Mais à elle seule elle est plus importante que vous toutes, puisque c'est elle que j'ai arrosée. Puisque c'est elle que j'ai mise sous globe. Puisque c'est elle que j'ai abritée par le paravent.

But she and she alone is more important than all of you, because I have watered her, and I have planted her in the earth, and I have created a shield around her.

Voici mon secret. Il est très simple: on ne voit bien qu'avec le coeur. L'essentiel est invisible pour les yeux. [...] C'est le temps que tu as perdu pour ta rose qui fait ta rose si importante.

Behold my secret. It is very simple: one only sees well with the heart. The eyes are unable to see what is truly vital. It is the time which you have lost for your rose which makes your rose so important.
-Le Petit Prince, Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

When he woke she still slept beside him, breathing quiet and deep in the early morning light, a slight smile on her face. She almost glowed amidst the sheets, pale, blushing skin backdropped against the blue, her hair strewn across the pillows.

His own english rose, blooming in the Lima heat and determined to turn sorrow into joy. The desire to touch her was overwhelming, but he kept his distance, aware that he had kept her up unconscionably late last night.

Or that morning, to be precise.

She stirred into wakefulness, stretching leisurely. The sheets slipped, baring her breasts to his grateful eyes.

"You're not touching me," she commented quietly, her eyes still closed.

"I didn't want to wake you."

"Hmm." She pushed the sheets down to her hips and met his gaze, a slight challenge in her eyes. "I'm pretty sure Jonathan would have woken Rosemary."

He laughed in surprise and moved closer. "Your backstories really are absurdly detailed," he commented, running a finger lightly over the peak of one breast, and smiled at the sudden hitch in her breathing. "How much time, exactly, did you spend trying to figure out their fictional sex life?"

"Oh," she said, attempting nonchalance as his hand slid slowly down her torso, "not as long as you might imagine."

"Maybe I'd like to know how closely Rosemary's preferences overlap with Jemma's," he replied, his hand lingering low on her belly. "My interest is academic, you understand."

"Perhaps I could offer you a Venn diagram?" She sighed happily as his hand moved to its ultimate goal. "I love your hands, Phil," she said dreamily. "I'm really quite fond of them. Always have been."

"You should have said something sooner." He dropped a kiss onto her shoulder, enjoying the way she moved against his fingers. "Maybe at one of the team meetings."

Her laugh was cut short as she sucked in a sudden breath. "Oh yes," she said a moment later, sounding distracted. "That would have gone over very well. Sounded very natural, I'm sure."

He paused, and she shot him a frustrated look. "A man likes to know he has nice hands, Jemma," he teased. "I'd like to know how you would have phrased it."

"Oh," she said, blushing, "maybe something like, 'Sir, may I compliment you on the very elegant alignment of your metacarpals with the proximal phalanx of the phalanges and metacarpophalangeal joints? Such an alignment indicates the capacity for both great dexterity and delicacy.'" She stuttered slightly as she spoke, shifting her hips.

He rewarded her with a firm stroke of his thumb, and she giggled. "Didn't even mention the distal phalanges or the pollex."

"Not surprising; you have your mind on other things."

"I'm going to make you pay for this later," she promised breathlessly, and bit her lip.

He smiled. "I really hope so."


The afternoon was hot and bright, and even indoors the heat bordered on stifling, but Jemma couldn't bring herself to care. She had a pitcher of lemonade at hand and a lover to stare at in an overly soppy fashion, and she would throw something at Clint if he dared make a joke about it.

He did, and she chucked a pillow at his head, and only his own quick reflexes saved him from the incoming projectile.

"Troublesome," Natasha said shortly, and pulled Clint out of the living room by his ear.

The smile Phil gave her once they were alone was positively indecent, and the feel of his fingertips on her ankle made her feel short of breath. "You're very distracting," she said, the memory of his hands and lips against her skin an almost palpable force.

"I could say the same." His expression softened, desire subsiding beneath a warmth that was no less intoxicating. "How are you?"

She was tired and sore and wanted to do everything all over again. "Very well," she replied, moving to curl up next to him. "I could give you a list of relevant adjectives that describe how I'm feeling, if you like," she said with a pert smile. "Though I find that I am both sated and insatiable, so there will be some contradictions."

He unexpectedly hauled her into his lap, and she smiled in delight at the feel of his arms around her waist. "I do like your physique," she informed him without shame, stroking her fingers over one of his biceps. "So very solid."

"For a man of my age?" he asked, the beginnings of a smile lurking.

"For a man of any age," she said firmly. "I would say more, but Clint might return soon, and it would only give him more ammunition." She shot him a meaningful look. "I'm afraid it might get explicit."

He stared at her for a moment, his gaze unreadable. "I'd like a full report this evening," he said, in much the same manner he might have asked her to explain some scientific oddity on the Bus. "If you'll oblige me."

"Of course." She brushed her lips across his. "Pick a color." She smiled at his confused look. "Natasha is a very thorough shopper."

He surprised her by laughing, releasing her to lean back and cover his face with his hands. "Natasha," he finally said in what she thought might be the understatement of the year, "is just very thorough in general." His hands dropped, and he gave her a slow smile. "Surprise me."


She wore rose pink, and treated him to a very comprehensive lecture on the muscles of the human body and why she was appreciative of his in particular. She slumped on top of him in the aftermath, looking very pleased with herself.

"That's quite a smile," he murmured as soon as he was able, hands still curved around her hips. She had lovely hips. Lovely everything, really. She was the most delightfully earnest and enthusiastic bed partner he'd ever had, though whoever she had been with before had evidently taken advantage of her generous nature. She was unused to someone else seeing to her pleasure, and the look of surprise on her face the first time he brought her to climax had been equal parts thrilling and heartbreaking.

"Is that what it's supposed to be like?" she had asked that first night, sounding dazed and disbelieving.

It was certainly what it was going to be like with him, if he had anything to say about it.

"I'm making mental notes for my ongoing research." She pressed a kiss to his neck. "It's going to take me a while to compile all the relevant data. Several decades, at least."

He dearly hoped that they would have those decades. "You have very high hopes for my long-term stamina, I see."

"Well," she said, her expression rather wicked, "I intend to be reaping the benefits for years to come." Her smile turned sweet and sincere. "I love you to distraction, Phil."

She had said it before, had professed her love for weeks before climbing into bed wearing sky blue lace and cotton, and every time he found himself amazed and unbelieving of his good fortune. Simply repeating the words to her didn't feel like enough. If she had asked, he would have sought out the apples of the Hesperides for her.

"Jemma." He kissed her deeply. "I would set fire to numerous buildings for you."

She rolled off of him, laughing. "My white knight," she teased, her eyes sparkling. "I'm very glad to hear it." She lay there, one arm curled under her head, looking well-ravished. "This is what I hoped for, that first day here. Happy nights."

Happy nights, to offset the nightmares. He had hoped for much the same. "Is there anything that might make them happier?"

She considered his question for a moment. "Well," she mused, "it would be nice to go to bed with you without worrying that Natasha will call for a drill at a crucial moment." She smiled. "But I think we're just going to have to live with that."

A sad fact, but a fact nonetheless. It was practically inevitable that she would interrupt them eventually, and it would probably be as embarrassing as hell. Especially once Clint found out.

He could only imagine what kind of playlist Clint would put together for that.

She was still smiling at him, her left hand lying between them. The rings had suited her that first night Natasha had produced them, and he had grown accustomed to seeing them on her hand. Now, as she lay bare and disheveled beside him, they seemed to sparkle with new light. Their marriage certificate might be as fraudulent as their passports, but as far as he was concerned she was his wife in truth.

"Such a face," she said softly, moving her hand to his chest. "I might start blushing again."

He turned onto his side to face her, suddenly newly aware of his own ring as well. "Just admiring your lovely hand, wife."

She did blush, but her expression was one of pleasure and not embarrassment. "Husband," she said experimentally, and smiled. "I do like that. It makes me feel quite possessive."

He certainly felt possessive, though he had thus far managed to avoid biting her neck and uttering a triumphant 'mine.' He had to preserve some dignity, after all, and she might not like it.

He settled for pulling her back toward him, relishing the feel of her skin against his. His beautiful Jemma, safe and alive and so very warm.


Winter crept slowly in, the temperatures dropping into the sixties. Natasha chased them out into the jungle on a regular basis, day and night, and more than once did interrupt them at a crucial moment.

"SHIELD isn't going to care if you've achieved orgasm yet or not," she yelled through the door on one memorable occasion, reducing Jemma to a fit of giggles. "Your base urges are going to get you both killed."

Jemma conceded that she was, indeed, correct, but that didn't make it any easier to pull on clothing and flee into the jungle in the dark, fully aroused. Admittedly, it was harder on Phil than it was on her, and they did have perfectly delightful times in the shower after the fact.

The interruptions and Clint's teasing aside, Jemma could find no fault with that winter. Even her daily training proved to be surprisingly invigorating, despite the morning drizzle and the cool, breezy afternoons. Natasha continued to collect information and plant false intel, keeping an ear out for any news on the team. They had gone to ground somewhere, and even Natasha was impressed at how they had virtually disappeared from sight.

"It helps that they didn't steal your little plane," she said dryly. "Though I know May was fond of it."

The nights bordered on crisp, but Jemma had a bed filled with blankets and a husband more than willing to keep her warm, and she took full advantage of both. She loved how he had made their rings into something more than accessories to their cover, how he whispered 'wife' into her ear as an endearment when they made love. She had underestimated how strongly she would react to Phil as a lover, and delighted in the surprise. There was something about the way he touched her, mixed with the sound of his voice and his scent that made for a very potent chemical cocktail. There were some days when simply meeting his gaze across the kitchen table was enough to make her blush as her nerve endings sparked with remembered joy.

It was the end of November when everything changed, as the temperatures steadily rose and she found herself thinking ahead to Christmas gifts. She had been returning from the market, pleased that her Limean had improved enough that she could engage in casual conversation with the various vendors, and had just reached the front door when someone stepped out from the bushes. Her bags dropped from the ground as she struck out instinctively, the long hours with Natasha paying off as the man flew back into the foliage.

She broke for the treeline, and it was only after she was sprinting down one of the paths that she realized that the man she had just thrown to the ground was none other than Grant Ward.