A/N: anonymous said: "biospecialist werewolf au"

Jemma Simmons is beginning to reconsider her life choices.

"I told you so," her brother, Fitz, mutters. "Didn't I tell you so? Stay in the den, that's what I said. But no, you said, it will be an adventure, you said, we need to get out and see the world—"

"Yes, Fitz," she snaps, entirely sick of the conversation, which has been going in circles for the past three hours. "You did indeed tell me so. Congratulations. However, at the moment, I believe we have slightly more pressing matters than my ill-advised decision to leave the den."

She bites back on the urge to remind him once more that he didn't have to come with her; all that will do is lead to yet another round of the argument over whether or not he has a responsibility to save her from her own stupidity—and, of course, she can't let that go unremarked, and therefore the debate about the difference between stupidity, bravery, recklessness, and curiosity will begin again.

Of course, it's not as though they have much else to do. Escape is, as they discovered in the first hour, entirely impossible; they've managed to untie the ropes which bound them, but there's no way out of the hole they're in.

That sounds almost poetic, she muses, but it's actually an accurate description of their current circumstances. They've been dropped to the bottom of a very deep hole—five metres at least—which they have no hope of climbing out of. The walls are smooth cement, with no cracks or hollows which might act as footholds, and they're too far down to reach the top, even if she stands on Fitz's shoulders.

They've tried everything, but it would appear that they're stuck. Hence the circular conversations which have so vexed her over the last three hours.

"Pressing matters," Fitz mocks. "Is that what you call this? We've been kidnapped by persons unknown, there's no way out of this hole, and it's three hours to moonrise—you call those pressing matters?"

"Well, what would you call it, then?" she demands.

"I'd call it a bloody disaster," he says. "I'd call it the worst thing that's ever happened to us, including the time we got caught in that blizzard when we were cubs, which, may I remind you, was also your fault!"

She gasps, offended, and is about to respond when she's interrupted by the unmistakable sound of gunfire. Both of them duck, automatically covering their heads, even though the gunfire is five metres above them and, by the sound of it, in the next room besides.

"Guns?" Fitz hisses. "Who uses guns?"

It's a rhetorical question, but she answers it anyway. "Humans."

The information adds an entirely new dimension to the situation. Although they haven't actually discussed it, wary of being overheard by their captors (although they've neither seen nor heard a single sign of any such person since waking up here four hours ago), they've both been assuming that they're being held by fellow werewolves. A rival pack, perhaps, she was thinking—an Alpha who has a grudge against their own, or who wants the land which has belonged to the Fitz-Simmons pack for the last two hundred years.

But humans? Humans could want anything. And kidnapping them on the day of the full moon, no less; they might want to skin them for their fur, or use them as weapons against enemies, or…

"Stop it," Fitz says, pressing his arm against hers. "Fretting won't solve anything."

The words would be more calming if she couldn't see the panic in his eyes; he's just as frightened as she is, for all of the same reasons. The two of them are brilliant, the brightest products of their generation, but they're also young—barely more than cubs, really. Their control over their otherselves, the wolves within their souls, is shaky at best.

And, as Fitz so kindly reminded her earlier, it's only a few hours to moonrise.

The gunfire stops, just as suddenly as it began, but Jemma and Fitz remain crouched, pressing against the wall and each other. Jemma listens, straining her hearing for any sounds that might give her an idea of what's going on above them. This close to moonrise, her hearing is at its most sensitive—she can hear footsteps, breathing, the opening of doors.

There are three people above them, all—judging by the slow, steady heartbeats—human. But are these the people who captured them? Or the people who fired upon their captors?

And if they're the latter, what does it mean for Jemma and Fitz?

Another door opens, this one much closer than all of the others, and footsteps sound directly above them. One of the humans has just walked into the room containing their makeshift prison. Jemma and Fitz press closer together, and she feels him take her hand, lacing his fingers tightly with hers. Neither one speaks. Jemma barely dares to breathe.

"In here, sir," the human above them calls. It's a male voice, and the accent is American, of all things.

Jemma and Fitz exchange a wary look as, in response to the man's shout, the other two sets of footsteps approach. One pauses at the door, next to the American man, but the other person walks right up to the edge of their prison. Then, the man—and it is a man, as she shortly sees—kneels next to it and leans over the edge.

"Hi, there," he says. Jemma and Fitz both tilt their heads back to look at him. He's middle-aged, Jemma thinks, although it can be difficult to tell, with humans. His hair is thinning, and he's wearing a tie, which is dangling almost comically over the edge of the hole. He looks, in a word, harmless.

Jemma and Fitz know from experience how dangerous someone who looks harmless can be.

"What'cha doing?" the man asks. His tone is very casual, friendly. Like he's come across them strolling in a park, rather than cowering at the bottom of a hole. "Just hanging out?"

There's a sigh from one of the humans by the door—the one who hasn't spoken, Jemma thinks—and the man glances over his shoulder. When he looks back down at them, the pleasant expression on his face has disappeared, replaced with a studied calmness.

"My name is Agent Phil Coulson," he says. "I'm with SHIELD."

Fitz's grip on her hand slackens in surprise; Jemma, for her part, is just gaping up at the man above them.

SHIELD, properly known as but never called the Supernatural-Human Interspecies Exchange, Logistics Division, is a global organization dedicated to protecting the fragile peace between the humans and supernatural beings of the world. It employs all manner of beings: humans, werewolves, vampires, witches, pixies…everything.

SHIELD oversees and enforces the treaties between the races, and it maintains response teams which solve interspecies crime and see to the punishment of out-of-control beings, whether human or supernatural. Of course, considering their heavy involvement in the protection of the world as a whole, one wouldn't expect there to be much mystery attached to the organisation, but, somehow, there is.

Jemma has never met a SHIELD agent before. She's never even met anyone who's met a SHIELD agent.

This is shaping up to be a very strange day.

"Do you have names?" Coulson prompts, after a few minutes of Jemma and Fitz gaping at him.

Jemma starts. "Oh! Um, Jemma Simmons, sir. Of the Fitz-Simmons pack."

"Leo Fitz," Fitz says. "Same."

"Oh, good," Coulson says. "I would hate to rescue the wrong cubs. That would just be embarrassing."

Her first reaction is relief: this is a rescue operation, meaning that they will, presumably, shortly be removed from this hole. Her second reaction is puzzlement, because neither she nor Fitz spoke particularly loudly when introducing themselves. They can hear Agent Coulson perfectly well, since it's so close to moonrise, but he's human—or at least he sounds it, by his heartbeat—and he should have had at least a little difficulty understanding them, from so far up.

A glance at Fitz shows that he's noticed this as well, but he shakes his head at her, a clear order to let it go. The last thing they need is for her curiosity to get them in trouble with SHIELD, he tells her by his expression.

Fair enough. She'll keep her questions to herself.

She's also a little offended to be called a cub—she's nearly twenty-four!—but, considering the circumstances, she's willing to allow it.

"Are either of you injured?" Coulson asks.

"Not significantly, sir," Jemma calls back up.

"Okay, good," he says. He looks over his shoulder again, then back at them. "If we drop a ladder down, will you be able to climb it?"

Jemma and Fitz exchange thoughtful looks. They've been able to determine that they were drugged before being brought here—as evidenced by the fact that the last thing they remember is being in the woods, alone—and they did suffer side-effects for a while. However, their senses have returned to normal pre-shift strength, and Jemma, for her part, is no longer particularly dizzy.

"Yeah," Fitz decides. "We can manage."

"Great," Coulson says. "Stand back."

Fitz scrambles to his feet, and then helps Jemma to hers. She allows it, even though she doesn't actually need help, because she knows it makes him feel better.

The two of them stand back and watch as a ladder slides down the far wall. As soon as the bottom hits the ground, they look at each other. It's occurred to Jemma—and Fitz, judging by his expression—that they don't actually have any proof that Coulson is a SHIELD agent. And the other two people in the room, one of whom hasn't spoken at all, could be anyone. This might be a trap.

But really, they're trapped at the bottom of a five metre hole. It's not like they can be in a more vulnerable position. So Jemma gives Fitz a shrug and starts up the ladder. He follows closely.

It's a long way up, and Jemma focuses on ignoring what her senses are telling her in favour of continuing. She doesn't want to smell the scent that becomes stronger, the farther up she climbs—the smell of blood and death, coming from the next room, mixed with something she presumes must be gunpowder. Such an awful, violent way to die, gunfire is. But then, she supposes being torn to shreds by tooth or claw isn't much better.

Death, in general, is to be avoided. It's why Jemma wants to be a scientist—to study and discover ways to prolong life and increase healing. Her Alpha has been hesitating to allow her to leave the pack long enough to attend university, though, and this situation certainly won't help that.

When she reaches the top, Agent Coulson offers his hand to help her off the ladder, and she accepts it. (He smells like paper and pens and dusts. Old smells, comforting.)

She takes a deep breath as she moves to make way for Fitz. The blood/death/gunpowder smell is much, much stronger out of the hole, but it's not enough to completely erase her relief at being above ground once again. She can feel the approaching moonrise in her bones, the wolf inside bouncing around the hollows in her soul, and itches with the urge to run, now that she's no longer stuck in a circle that wasn't even two meters in diameter.

She glances at the two humans by the door. The second one, who hasn't spoken at all, is a woman—Asian, older, with an air of stoic competence. She smells like freedom: open air and clouds, and Jemma likes her at once.

The other human, the one who first entered the room, is a very tall man. He's facing away from her, eyes on the door with his gun at the ready, but he glances at her briefly, perhaps feeling her eyes on him.

He's very handsome.

He also smells like home: woods and caves and smoke. Jemma firmly pushes away her urge to cross the room and hug him. She is not a cub any longer, and hugging people just because she likes their smell is not acceptable. Especially not a well-armed human; that's not rude, it's stupid.

"Well," Coulson says, helping Fitz off the ladder. "That was easy."

Jemma turns to stare at him, aghast. Is he trying to summon a jinx-pixie?

"No, it wasn't," the woman disagrees flatly. The man shrugs.

"Easy-ish," Coulson amends. "Easier than I was expecting, when we got the call."

If he weren't a SHIELD agent, Jemma would slap her hand over his mouth to stop him from speaking. As it is, she gives him a politely incredulous look. This is exactly the sort of talk that draws jinx-pixies to people, and she's had a bad enough day already, thanks very much.

"Thank you for the rescue," Fitz says, apparently following her train of thought. "But, if you'll excuse us…"

"It's a little too close to moonrise for us to be comfortable here," Jemma completes. "So, we'll be on our way now."

"Nice meeting you," Fitz says, not entirely sincerely.

"Yeah," Coulson says before they can make for the door. "About that."

Jemma and Fitz exchange looks.

"We crossed off all of the hunters here," Coulson says. "But HYDRA has a long reach and a lot of resources. You're not safe yet."

Jemma is vaguely aware that she's gaping, but is powerless to stop. HYDRA? They were kidnapped by HYDRA? As in, the evil organisation that's been trying to bring down the International Peace Accords for the last three hundred years?

She tries to ask for clarification, but only manages to stammer incoherently. Usually she'd be embarrassed, but…HYDRA.

Fitz manages to recover before she does. "We were being held by HYDRA?"

"Yep," Coulson nods.

"Why?" Jemma finally manages. "What in Achelois' name would HYDRA want with us?"

He frowns. "We were hoping you could tell us."

Jemma and Fitz exchange helpless looks. Neither one of them has any idea what HYDRA could want with them. They're considered the brightest of their pack, true, but they haven't even been properly educated yet. All of their experiments and inventions are pure trial-and-error. And while the Alpha of the Fitz-Simmons pack is their mother, they have several siblings, many of whom are roaming the world, defenceless. If the pack was the target, why them?

"Sir," the handsome man who smells like home says. "We need to move."

"Right," Coulson says. "Back to the Bus, then. FitzSimmons, you'll need to stick with us, for now."

"Agent Coulson," Jemma says. "Moonrise is—"

"Soon," he interrupts. "I know. We've made arrangements, don't worry. Come on."

She'd like a little more clarification on these 'arrangements' before going anywhere, but the man and woman (neither of whom have been introduced, she notes) are already leading the way out of the room. Jemma and Fitz exchange looks, have a brief debate through facial expressions, and then fall into step behind Coulson. What else can they do, really?

Well, faint, for one thing. Jemma has barely stepped foot into the next room (the one that smells so strongly of blood/death/gunpowder) when she's overcome by dizziness, and she falls into darkness.

x

For a moment, when she wakes, she thinks that it's all been a dream, and she's still in the den. The scents of home surround her, and she's aware of the warmth of another body pressed against hers, as she always is when she wakes.

Slowly, though, she becomes aware that something is wrong. For one thing, she's not being snuggled (as Thalia always calls it), she's being carried.

She opens her eyes.

It wasn't a dream. The man who wasn't introduced, the one who smells like home, is carrying her. She can't have been unconscious for very long—the moon doesn't feel any closer than it did before she…fainted?—but it's been long enough to get away from the building where they were being held. She can't smell the blood/death/gunfire at all, now; they must have got fairly far while she was out.

Why was she out?

"What happened?" she asks.

The man carrying her glances at her and stops walking. "Can you walk?"

"Yes, of course," she says. He sets her down, but doesn't release her entirely, perhaps waiting to see if she falls. When she doesn't, he lets go and steps back. "What happened?"

"You fainted," Fitz says. He's standing next to her in an instant, face creased in worry. "There was wolfsbane in the warehouse."

"Wolfsbane? But we're the children of an Alpha," she protests. "Wolfsbane doesn't affect us."

He shrugs, helpless. "It's the only explanation, Simmons. There was nothing else that could've caused it, and you had all of the symptoms."

"Were you affected?" she demands.

"No," he says.

"I don't understand," she says.

"Neither do I," Fitz says, frowning. "It's so close to moonrise, too—even if you were susceptible to wolfsbane, it shouldn't have been able to affect you so strongly right now."

"Theorizing can wait," Coulson says.

Jemma starts, then frowns. She didn't notice him. How did she not notice him? She should have smelled him or heard his heartbeat, at the very least.

Fitz's frown deepens. "Did he surprise you?"

"He did," she admits. She looks around, taking in their surroundings. They're standing next to an asphalt road in the middle of a forest. The woman from the—warehouse, did Fitz say? What a poor joke—is about a metre down the road, waiting with arms crossed. Coulson is standing halfway between her and the rest of them. The (still unnamed) man is still standing fairly close to Jemma, most likely in case she faints again.

They're in the middle of a forest, but she can't smell it. There are three humans with them, but she can't smell them or hear them. Fitz is right beside her, but she can't hear his heartbeat. If not for the packbond that connects them as siblings, she wouldn't know him as a wolf.

What is going on?

She presses a hand to her chest, searching her soul. She can still feel the approaching moon in her bones, but the wolf inside is quiet—cowed, almost. She can practically hear it whimpering, curled in a ball and hiding beneath her packbonds.

"I don't understand," she repeats.

"Miss Simmons," Coulson says, patient. "I realise that you're upset, right now, but we need to get to safety. Explanations will have to wait."

"Do you have an explanation?" she asks him.

"No," he admits. "But we'll find one, don't worry. In the meantime—"

Jemma nods, swallowing down her fear. She has no clue what's happening to her, no idea how any of this is possible, but she's still a wolf. She's still a daughter of the Fitz-Simmons pack, one of the oldest and most respected packs in the North Forest, and she will not let her fear rule her.

"Of course," she says. "After you, then."

Coulson nods and starts down the road, in the direction of the woman, who has also started walking. Jemma and Fitz follow, and the man who smells like home (although it's so, so much fainter now) falls into step beside them.

"Thank you for carrying me," she says to him.

He nods silently.

"We weren't introduced earlier," she continues, mostly because she can't stand the silence; she hates it, hates the absence of heartbeats and breathing and the distant patter of paws. "I'm Jemma Simmons, of the Fitz-Simmons pack."

He glances at her briefly, and she's struck by his eyes—they're a gorgeous shade of brown, like earth and bark and leaves during autumn.

"Grant Ward," he says finally.

Ward. Like protect. It's a good name—a strong name. Names are important to werewolves. It's nice that he's got a good one.

He's clearly not interested in conversation, though, so she leaves him be and focuses on her brother. He's frowning, casting suspicious glances at Ward and Coulson and the still nameless woman at the front of their odd little procession.

"It's all right, Fitz," she says, slipping her hand into his. "Don't frown so."

Fitz squeezes her hand. "I'm not frowning."

"You are," she disagrees. "You're frowning so hard you'll shift into a worrywart, if you're not careful."

He rolls his eyes, but his frown fades a little.

"You're gonna be fine," he says, keeping his eyes fixed on Coulson's back. "Whatever's happened, we'll fix it. We always do."

"Of course," she agrees. "Once we've messed it up in the first place, that is."

It makes him smile, a little. The fact is, this isn't the first time they've got themselves into trouble, and it most likely won't be the last. They'll figure it out. They have to.

And in the meantime—she darts another glance at Ward, and is surprised to find him looking back at her—if her senses are failing her, at least there's still a nice view.