Grant rubs at his forehead as he scrawls one last note on the last of the file folder of briefing notes and proposal he had to finish going over today and drops it on the pile in his outbox. It's the second stack Margaret will have to clear out, log, and distribute today. He worked through the weekend to make sure his evening stayed clear, and her day had started with a small mountain of paperwork. He glances at his wristwatch, noting that it is nearly two o'clock. He's about to press the intercom on his phone to ask her to have something sent in for lunch when it rings on his end, his assistant's extension flashing across the call display.

"Yes, Margaret?"

"Mr. Ward?" she hesitates, clearly choosing her words care. "There's no meeting scheduled, but Ms. Romanoff is here to see you."

"That's fine. Send her in." Grant says. Margaret's extremely efficient and a force to be reckoned with, but so is Natasha Romanoff. As amusing as it would be to find out which of them would come out on top in a standoff, they are valuable resources to him, and he isn't so stupid as to lose either over an imprudent urge to ruffle feathers.

The redhead strides into his office like she, and not he, belongs there. "Ward," she nods with a slight curl to the lips painted as vivid red as her hair, her tone respectful but cool.

"Romanoff," he says in an equally even tone.

"I have the second workup you requested on Dr. Simmons," she says, sliding into the chair opposite his desk and pulling a flash drive from somewhere he doesn't see with the careless elegance she always seems to exude.

"Already?" he can't help but ask. He doesn't doubt her thoroughness – he knows better than that – but he'd expected her to need more time to suss out any risks Grant needs to know about if he's going to go through with her plan.

She lifts her shoulders slightly in a shrug. "There wasn't much of note, at least risk-wise anyway. Dr. Simmons is impressive, I'll admit, with two PhDs under her belt by twenty-seven and a third one in the works. Most of what I've dug up is academic. It's in the first folder for you to wade through, if you're feeling ambitious."

"Anything out of the ordinary I should be concerned about?"

"There's no red flags, if that's what you mean. Unless you want to count exactly one parking ticket. Which she paid promptly. Her financials are in good shape, too. Scholarships for the most part took care of student debt. Taxes filed before the deadline every year. She donates to several charities, mostly focussed on children, regularly. Even her associates are fairly above board."

"Fairly?"

"For the most part. There are three other people that share the lease to the three bedroom she's lived in the last two years. One roommate – Barbara Morse, goes by Bobbi – has a significant amount of student debt, but given she's just into her residency after med school, not a surprise. The mechanic and the engineer, Alphonso Mackenzie and Leopold Fitz, have some debt as well, but not in concerning amounts. They get standard pay for their field and from what I saw are loyal to their employers, since both have turned down head-hunters in the last few years."

Grant nods as Romanoff lists her findings.

"Colleagues and acquaintances and whatnot, they all seem standard. Except there is one friend," Romanoff leans back in her chair, perfectly at ease even though it is one Grant chose specifically to intimidate visitors with its discomfort. "Daisy Johnson. No fixed address, and her files are clean – too clean. A van registered under that name parks in the space allotted to Simmons and her roommates, and there was some bouncing around that was unusual when it came to tracking down what should have been very basic information. I'd say it'd be worth keeping an eye on if you had a hope of recruiting Simmons, but honestly? You really don't."

"Wait, what? Recruiting Jemma?"

"Look, the woman is practically a saint, and I don't think there's any amount of money you can throw at her to lure her to working for you."

"A saint? She seems very sweet, but that's laying it on thick, don't you think?"

"No, I'm serious," Romanoff says, leaning forward to point to a folder one the screen, one she's marked with an asterisk. "See this? Several pharmacology companies have been trying to recruit her ever since she finished her first doctorate, and she's turned them all down, including at least one offer that would have seen her salary tripled. She doesn't care about money, she cares about curing some diseases, Baxter's or whatever-"

"Batten's," Grant corrects.

"Right," Romanoff waves a hand dismissively, but somehow he gets the feeling she knew and was testing him, though he can't possibly guess what would motivate her to do as much.

"She's made some research strides in pain management, it would seem," Romanoff carries on, "and though would have made her quite the profit if she'd let it go to a bidding war, her patents have all gone directly to companies with a reputation for making treatments available at affordable prices. And did you know she corresponds with kids diagnosed with Batten's? Don't ask how I dug that up."

Grant raises his hands in a gesture of surrender. "Okay. So she's a saint."

"Veritable saint. You'd have more hope of convincing your older brother to work for you than Jemma Simmons."

"Then it's a good thing neither of those is my intention," Grant says.

"Well unless you think you can get her to date you, I can't think of any other reason you'd want such an in-depth background check."

Grant lets the silence stretch out, face as expressionless as carved stone. Romanoff finally barks a husky laugh.

"Really? Well that's you playing against type, isn't it?"

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"That she's not your usual type," Romanoff says, her tone suggesting she thinks he's an idiot. "You favour tall blondes who like seeing their picture in the society pages but have aged off of the Leonardo DiCaprio dating wait list. This one is quite probably an actual genius."

"Tall and blonde doesn't mean stupid," Grant points out.

"Never though so," Romanoff doesn't miss a beat. "Just there's a difference between smart and bonafide genius. But fine. You want to date the good doctor. I wish you all the luck with that."

Romanoff's face is schooled into the perfect neutral expression, but Grant has a feeling she doesn't think highly of his chances. Which is ridiculous. He's a good-looking multi-millionaire. He's the very definition of eligible bachelor. Has she not seen his abs? He knows his beach pictures have showed up in the society pages at least twice.

"Well, thanks so much for that," Grant grouses. "Just so you know, she's already agreed to a date with me. A second one at that. Tonight."

"A Monday night date? Let me guess, a restaurant so fancy even YOU couldn't get in on the weekend."

"Nope," Grant's lips lift in a secretive grin. "I've got something much more impressive than that planned."

/

Jemma is nervous. She fidgets with hem of her Mackintosh, tugging at it with her mittened hand while she waits for Grant to show their tickets to the gatekeeper. She's been a bit concerned that he hadn't listened to her about going somewhere with a more casual dress code when he'd pulled up in the limo, but when he'd stepped out to greet her, he too had been wearing jeans.

Of course, she'd bet his are a darned sight more expensive than the pair she'd picked up at Winner's a few years ago. They certainly fit him well enough she could believe they'd been made specifically with him in mind, though that likely wasn't a thing. Was it a thing? She'd have to make a note to ask Daisy. Preferably when the rest of her housemates were out, as she'd never hear the end of it otherwise, whether it was over her lack of fashion knowledge or the way she just knew she'd blush thinking about how the denim hugged his thighs.

She still hasn't decided what she's going to do about the whole marrying thing.

She should really make up her mind to tell him one way or the other, she knows. He deserves to move along to someone else if she's going to say "no", so he can find someone else with whom to make the whole sham work. If he needs to be married within a few months, there can't be an unlimited amount of time before the offer expires and he needs to seek out a new candidate, so she should tell him thank you but no thank you.

And yet.

He hasn't said a word beyond letting her know there was no pressure tonight, they were just an ordinary pair heading out on a second date. To a football match, as it were.

"I have season tickets," he'd explained on the way over. "I don't often make time to go, sometimes only when Thomas – my youngest brother – comes to town."

"So the seats just sit empty? When you don't go?" she asked, trying very hard to keep judgment from her tone. It seemed like such a waste.

He'd lifted a shoulder elegantly, a half smile on his face. "There's a draw amongst my staff, when I'm not using the tickets. The seats get filled. And I don't have to worry about getting good seats when I'm in the mood to see my team play."

She isn't sure if she should feel badly that someone who is a bigger fan is out a chance to see their team play tonight, but then again, the free tickets were never a guarantee, so…

"Ready?"

He startles her out of her thoughts, reaching out a hand. She plops her mitten into his palm and lets him lead her to where they will be sitting. He's not wearing his gloves, she notes, and she can feel the warmth of his fingers bleeding through the soft cotton around hers.

"Have you ever been to a football game before?"

"Oh yes," she says automatically. "I used to take in a match now and again when I was in uni… Oh wait. You mean an American football match?"

"Game," he corrects with a smile.

"Right," she nods. "And no, I can't say that I have."

They fall into silence again. They let go when they climb the stairs to their seats, and she worries a moment about being swept away in the crowd – there are beginning to be a lot of people in the stadium – when she feels his hand move to the small of her back. His body angles a bit in front of her, keeping her from being jostled, and she can't help but beam up at him as he points to their seats.

"I don't have boxed seats," he explains. "The view is just as good here, and you don't miss out on the crowd experience. The energy when your team gets a down, or holding your breath to see if the kicker makes the field goal…"

"I can't say I actually know very much about American football," she admits as they settle in. "Or anything at all for that matter."

"After how many years Stateside?" he teases.

"Well, I didn't think real football needed any improvement on, so…" she jokes.

"Careful, sweetheart, or one of these fans will sack you."

She blushes at the endearment, then blinks in confusion. "What on earth does football have to do with losing my job?"

He lets out a surprised laugh. "What? Oh, sacking. It's a type of tackle."

"Oh," she says. "Oh! You were making a football joke."

"Badly, it seems."

"Not your fault," she says, patting his arm. "I really don't know much about the game. I hope that doesn't ruin your experience. I know you said you don't often get to go, and I don't want you to have a bad time."

"Not possible," he smiles at her, brown eyes crinkling a little at the corners. She is reminded yet again that he is a very attractive man. "I don't mind explaining anything you need as we go."

"Really?"

"Sure," Grant says. "You'll be an expert in no time."

/

She isn't an expert by any means, but she's definitely understanding more of the game by the time halftime rolls around. Grant has been good natured, too, never losing patience when she asks after a rule again or when she cheers for the wrong thing, even during the brief time his team was down several points. He'd also bought them beer and hotdogs, which he said was part of the experience.

She only wishes she'd thought to dress more warmly.

She'd thawed a little when she'd used the restroom – and wasn't that a long line in the ladies' room – but sitting relatively stilly in the open-air seats has convinced Jemma it is past time she switched to her winter coat. Even though she'd grown up in the wet cold of England, freezing is freezing, and there's only so much her thinly-lined Mackintosh can do. Still, there isn't much she's able to do at the moment besides make another trip inside to the loo to get warm.

She makes her way back to their seats, glad she had at least thought to wear a hat and mittens and that the venue wasn't subject to the wind. She's surprised to find that Grant hasn't returned from the washrooms, yet, but she supposes there are likely more men at the game and perhaps even more demand in the toilets.

It's a few minutes, nearly enough to make her concerned she'd missed some signal and has been left behind, when she sees him making his way back to the seats, a bag over his arms and a tray of food. She is ridiculously happy to see the faint curl of heat coming off what looks to be thick-cut French fries, even if it will mean taking her mittens off to get that goodness in her stomach.

"You looked cold," Grant says as he steps past their seat-mates, setting the bag in the chair as he hands her the tray to hold. "Now I know you aren't a fan – yet – and it's definitely too big, but I thought this would be toastier."

She could absolutely kiss him, she thinks as she sees him pull out a pullover from the bag, along with a scarf in Giants home colours. He trades them to her for the tray, and she pulls the thick cotton over her jacket, wrapping the scarf around her neck. He hands her one of the cups from the tray as she settles back into her seat.

"Hot chocolate," he says. "I wasn't sure if you drank coffee this late, or at all, so…"

"No, it's perfect, Grant," she says. "Thank you. Really. I should have dressed more appropriately. You did say we'd spend some time outside."

"Well, the temperature dropped suddenly, you'd probably have been fine a few days ago."

"Well, still. Thank you. I'm much warmer."

She's still a little cold, and she doesn't know how on earth he's able to read that, because he's soon wrapping an arm around her and tucking her nicely into his side.

"This okay?" he asks quietly.

"Yes," she says, looking up at him through her lashes in a wave of shyness, hoping that the word doesn't sound nearly as breathless to his ears at it just did to hers. She almost wishes she weren't quite so attracted to him; she has a feeling she'd find herself much less mortified.

He just smiles down at her, eyes crinkling slightly at the corner as they lock on hers. For a moment, she feels something like the push and pull of two magnetic poles, some crackling force between them as his eyes dart to her lips as she unconsciously wets them.

"Dude, we're on the Jumbotron! Woo! GO GIANTS!"

The shouts from the seats above theirs, combined with popcorn raining into her hair and lap from above, breaks the spell. She ducks her head and brushes kernels out of the strands before glancing up to see that sure enough, she and Grant are in the bottom corner of the screen, though the focus is on the cheering fans with painted faces and – is that man really lifting his shirt to show a decorated belly? She shakes her head with a smile and settles back to watch the rest of the game.

/

"Jemma. Jemma, we're at your place."

Gentle hands jostle her shoulder, and she jolts awake, knocking her purse to the floor of the limousine, the contents spilling out across the immaculate carpet. She feels the heat rising to her cheeks as she stammers out an apology.

"I'm so sorry, I didn't realise I'd fallen… I didn't mean-"

"Hey, it's okay," Grant says, and she's sure he's hiding an amused smile from her. "You mentioned you'd been pulling long days at the lab, I figured you could use the sleep."

"I'm so embarrassed," she says a little miserably. He'd had to take a phone call, and she'd meant to just close her eyes a moment, but the low talking and the motion of the car must have lulled her into slumber. She's only grateful she had remained seated. If she'd drooled on him, she'd be mortified.

"Don't be," Grant says, as he starts to help her gather her scattered things. "It gave me a chance to check my email without looking obnoxious."

"You did last through the football match. Game," she corrects automatically.

"Game," he confirms. The almost elusive smile is back.

"It turned out to be rather exciting. I liked it when they hit each other," Jemma says. "Very smashing to watch. Quite literally." She bites her lip then, hard, to remind herself to stop rambling like some silly girl with a crush instead of the very competent and accomplished biomedical researcher she happens to be.

"Anyway," she finishes lamely. "I had a very nice time."

"Speaking of time," he says, holding out a tube of lip gloss, a crumbled receipt, and her cell phone while she tries to stuff a roll of glow-in-the-dark condoms – surely Daisy's work since she knows for a fact she didn't purchase them - into a purse pocket before her humiliation is complete. "Have you had enough to give my proposition any thought?"

She takes her things from his hands, looking down at them rather than making eye contact. This is it, Jemma thinks. This is where, as lovely as it has been spending time with him, the whole plot has to come to an end.

She opens her mouth to say as much when her screen lights up with an email notification.

Katie Morris flashes at the top, and her heart squeezes in her chest as she thinks of Katie. Nearly thirteen years old, she's one of the Batten's patients Jemma corresponds with. She thinks of Katie and Jesse and Adella, living in pain and on limited hope. Of Douglas and Tina whose funerals she'd attended only last year. Of the others whose names she doesn't even know, of their families. Of the numbers she might help in future for what, a mere two years of her life? And it isn't as though Grant has shown himself to be some kind of monster whose company she couldn't endure.

Slowly but resolutely, she nods.

"Yes," she says. "I've thought about it. And yes. I accept your proposal."