how to stay out of trouble. I'm there to protect you." He gestured towards the shooting range. "Show me how you were taught to shoot."

Fitz stepped up to the counter and picked up the gun – a boring bullet-shooting gun – to begin the sequence he had been taught at the Academy. He had only fired three rounds when he heard Ward's voice.

"Stop, please. Just stop." There was an unmistakable hint of laughter.

Fitz put down the gun and turned to face Ward. "Is there something you'd like to say?" he asked. "Because I believe you'll see I hit the target with every shot."

Ward nodded. "Yes, you did. Good job." It only sounded a tad patronizing. "But your form is terrible. We have to fix that." He stepped towards Fitz. "First, you've got to get comfortable with the gun. Take of your ear protectors. We won't be firing anything for a while."

"Thank God!" Fitz pried the horrible muffs off and rubbed his sweaty ears. "As soon as I get back to the lab, I'm making a pair of these things that are actually comfortable."

"You'll be the first," Ward said with a smile. "We could train without them. Get you used to how loud guns can be."

Fitz grimaced. "I don't think so. I'm well aware of the danger of concussive blasts in confined spaces and I prefer my tympanic membrane intact, thank you."

"Of course you do." Ward's face assumed a variant of its 'Fitz is jabbering on about something I don't understand' expression, though his eyes were crinkled as though by a smile. "What brought on this interest in guns, anyway?"

"I told you, I want to be able to protect myself and Jemma. And Skye," he added as an afterthought. Skye generally took care of herself, but it was impolite to dismiss her safety.

"And I told you that I'm here to protect you," Ward said, all amusement gone from his face.

"Obviously I know that," Fitz replied. "But I don't want to have to rely on you."

Ward stared down at him for a long moment, and then visibly shook of whatever emotion he was hiding behind that blank face of his. "Fine. If you're going to protect Simmons and Skye, you're going to need to learn to hold the gun differently. Here, turn around."

Fitz did as he was told. Ward stepped forward until he was standing right behind Fitz. The specialist was so tall, his breath ruffled Fitz's hair.

"Now, pick up the gun with your dominant hand and extend it straight out from the shoulder. Good."

Fitz nearly dropped the gun again when Ward's arm swung up to press against his. The movement pressed the other man's torso and hip against him. Ward was a very warm person.

"Relax, Fitz. You're not going to be of much use to Simmons or Skye if you drop your weapon. Now bring your other arm up."

"I don't even want to be holding this thing," Fitz said, the sensation of Ward's left arm wrapping around him setting off his babble function. "I just want to make sure that I can use it if I have to. I want to be able to take care of myself so that you don't always have to keep watch over me in the field. You have more important things to do than to worry about me."

There was a long and, for Fitz at least, awkward pause. Then Ward took a small step forward until he was flush against Fitz' back. He snugged his grip on Fitz's hands and tightened his arms.

"That's thoughtful of you, Fitz."

Fitz felt a warm flush spread through him at the sensation of Ward's warm breath on his neck.

"But I want you to know that I'm always going to watch over you in the field," Ward continued. "I'll always worry about you." He pressed his lips to the sensitive skin behind Fitz's ear. The warmth in Fitz's chest sparked into a fire. "And I'll always protect you."

The mattress gave slightly as Grant sat. Fitz shifted slightly to make room for the other man to lie down.

"Euch," he exclaimed. "Your hair is dripping on me."

Ward shook his head, spraying more water onto Fitz's bare chest. He laughed before settling into bed.

"You're going to make the pillow damp," Fitz pointed out. He grabbed a corner of the sheet and wiped water drops from his tablet screen.

"You're not short on pillows," Grant pointed out.

He wasn't wrong. Fitz was rather fond of pillows of all sizes and softnesses. It saved him the time and both of manipulating a substandard pillow into whatever configuration his body craved. It also had the unfortunate side effect of crowding the bed to the point where two adult men filled the space with barely an inch to spare.

Of course, a lot of that was down to Grant's physique. He was much more physically imposing than Fitz's usual type. Not that he really had a type; he just happened to end up in bed with short, slim people – people who's strength was in their intellect, not their biceps.

It wasn't that he wasn't attracted to brawny types, but the twin challenges of opportunity and mutual interest had always held him back. That's why this situation with Grant had taken him by surprise: opportunity wasn't an issue when you were sealed into an admittedly spacious airplane much of the time, but mutual interest? That had been unexpected.

Grant rolled over and pulled his towel from the chair where it sat, folded.

"There," he said, spreading the towel over the pillow. "Is that better?"

The look on his face was so full of false innocence Fitz had to laugh.

"Yes, fine. Thank you. Though it would be easier if you didn't come in here with wet hair in the first place."

"I thought you'd prefer it if I showered after that mission. I was a little sweaty," Grant explained. "Oh, and there was all that yellow goop that Simmons was so interested in. Figured I'd scrub that off."

Fitz rolled on his side, propping his head on one hand, and stared down at Grant.

"You've an answer for everything, don't you?" he asked. "You're what my Gran would call a silver-tounged de'il with your twisty, twisty words."

He regretted his teasing when Grant's face went blank, a habit that Fitz had identified as a defensive trait. He covered Grant's clasped fingers with his free hand.

"I was talking about your training, Ward," he explained.

"I know." Grant sighed. He shifted over until his head was tucked on Fitz's arm so he could kiss him on the cheek. "But your grandmother is right. She wouldn't be very impressed with me, I guess."

"She'd've loved you," Fitz grinned, returning the kiss. "Gran had a soft spot for sleekit fellows."

"What nows?"

"Charming liars. Cheats. Actually, the fact that you lie for the good guys probably makes you too nice for her," Fitz reflected. "She always told me I was painfully honest. I think she was embarrassed."

Grant turned his head into Fitz's shoulder with a soft laugh.

"You are painfully honest," he agreed. "It's one of my favourite things about you. You're not at all sle..."

"Sleekit."

"You're not sleekit. You tell the truth, always. Even when it would be better you didn't." Grant smiled up at him. "It's sexy, your integrity."

"Sexy, eh?" Fitz waggled his eyebrows. "Who knew?"

Grant reached up and stroked a thumb along Fitz's jaw.

"Sexy, and admirable," he said, his face serious. "My very first time in the field trained the integrity out of me."

Fitz was tempted to laugh at the hyperbole, but there was a sadness in Grant's eyes that stopped him. Instead he gently teased "They gave you a GPS and made you throw away your moral compass?"

Grant's smile was twisted. "If I ever had one."

This time Fitz did laugh. "Come off it, Ward." He smiled down at Grant. "Well, fine, if yours is gone, I'm sure someone could engineer a replacement."

"Well, if anyone could build me a new one, it would be you," Grant said. He rolled onto his side and pulled Fitz close for a deep kiss. When he pulled back, his voice was rough but his eyes were soft. "Until then, I'll rely on you to keep me honest."