This goes back in time very slightly so you can experience that kiss from Jemma's point-of-view. Lovely chapter title from Sylvia Plath's poem "Mystic"—very fitting.


"Yeah, whatever I can do to help."

At Fitz's eager declaration, Jemma's chest immediately swells with some surge of feeling that she really doesn't want to put a name to—not when things are going all to hell and it feels like events are slipping so far out of her control. And certainly not when she and Fitz will so soon have to part.

Weaver's plan to draw out Ward hadn't worked, just as Jemma knew it wouldn't. He's far too clever for that—even if he is a bit mad in her opinion. Now Jemma's home is forfeit and she doesn't understand why Weaver won't just bloody well listen to her. Jemma is the one who's been hunting Ward for almost a year and this, after all, is precisely the type of mission she specializes in. Although not normally with an asset—with Fitz—like a millstone around her neck. Jemma is afraid to do what she knows she must when he might be put at risk. However, with the director unwilling to take him back until S.T.R.I.K.E. is cleared of compromised agents, she's really leaving Jemma with no choice.

She couldn't bring herself to tell Fitz how close they'd been to being caught by Hydra agents in Cardiff. She'd seen the town begin to fill with them as she drove them back toward the safe house. Jemma had been afraid Ward would block the bridge back to Bristol and she'd been tempted to go the long way round but, not wanting to alert Fitz to their peril and seeing no one suspicious, she'd raced onto the bridge. She was relieved as they crossed over, still no sign of anything untoward, but then she'd seen several unmarked SUVs pull into place just behind them, blocking the bridge from further access. Ward's men had missed them by mere moments. One or two minutes later and Fitz might've been in Hydra's hands—in Ward's hands. She can only assume that Ward's source within S.T.R.I.K.E. was able to provide the location of the tower her new mobile had accessed in Cardiff. She will have to be much more careful from now on.

As she smiles, looking up into Fitz's deep blue eyes, there's a lightness in her that she hasn't felt for such a long time. Not since before he'd been hurt—but she doesn't want to think about before, all the missed opportunities, things between them that are now so impossible.

She's quite impressed by Fitz's bravery and willingness to help her resolve their situation despite the potential dangers. It's not what he's been used to and she hadn't expected for him to agree so easily.

"That's good, Fitz," she tells him and, just wanting to connect with him and somehow show him how proud she is of him, she gets up from her chair and takes his hand, giving it a little squeeze. "I'm very glad I can count on you."

There's something in his eyes, a sudden flash of impetuousness she catches sight of an instant before he acts. It's not enough to prepare her as Fitz lunges forward with an awkward step and his lips meet hers crookedly in a sloppy attempt at a kiss. Immediately, he corrects his aim and his lips begin to work against hers.

Closing her eyes, she feels the lightness in her chest expanding outward, beyond her body, so vast she feels insignificant by comparison. She wants to reach up, weave her fingers into his hair and kiss him back with everything in her being but these feelings inside her are too immense—fierce and uncontrollable. These unnameable things she feels are in direct opposition to her discipline, her caution.

She remembers that this isn't what she'd intended for the two of them to be. She'd offered him this only to feed her own mawkishness not inflame the stirrings of her heart. He's meant for something better—someone else who can make him happy. Because she's certain that she can't make him happy, she can only get him hurt. If she'd continued to try and distract him with her reckless trifling any longer in the shop, then he might've died today. She'd nearly gotten him killed—once again.

Quite suddenly, she panics, desperately fighting the urge to let her lips find a natural rhythm with his—instead, she pushes at his chest.

He responds instantly, almost as if he'd been burned by the touch of her palm against him. She realizes it's nearly the same gesture she'd used in trying to seduce him only two nights ago.

He takes a staggering step, hitting the dresser with his hip and then he clutches onto the faux-wood like a lifeline. He brings a hand up to touch his lips but his expression is so utterly mortified that she instantly feels tears burning hotly behind her eyes for him.

"I'm sorry!" he says raggedly, not meeting her eyes. "I'd never—I just—I thought—I mean, you said that after highly emotional situations—" But he can't seem to finish and his eyes appear desperate as they dart about the room seemingly searching for somewhere to flee. It's almost like he's gone into some emotional form of fight or flight mode—and he most definitely wants to get the hell out of Dodge, er, Swindon.

Jemma manages to hold back the tears aching to spill from her eyes, though still distressed that she's made him feel this way in her unexpected moment of apprehension. She'd felt the panic rising from her diaphragm and she'd acted on it, even though that is very, very unlike her. Dodging enemy bullets, racing a target down the Autobahn and jumping out of planes with questionably-loaded parachutes were fairly regular occurrences in her life and her pulse never rose over ninety when they happened. But, with Fitz's lips laboring to arouse her, she'd suddenly just wanted things to stop because it was all too much; in that moment, reigning in those unbound feelings became so much more important than anything else.

However, she never would want Fitz to feel as if he'd done something wrong or she were rejecting him—but now she'd utterly ruined the moment. She shivers then at the idea of where they might've been now if only she hadn't balked. Eyeing the bed, desire filling her, she looks over at Fitz but can only note with dismay his wide-eyed, humiliated expression, his hand hovering over his mouth in horror—and suddenly she's not confident she can bring the situation back from such extremity.

"It's all right, Fitz," she says, settling for an attempt at assuaging his upset. She reaches up to touch his arm but then thinks better of it and, not wanting to spook him, she pulls back, giving him a reassuring smile instead. She tries to keep her tone soft and soothing. "It wasn't an unreasonable assumption. I'm not at all upset. Please—don't feel badly. It was, eh, unexpected but quite nice." He darts a skeptical glance her way, though she can see his eyes still burn with shame. She almost believes she can discern his self-castigations as they pass through his mind and over his features.

It pains her that she'd done this to him and she only wants to make it better but she isn't sure how. Knowing the timing is now wrong for an attempt to turn things back where he'd intended—not with the way he's obviously feeling—the only other thing her mind can focus on is the job.

"Just—we need to figure out what we're going to do now, Fitz. Our current situation won't be solved as easily as I'd thought with only a call to HQ. Things are growing more dangerous. The timing is just—"

"Not right," he finishes, some of the wildness leaving his eyes at the mention of the mission. She can still see that they are red-rimmed and watery, as if he might suddenly burst into a fit of crying—he doesn't, however. He cradles the back of his neck anxiously and sniffs back the wet undercurrent as he begins to pace. She'd feared he would retreat, perhaps into the loo (at least, she would hope, since she would feel compelled to stop him if he tried to leave the room). Instead, he asks, "So what are we goin' to do?"

"I don't know yet, do I?" she says with just a touch of playfulness, trying to lighten the mood in the room, despite the mix of convoluted feelings swirling around just beneath her own breast.

Her pulse is still beating wildly from the haphazard kiss he'd given her but that's nothing to the longings he's stirred up, not only in her body, but now in her heart once more. What she wants at the moment, is to push him down on the bed, shag him senseless and not think about the tangled web of feelings inside herself right now. But he looks so upset still as he paces back and forth, his fingers going from scratching at the scruffy underside of his jaw to tangling in the hair at his crown, all while making every effort not to even look at the bed—which is really quite a feat considering how much of the room it takes.

Trying to still her hunger for him, she reminds herself of the fact that Ward is still out there—still far too cunning and ready for her—always a step ahead. She really does need to be rather clever now as well and not let herself get mired down in sentiment and hormones. What they need to do is find Ward first, before he finds them again. And they'll have to do it all without any help from S.T.R.I.K.E.

"How long are we goin' to have to stay on the run?" Fitz asks pleadingly.

He sounds scared now and she wonders if he'd merely been interested in an escape from his fear and anxiety. After all, he'd suggested with his words that his seduction attempt was something casual, following another 'emotional situation'. The idea appeals to her, a diversion to take away the inner turmoil, something to make both of them feel good. Perhaps a distraction isn't—but no, not until things settle between them again and she bloody well knows what they're going to do next at the least. She only knows one thing for sure.

"We need to go after Ward," she says quickly, ignoring his previous question that she really has no answer to.

Jemma hadn't been aware his features could look any more surprised than how she's already seen them but his mouth gapes open at her words, his eyes go even wider and his brows seem to reach their limit in height.

"What?" he asks, tone full of incredulity. He follows it by barking out a harsh laugh. "What d'you even mean? Go after Ward? I'm s'posed to be runnin' away from bloody Ward!"

"We need to track him down and take care of the situation ourselves. We can't go back to S.T.R.I.K.E., not with a double agent for Hydra embedded there. We also can't just keep running indefinitely. We have no support out here and the money is only going to last so long. He'll find us, Fitz." She licks her lips and watches as he unconsciously mimics her action, his eyes glued to her mouth. "We also need to protect all the innocent people who will be hurt by Ward if we're not intelligent about this. People like yourself. We're agents of S.T.R.I.K.E. and that's what we do, protect the innocent." His expression is somewhat vague and she adds, "Isn't that right, Fitz?"

Still trying to tear his eyes from her lips, he begins to nod slowly. "Yeah, of course. You're right," he says, almost to himself. Looking up to meet her eyes for the first time since she'd pushed him away, he asks, "So, what's the first step?

"Daisy Johnson," she says, just thinking out loud but, as soon as she says it, she realizes it makes the most logical sense. "She's the prime suspect at the moment. Donnie Gill could be compromised and under her direction. I'm familiar with her movements and I think we can likely pick her up fairly easily."

"Pick her up?" he questions, brow creasing in confusion.

Jemma feels almost ashamed, as if she's somehow corrupting him, when she clarifies, "Kidnap her. Question her. Get some new information. If we're lucky, perhaps Ward's location."

He gapes at her in stunned amazement. "And, this is something you've done, ehm, before? Kidnappin'?"

She nods soberly. "Many times."

"What then?" Fitz asks, his expression still one of shock.

"Then, we see what shakes loose."


Fitz takes an extra-long turn in the toilet once Simmons finishes washing up. He's so terribly embarrassed over his foolish, clumsy attempt at a pass. She'd seemed so seductive back at the shop, even at the safe house, and then she'd told him that she trusts him with her life—him, Leo Fitz, with her life.

He isn't certain what to make of her sudden rejection, whether it's definitive or, as she said, merely a timing issue. He doesn't know what's wrong with him that he'd wait until the timing is so poor. And then to just—he sighs. What a bloody twat he is.

In his mind, he'd been planning to do something else, to ask her if she would go out with him, perhaps when this is all over. But then he remembered her overture from the other night, how it felt so powerful and passionate, then he'd thought—but had he really been thinking at all? In the moment, it felt inevitable that they would kiss and when she'd pushed him away, he'd been shocked at the unexpectedness as much as he'd been humiliated to be so incredibly wrong in his assessment of her. It occurred to him then that she's a deep-cover agent and perhaps she often had to play parts and maybe she'd even been playing one with him—just keeping him busy but never really feeling any of the emotion she displayed. He finds that he really doesn't want to believe that but he isn't sure it's not just wishful thinking.

Attempting to avoid further disgrace, hoping Simmons will fall asleep before he finishes, he spends a long time showering, brushing his teeth and then looking at himself disappointedly in the mirror before he finally turns to go out.

Taking the door handle in his grip, he looks down at his thin frame in new pajama bottoms and vest top and thinks, well, at least this time he has pajamas and not just his pants. He runs a hand over his stomach and thinks how ridiculous it is that Simmons would really be interested in him anyway. After all, he's not exactly a prime specimen compared to the other specialists she's used to working with—and probably doing other things with, things he really bloody well doesn't want to consider for a number of reasons. It's idiotic for him to think she might find herself interested in him in the long term anyway.

When he finally opens the door, Simmons is already in bed. Much to his surprise, she's nearly in the middle, as if she couldn't choose a side. It seems to him that she'd want to be as far away from him as possible. Luckily, this bed is much larger than the last one they'd been forced to share and even with her taking up so much space, he shouldn't have trouble keeping away. Nevertheless, he still looks over at the small sofa in the room but realizes he'd be doubled up on the thing. He suddenly sees Simmons' eyes shine in the dim light from the small lamp on the desk and realizes she's still awake. She blinks at him, almost in surprise, when she catches him looking at the sofa. He turns his gaze guiltily to the floor and hurries around the bed, casting one last fond glance at the tiny sofa.

Simmons is faced away as he slips between the crisp, cool and, thankfully, very-much-cleaner-than-last-time sheets and debates for a moment before settling on his back. Feeling too vulnerable to turn away from her again after his pathetic, inexpert, stab-in-the-dark come on, he settles in and stares up at the ceiling wondering if he'll be able to sleep at all.

Before he understands what's happening, Simmons slides herself closer, her body heat skimming along his side. She turns toward him, dragging her hand up his chest enticingly and then hooking her index finger over the neck of his vest top.

"I've been waiting," she says in a hushed but sultry undertone. His heart, already beating faster at her touch, instantly feels like a pounding drum inside his chest as she adds, "I think it's the right time finally." He feels her hot breath on his neck but he's frozen again, unable to respond, not that he knows quite what to do anyway. Good god, but she turns on a bloody dime though. "If you're still up for it—Fitz."

The words aren't particularly provocative to him but the way she says it—his name—has him wanting nothing more than to turn into her embrace, press his lips to hers and pull her even closer, but he feels a rising panic in his gut. The worry that she's only trying to use him to scratch that frustrating itch she seems to have but only on her own terms.

She slides against him, running her knee up over the fronts of his legs. Completely uncontrollably, his cock comes to life, hardening as he imagines he can feel the humid heat between her legs against his thigh, even through the cotton of his pajama bottoms.

He's afraid to stop her for fear she'll only roll away distantly, leaving him wondering again, as she had two nights ago but he also isn't sure if he shouldn't just ignore his anxiety and, well, go with it. He can smell the flowery scent of her shampoo as she presses herself more closely along his side and feel the tantalizing softness of her yielding breasts against his arm. He can feel that the slippery satin of her nightie is the only thing between them. He clenches his fist at his side in frustration at his own inability to make a choice. He wants to, there's no question at all, but there seem to be so many reasons not to. He doesn't want to make things difficult between them, they probably should focus on the mission actually, but neither of those matter as much as the idea that she doesn't really care one way or the other about him.

Her heated breath puffs out against his neck again as she uses the finger hooked into his neckline to pull it down, giving her full access to his throat but she hesitates at his lack of response. Other than the fact that his breathing has grown quick and ragged, all he's done is lay there like a git.

"What's wrong?" she asks, and he feels like a proper idiot. What is wrong with him that he can't just accept what he'd essentially bloody well asked for? "Is this situation not emotional enough for you?" she asks coyly, before her lips finally come into contact with the skin of his neck.

But her words make him stiffen and she pulls back immediately.

"What?" he asks, dismayed. He feels his own face scrunch up in anxiety. It seems as though she's only confirming his fears suddenly.

Now he's almost sure she's doing this out of her so-called "misattribution of arousal". Then he wonders if it isn't only pity over his botched bid to tempt her earlier—that thought is almost nauseating actually. He thinks of her declaration—that she trusts him with her life—and he wonders if it could even be possible that she really does feel something for him now. Suddenly, it doesn't seem very likely somehow.

"I think misattribute is quite appropriate," he says, surprising himself. "All that adrenaline likely just makes it far too easy to let your mind wander where it shouldn't—to whom it shouldn't. You're right, Simmons, we should likely just focus on the mission." His words are harsh but he knows now for certain that he doesn't want those other things—no pity, not some false attraction—he just wants a chance if they do this, some sort of shot at something more between them than just this. "That'll be better for everyone," he pauses for a moment, looking down but he can't see her eyes at such a steep angle. "Don't you agree?"

She lets out a sudden sharp breath onto the spot under his jaw where she'd been about to press her lips again. He feels the neck of his vest top snap back in place as she lets it go. Then, wordlessly, her limbs withdraw from around him and she flops to her back with far less grace than he's seen from her before.

He feels his heart drop into his stomach. Vaguely, he'd hoped she would disagree, say that he really is someone she might want to be with. That, if he let his mind wander to her, it isn't wrong because she might care for him. Clearly, however, she doesn't feel that way.

She continues not to answer and, stubbornly clinging to hope, he says again, "Don't you agree, Simmons? That it's—"

"I'm so sorry," she interrupts, drawing an arm up over her eyes and going silent again. He's just about to ask the question one last, desperate time, when she adds, "I never meant for you to be hurt."

He hears the words but what registers far more is her tone of voice—she sounds almost as if she were about to cry. Agent Jemma Simmons—super-spy who shoots out tires, kills Hydra bad guys, is kind to children and offers him a casual shag after a harrowing experience—about to cry. He feels the small hope he's had bloom at the realization that she's truly disappointed at his reaction—as if she really does care. It suddenly occurs to him that her slowly dissipating attitude of dislike towards him for the last few days might only be her tough outer shell and the way she tries to keep herself from being hurt. He should know, he does nearly the same thing himself. It hadn't occurred to him that she could even be hurt emotionally before now, as if she were some superhuman who's emotions are somehow protected from harm. What an idiot he is.

He turns toward her. "Is that what's best for everyone?" he asks quickly, before he loses his nerve. He brings his knuckles up to glide lightly along her side, over the sleek satin of her gown. He has to suppress a shiver at the sensation of heat and her incredible softness beneath the fabric.

She pulls her arm away from her eyes and, for a long moment, looks at him in the pale light from that last lit lamp in the room. "I'm sure you're right," she says, turning away abruptly. His hand slips over to her back and he pulls it away.

Despite her stung reaction, he still feels that new, stronger hope burning an aching hole in his heart—a convenient niche in which to store his growing feelings for her. He hadn't even meant to offend her, only keep himself from being hurt, and yet he had done that to her. Why else would his words have that effect, unless she cares or is, at the very least, beginning to?

He turns away from her, nearly unaware that his feelings of extreme vulnerability have suddenly left him—somehow his realization subconsciously leveling the playing field in his mind. There's a chance now, he decides. And, really, that's all he needs. He can make bombs from household products after all, how difficult could it be to help along a small chemical reaction between two human beings? She's made her desire to shag him clear enough, now if he can only impress her with who he really is—well, as much as he knows who he really is now.

In some ways, he's still nearly a blank slate. Still, she'd been a scientist and science is, almost regrettably, what he remembers most. It saddens him that it seems likely that was all his life had consisted of—work and nothing personal to balance it out. Simmons, however, seems much the same and he suddenly wonders if it's just all part of the spy game. He doesn't want that life though; he wants someone to share himself with who is capable of understanding and who seems worth the effort of discovering fully themselves.

He has no idea why he's set his mind on Simmons. She seems so far out of his league yet he feels the connection to her burning in his veins. He can almost believe now that she feels the same but is perhaps unaccustomed to such feelings. He is as well, but he wants to experience it—being in love with someone. He wonders if her life has left her afraid to allow such ties in favor of impersonal encounters that give little more than physical satisfaction. If that's her modus operandi, it sounds a lonely life to him and he's quite certain that it's nothing he could tolerate. There's at least one thing he's learned about himself in the last year—he's all or nothing.


Fitz bubbles up from unconsciousness to the feeling of someone shaking his shoulder and he grunts out some sort of plea to let him sleep a bit longer. It feels far too early.

More shaking, then he opens his eyes to see that it's still quite dark and Simmons is standing over him already dressed for the day but not in her usual pantsuit or—his personal preference, not that it really matters—a professional skirt and blazer set. Instead, she's wearing black jeans and a black top with a black coat over the top. For some reason, it seems an ominous start to the day.

"We need to go," she says, not really looking at him in the darkened room. Her eyes just barely glint in the glare coming from the open door to the toilet.

Thoughts and plans from the previous night come back to him as he stretches his arms up over his head. He sits up abruptly at the memory of their questionable plan, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. "We're really doin' that? Kidnappin' someone?"

"I can't see we have any other choice," she says firmly, the muscle in her jaw tense and set with determination.

"An' you need my help?" he asks, hoping to prompt more of his role out of her than he had the night before.

"Yes," she says, looking at him finally. "It won't be dangerous but I need a distraction."

"I'm the, ehm, the distraction?" he asks nervously.

She nods, glancing over to the door of the hotel room. Fitz sees many of the bags and packages from the day before and he feels guilty again suddenly.

"I've brought in some of your new things. Just wear what you might wear to the office," she says.

Though Simmons hadn't given him many options, Fitz is able to pick out something quite smart that's somewhat similar to what he might wear to the office. Though he doesn't look, he feels her eyes on him as she sits in the lone chair in the room while he chooses. He doesn't even feel like her eyes leave his back as he collects everything and goes to the toilet so he can get tidied up and dressed.

Quite soon, they're on their way back toward London, with Fitz trying desperately to think of something to say about the previous night (or anything, really, that might break the uncomfortable silence). Coming up blank, instead, he stares ahead at the damp roadway. Once in awhile, he glances over at Simmons as she drives, one hand on the wheel and one occasionally tucking some loose hair back over her ear. He can't tell if she's angry, embarrassed, or just hurt and, though she's back to treating him rather coolly once again, she's not at all uncivil—she even got him something nice to eat and both of them tea.

As they speed along in Iris, now quite close to central London, Simmons finally breaks the awkward stand off by telling him, "I'll drop you in front of S.H.I.E.L.D. HQ. You don't know her but Daisy certainly knows who you are, as well as the importance you have to Ward and Hydra. Just hang about in front of the building and she'll see you when she comes out—shouldn't be long. I'm sure she'll speak to you when she sees you're alone and unprotected. She'll assume something's happened. Just keep her talking but don't let her take you anywhere. I'll be close. Got it?"

"But, ehm, what will I say?" he asks, rubbing a hand through the several days worth of scruff under his chin and remembering he really needs a new razor.

"Not the truth," she says sternly. "Make something up. Tell her I'm dead. Run with it."

He nods vigorously. Making things up shouldn't be difficult. He could do that.

Simmons drives them past the nondescript business building that she tells him is S.H.I.E.L.D. HQ. He wrinkles his nose, sneering at the commonplace look of it. At least S.T.R.I.K.E. HQ has some dignity to it, he thinks idly, as he stares up at what could be the bland main offices of a telecom company.

Ultimately, she drops him off four blocks from the place and, despite the overcast day, during his walk back he grows hot and sweaty under his layers and the navy topcoat Simmons had chosen for him. However, he figures it only adds to his frantic air as he mills about in front of the building.

It takes perhaps fifteen or twenty minutes of people passing him by, paying him no attention, before a girl with long dark hair and wearing a leather jacket exits the building. He thinks at first that she'll pass him by as all the rest have but she seems to do a double-take and then stops short before closing the distance between them urgently.

"Agent Fitz?" she says, her eyes a bit wide and concerned. "I'm Agent Daisy Johnson with S.H.I.E.L.D. What're you doing here? Last I heard, you were with Agent Simmons. Where is she?"

"Dead!" he says, throwing his hands in the air. "I'm lucky I got away! I don't know who to trust. She gave me your name before…" he looks down at his feet, managing a small—but quite convincing, he thinks—hitch in his breath. "They shot her in the bloody face."

"Who did?!" she gasps out, bringing a hand to cover her mouth in shock. "Ward? Was it Ward?"

"I don't know," he says, probably a bit too dramatically as he covers his face with a hand. Not wanting to get too specific lest she catch him in a lie, he continues, "Just men. It was dark. She told me to run—let me escape—but I saw from the shadows…what they did." What the hell is taking Simmons so bloody long? He feels like he's just wiggling on the line.

"We've got to get you out of here," Agent Johnson says, taking him by the elbow and trying to guide him but he whirls away from her hold.

"S.T.R.I.K.E. is compromised. How do I know I can trust you?" he asks, eyeing her warily for effect.

"I only want to help," she says, holding up her hands placatingly. "Let me help you, Agent Fitz."

"Maybe you just want to deliver me to your buddyWard?" he questions, attempting to add a note of bitterness to his voice as he tries to get more into the part.

"Ward is not my buddy. I can promise you that, Agent Fitz," she says in a way that makes him really want to believe her.

"Yeah?" he questions, losing the thread of his act and suddenly not sure where to go with it but the steady flow of adrenaline racing though his veins brings new thoughts flying though his mind. "Simmons really has, er, had a grudge. Did he betray you as well?" he asks, thankful he'd caught his slip as he tries to sound sympathetic to her feelings of betrayal. Though he doesn't know Agent Johnson, she sounds sincere to him—though she is still a spy so he'll take it with a grain of salt. Nevertheless, he can't help but wonder if her obvious rancor over Ward is personal or just frustratingly close to home.

"Ward is evil," she says through gritted teeth. "He betrayed all of S.H.I.E.L.D. and S.T.R.I.K.E., too." She doesn't give away what he'd really been asking—not that he'd expected her to. She meets Fitz's eyes with something like contrition and adds, "I'm sorry that I didn't see it sooner. I might've saved you a lot of pain." She looks away again, eyes glossy. "And a whole lot of other people."

Just then, Simmons seems to come from nowhere. Agent Johnson gasp in pain as Simmons jabs her in the side with something.

"Scream or alert anyone to your distress and I push the plunger," Simmons says, her voice somehow the coldest Fitz has ever heard it. "I think you know exactly what I'm capable of, Daisy."

Johnson nods, her eyes darting to the place where the syringe is stuck into her side. Simmons reaches under Johnson's coat and removes her gun, tucking it into the waistband of her own jeans and pulling the fabric of her top over it.

With her black coat draped over her arm, it looks rather like Simmons just has a very friendly arm around the other woman's waist. Taking hold of Johnson's bicep with her free hand, she gives her a hard jostle forward. "Walk," Simmons orders.

Fitz swallows hard, suddenly feeling almost frightened of the woman he'd thought he might possibly, maybe, could be potentially falling in love with. The realization that he's only known her four days suddenly hits him. He doesn't know why but it seems like so much longer to him. Watching Simmons truly in her element though, he understands now that he really doesn't know her at all.

The woman in question gives him a steely look that makes him immediately fall in line on the other side of Johnson. The three of them cluster together and head, surprisingly calmly, for a block or so in the direction Simmons leads them. She conducts them to a large black sedan parked in an alleyway.

"Keep a lookout," Simmons whisper-shouts at him as she places a zip tie on Agent Johnson's wrists and tightens it until the other woman hisses in pain, making Fitz grimace in sympathy.

Simmons opens the boot and Johnson says, "Oh, Jesus, Jemma. Not the goddamn trunk." At which point, Simmons depresses the plunger on the syringe and manages to guide Johnson into the boot as she collapses in a heap.

"It was a sedative?" Fitz hears himself ask stupidly as Simmons tightens another tie to bind Johnson's ankles.

"Of course, it was only a sedative. I need her to give us information, don't I?" Simmons says as if he were a blithering idiot.

"What if she'd refused to come?" he wonders aloud.

Simmons gives him a withering look. "We'd have had a really difficult time of it, wouldn't we? Now get in."

His mind reels at the fact that they'd just kidnapped an Agent of S.H.I.E.L.D. from in front of their own headquarters as he makes his way around to the passenger door and gets into the car.

"Where are we goin'?" he asks as Simmons drives off. "Did you steal this car as well?"

He can almost feel it when she rolls her eyes. "Yes, I've stolen it and it doesn't matter where we're going, Fitz. Just a place I know of where we can speak with her uninterrupted."

"But…" he says, not wanting to finish the next question but he has to ask it. "You're not—You won't hurt her?"

Simmons finally looks over, meeting his eyes but the usual warmth of her brown eyes is gone and they appear hard and cold in a way he hasn't seen before—it makes him suppress a shudder.

"I think it's best you wait in the car," she says simply.

He shakes his head. "I won't. Whatever you're plannin', if it's meant for my benefit, then I'm goin' to be there for it."

Simmons doesn't respond except to continue driving. He doesn't think she'll say anything at all, but when they finally pull into an empty gravel car park near some run-down warehouses, she shuts off the car and turns to face him. "Fitz."

He'd been staring resolutely ahead as she drove but, at her saying his name, he turns to face her, trying to prepare himself for whatever objection she might raise.

"I will do anything and everything that I must to keep you safe," she says, her eyes virtually blazing with sincerity. "I don't want to hurt Daisy but if she's a part of this—working with Ward—I won't hesitate to do what I must to get that information. If that—If it makes you uncomfortable, please, just wait here." He sees something like a plea in her eyes and the hard glint he'd seen earlier is gone, her genuine warmth having returned. Despite the harsh reality of her words, he finds his gaze lingering over her full, pink lips.

Dragging his eyes away sharply, without meaning to say it, he finds himself asking, "Why do you care so much what happens to me? If you're concerned with the formula needin' to be recreated, don't worry, someone'll figure it out again sooner or later."

She seems taken aback at the question, her expression strangely going from the clear, unaffected confidence he's used to seeing, into something pinched and creased with insecurity.

She looks down and chokes out, "I don't know what you mean, it's my job to keep you safe. I don't care about the formula."

"So, you don't care, then?" he reasons, the hope in him quavering as he waits for some further answer.

She looks up instantly, almost appearing startled as she meets his eyes again for a moment, but then she sighs heavily, almost defeatedly. "Of course I care, Fitz. You've been through so much." He almost thinks he hears her voice falter slightly, then she finishes, "I'll do all I can to keep you from more hurt and pain."

It's not quite the declaration he'd hoped for but he doesn't want to push and it's more than enough to keep his hope alive.

"I'll go in," he says resolutely.

"And if I ask you to go?" she questions, her expression expectant.

He shakes his head. "If people are goin' to be hurt because of me, I can't pretend it hasn't happened."

"It's not because of you, Fitz," she says, with a touch of immediacy. "It's because of that bastard Ward. This is all his doing—not yours."

She reaches out to touch his hand but quickly starts to draw it back before she quite makes contact. On impulse, he reaches out and catches her hand before she can take it back fully. To his relief, she doesn't pull away and he slides a thumb in a slow circle over the tender skin at the back of her hand.

"Thanks for sayin' it but I can't quite agree," he says, not quite meeting her eyes, instead watching the slow slide of his thumb over her soft skin. "I wish I could feel like none of this was on me but if I hadn't invented that damned molecular formula—"

"Don't ever blame yourself for that!" she says, too loud in the small space, making him look up at her sudden vehemence. More quietly, squeezing his fingers almost imperceptibly, she continues, "Science is neither right nor wrong. It's only those, like Ward, who would do terrible things with it. It's him, Fitz, not you. Please, don't think that."

She squeezes his fingers again more firmly and he suddenly wants nothing more than to kiss her. However, his last blundering attempt at a snog had met with far less-than-spectacular results. In fact, "catastrophically cocked-up failure" might be closer to the truth in actuality. No, he'd definitely not try that again. Not unless she shows some clear sign that it's decidedly a welcome development.

Knowing he can't so easily accept her assertion of all this really not being his fault, yet wanting to give her something, he says, "I'll try, Simmons. However, I'm fairly certain blamin' myself, right or wrong, is a not-so-easily-forgotten lifestyle choice."

He glances up to meet her eyes and they're suddenly quite full of feeling. However, not really an expert on reading raw emotion, he doesn't recognize anything clearly beyond a hint of amusement at his self-deprecating joke. Her cheeks are attractively flushed, while her rich brown eyes appear to glimmer even with no other light but the cloudy, dull sky outside casting its hazy grayness in through the car windows. It's almost as if she's projecting some inner radiance—as silly as that sounds even in his own head yet it seems no less true as he gazes into her depths.

She smiles brilliantly at him for the first time that day and then shifts forward slightly toward him over the console between them. His heart speeds and he wonders, is this the sign he's waiting for? Is she telling him that she's interested again? His pulse begins to pound in his ears as he ponders the fullness of her slightly parted lips and the warmth of her fingers still held in his. She clutches his hand more tightly and he realizes that, if he only leans forward a few more inches, they'll be close enough for their lips to meet. He leans forward experimentally and he's surprised when she does as well, attempting to meet him halfway. Close enough to feel her breath ghosting over his face, he swallows hard and—

"HEY! GODDAMNIT!" Johnson shouts from inside the boot, accompanied by a loud, repetitive banging that makes Fitz flinch embarrassingly away from the sudden sound.

Simmons smiles more broadly, showing her teeth, as Johnson keeps up the racket, shouting and carrying on while Fitz takes a calming breath.

Squeezing his fingers one last time and then letting his hand go—as if it were just another day at the office—Simmons points back over her shoulder and says, "I'd better get that."