and gold chickpeas were growing on the banks.
-Sappho (Carson)

Phil enjoyed watching Jemma dress in the morning. The act was almost as erotic as undressing her at the end of the day, and there was a certain spice to knowing her various layers of clothing, anticipating the moment when he could strip her back to bare skin.

It was odd watching her dress this morning, with her new alias and new rings. Her outfit almost looked like the disguise it was, at least to him, though it was the closest she had come to Agent Simmons since the day she had left the Bus. She had ransacked her limited wardrobe, pairing a fitted cardigan with tailored slacks and flats and pulling her hair back into a tidy french braid. She caught his watchful gaze in the mirror and turned, leaning back against the counter.

"Not as flattering, I know," she said, brushing a nearly invisible crease from the cardigan. "Perhaps my next alias could be a bit more adventurous."

His wardrobe had never changed as much as hers; there was a smaller sartorial range expected of a man of his age, even one with a younger wife. Demeanor was more important than clothing, for him, and he wasn't looking forward to the tense, diplomatic show they would have to put on in public. The Phillipses had been easier to pull off, in many ways.

In private, at least, they would have some relief from their public role, though even that would be different once they made it back to the team. It was one thing to not want to sneak around, it was another to continue in their normal pattern. They had grown used to touching each other when they pleased and exchanging a fond kiss when they met in passing. They would have to determine for themselves new boundaries, lest they alienate the others.

There was an odd glint in her eyes, and she unexpectedly came over and seated herself on his lap, her smile turning just a bit wicked. "Did you ever wonder about me, back on the Bus?" she asked in a murmur, running her fingertips lightly down his chest. "Did you ever ask yourself what Simmons wore under her jumpers?"

He hadn't then, but he certainly did now. Could he have pursued her, on the Bus? The anti-fraternization regulations were only as binding as the person enforcing them, and he had had no trouble letting them slide for Ward and May. As long as the relationship in question didn't interfere with the team bond or the job at hand, he had never really cared what consenting adults did behind closed doors.

Perhaps he could have pursued her, once he had gotten past his afterlife crisis- assuming he ever would have gotten past it by himself. Jemma's situation had been too dire to let himself be distracted by the mysteries of his resurrection, and now he found that he no longer cared quite as much as he used to about Tahiti. He still had his nightmares, but his focus had shifted in the past months. They had enough shadows to jump at without him seeking out any more.

He might have courted her, in this alternate life, once he had grown more settled in mind and spirit. She had always been a soothing, gentle presence, and he could have found peace in that more innocent Jemma, provided he was able to lure her away from Fitz.

The only Jemma that counted was waiting for an answer, and he gave her the truth. "No," he answered honestly, wrapping his arms around her waist to pull her closer. "But I thought you were very pretty." And very young.

Her wicked smile faded away, replaced by the sweet sadness he saw too often on her face. "What a good man you are," she said, kissing him lightly. "Though I must say, I really did like your hands." A spark of mischief returned. "Not as much as I do now, of course."

"Of course not," he murmured, pulling her in for a deeper kiss, careful not to muss her hair. "Some things have to be experienced."

She hummed wordlessly, sounding pleased, and relaxed against his chest, tucking her head into the crook of his neck. "Perhaps one day we could try some role-play."

She was going to be the death of him, he could tell. "Would I have to call you Simmons?"

He could feel the quirk of her lips against his neck, and thought she might be smirking. "You can call me Jemma. I only insist on calling you Sir."

With that ringing in his ears, he could only think that he had dodged a bullet by not pursuing her on the Bus. She was the greatest threat to his composure he had ever faced, and judging by the way she shifted her hips oh-so-innocently, she knew it.

"Were you always like this?" he asked in a carefully modulated voice, hoping the strain wasn't too evident.

"No." She dropped a kiss on his nose, looking absolutely delighted with herself. "I just don't want you to get bored. It's all part of my long-term research."

Of course it was. "I hope you will at least publish it posthumously."

She nodded in total agreement. "Why would I publish it while you were still living? Someone would only try to steal you away from me."

A patch of pinkened skin peeked out from beneath the neckline of her cardigan, a remnant of the slight whisker-burn his scruff had given her the night before. He pulled the edge of her cardigan an inch back and kissed the spot, holding tightly onto her waist as she squirmed.

"Foul play," she said with a breathless laugh.

"Minx," he replied fondly, kissing the spot again.

The knock on the door was an unpleasant reminder that there was a schedule to be kept, regardless of their preferences. He occupied himself by gathering the last of their things while Jemma checked through the peephole before opening the door to Clint, who glanced over her ensemble and smiled. "Hello, Marian the Librarian." He had the gall to reach out and tuck a loosened strand of hair behind Jemma's ear, flicking a too innocent glance at Phil, who merely glowered in return. "I see Harold Hill has already given his approval of your attire."

Jemma batted his hand away and grabbed her bag. "How cheeky you are."

"I'm afraid so," Clint agreed, reaching out to take her bag before abruptly changing his mind. "On second thought, let Phil do that," he said, quickly turning away and heading toward the car.

Jemma looked up at him as he shouldered her bag, her hands straightening the rumpled hem of her sweater. "Are you ready?" she asked softly.

He deliberately untucked the same strand of hair, letting it curve against her cheek. She raised a brow, but her expression was indulgent, nonetheless.

Phil gave her one last kiss while they were still in the relative privacy of their room, sheltered behind the open door. "Now I am," he said, stroking his hand down her back in the last seconds before they stepped out the door into the sunlight.

They parted ways with the others around ten in the morning, and Jemma settled with relief into the front passenger seat of the new car. "How long until we cross the border?"

"About an hour." His hand dropped onto her knee. "Are you ready, Mrs. Williams?"

She gave him her coldest look even as she laid her hand on his. "Quite ready, Mr. Williams." She shook her head ruefully. "Its a pity I was never able to get rid of this accent." She had learned to smooth it out, somewhat, but she would never be mistaken for American.

"I'm very fond of your accent," he replied mildly. "And you're hardly the only British woman wandering around South America." As he spoke, his own accent shifted into a fair approximation of a Northumbrian inflection. "And my passport clearly states that I was born in the north of England."

There was a hint of a uvular R in his intonation, giving his voice a trace of the Northumbrian burr that was growing increasingly uncommon in the north. She doubted anyone other than a native of the region would notice; she only took note because of her Northumbrian grandfather. "Your dialect coach was of the old school," she teased. "Not much for the alveolar approximant, was he?"

"No, she was not," he replied, sounding amused. "Maisie Mills was eighty when I first met her, and she used to smack my hand with a ruler when I mispronounced something."

"I didn't realize they used corporal punishment at the operatives' academy." She patted his hand. "Poor Phil."

"Maisie was the exception," he informed her dryly. "She was the Romanov of her time, and was given a great deal of leeway as a result. I once saw her give Fury a lecture so scathing that he looked like a Medieval penitent when she was through."

The image made her smile, though she supposed she shouldn't take as much glee in it as she did. "I wish could have been a fly on the wall for that particular dressing-down."

He smiled slightly. "I happen to know a number of stories in which Fury comes off the worse," he offered. His thumb began to stroke the indent on the side of her knee, and after a moment his hand crept slightly higher on her leg. "Perhaps you'd like to hear a few."

"I would," she said, stroking her fingers gently against the back of his hand. "In any case, you have rather a captive audience," she continued with a grin.

It turned out that he knew more than a few embarrassing stories about Fury, and she was in a very good mood by the time they neared the border. It was only then that his tone turned serious as he abruptly shifted the topic of conversation.

"There's a train station just across the border, in Arica. We could catch the next train to Bolivia and be there before sunset," he said. "It would be one of our last chances to break away from the team, if you want to take it."

She stared at him, confused. "Do you want to?" She had no doubt that Phil could arrange for any future aliases, and in some ways it would be easier to hide as a pair rather than as a foursome, but she had grown very fond of Clint and Natasha. "Would it be safer?"

"I discussed it with Natasha and Clint," he said after a moment of hesitation. "The way Ward acts around you is… odd. As much as I hate to admit it, he could be leading us into a trap."

She kept her silence for a few precious minutes, considering his words. Their situation was too precarious for them to be burning their bridges unless absolutely necessary, but his observations were sound. "I don't like the way he watches me," she admitted, turning her face to look out the passenger window. "I think he might actually be scared of me." She glanced back and gave him a weak smile. "Grant Ward afraid of Jemma Simmons. I never thought I would see the day."

"Assuming that's all it is. It might not be so simple," he responded, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel. "Though it could just be that his experience with the Berserker staff has made him warier of all things alien than he once was."

"Understandable," she murmured. "But we don't know for a fact that he's told us everything he knows about me." The back of her neck itched in some kind of psychosomatic induced response. "Maybe the serum isn't the worst of it."

She could see that Phil had already been considering this possibility, and that it disturbed him more than he had previously let on. "Maybe," he admitted. "But I do think it is important to remember that you aren't contagious."

"We don't know that for a fact," she said instantly, sitting up straighter in her seat. "For all we know I'm the Chitauri version of Typhoid Mary."

"If you're spreading anything, it certainly isn't the virus. If that were the case, we would know by now." He glanced away from the road long enough to give her a warm smile. "I'm still in perfect health, as far as we know, and if you were going to infect anyone, it would be me."

She blushed despite her worry. He was certainly correct in that aspect.

"You haven't demonstrated superhuman strength, or the ability to read minds, or anything untoward," he continued. "The only thing unusual about you is that you find me sexually attractive."

She slapped him lightly on the arm. "And why shouldn't I? You're handsome and fit, and you have a lovely sense of humor. You're also very intelligent."

"But hardly young, Jemma."

He was infuriating, at times. "You're just fishing for compliments, now." They passed a sign notifying them that the border was five kilometers away. She raised a brow, suspicious. "Are you really so dismissive of your own attractiveness, or are you just trying to get me into a snit for the border guards?"

He gave her an almost unreadable smile. "Is it working?"

She laughed despite her annoyance. "Yes, you terrible man." She paused, a wicked idea coming to mind. "I still can't believe my father sold me to you to pay off his debts."

"What?"

Jemma studied her nails, not bothering to hide her smirk. "I told him gambling would destroy our family, but no, he had to play that last hand."

"I thought Mary Elizabeth was a gold-digger," he replied in a choked voice, looking simultaneously appalled and amused. "Now you're telling me Kevin won her in a hand of poker?"

"Baccarat. It was either me or the family estate, but since the walls of the castle were crumbling around our ears, I suppose you made the better choice."

He pulled the car off of the main road and parked at an opportune rest stop, his shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter. "Jemma-"

"Too far?" she asked him in seeming innocence.

"Much too far."

"Ahh." She gave a small sigh. "I hadn't even gotten to the part about your many prostitutes."

"Of course there would be prostitutes," he said, hands against his face. "It's your trademark."

"Hardly!" She grinned, stroking a finger down the arm closest to her. "Jonathan Phillips had no need of prostitutes, I assure you."

"Lucky Jonathan." His expression, when he finally looked at her, was infused with mirth. "From now on, please save your stories until after border crossings. It's going to take me a while to regain my composure."

"Very well." She waited for him to stop laughing, taking joy in the sound. If there was one thing she loved, it was seeing Phil Coulson utterly undone.

"Well," she said when he was more himself. "What do you think? Chile or Bolivia?" She trusted his instincts in this, with good reason. She had only received a crash-course in being an operative, albeit a thorough one; he had lived the life for several decades. It was apparent that Clint and Natasha had also given him their blessing to disappear if need be, and that in itself told Jemma a great deal.

Phil sobered and took her hand. "I want to believe that May and the others are trustworthy."

"You don't think Ward could be operating on his own, or with SHIELD?" she asked. These weren't questions she wanted to consider, but she had reached the point where practically every choice had to be examined from each angle, and then re-examined once more. "Do we know for a fact that he is still working with May?"

"The note was in her handwriting," he said immediately. "SHIELD could never have gotten her to write that against her will. That doesn't mean that Ward isn't acting as a double agent, or that-"

He cleared his throat. "Or that May herself isn't setting a trap."

Jemma was well acquainted with his history with May, and knew how painful that idea must be. She squeezed his hand in silent empathy. "What will happen to Ward if we never show up?"

He paused. "It depends on Natasha and Clint," he said finally. "And how Ward reacts. They might continue with him to May, and gather what intel they can for us. But if they think he's a problem, then they have a more permanent solution."

It struck Jemma suddenly that she was tired of ruining the lives of other people in the quest to preserve her own, and that realization, more than anything, informed her decision. "I think we need to meet the team," she said after a few moments, and despite her certainty saying the words made her feel more anxious. She missed the days when her worries had less to do with harming other people and more to do with lab safety and whether or not she would have time to watch the latest episode of Doctor Who. That she had been rescued had been a blessing, and Phil was the greatest gift she had ever been given, but now she saw clearly how much of a threat she was to the safety of everyone else.

In some ways she had been right when she told Phil that he would be safer without her. If she were eliminated, the entire web would fall apart.

"You're sure?" he asked softly. "Natasha has arranged for new aliases in practically every country we might end up in. We could always make our way to New Zealand and see if I really could be good at raising sheep."

At any other moment she would crawl into his lap and have a little cry, but they were in public for all intents and purposes, and there might be cameras about. "We can't run forever," she said, feeling as if it had become her newest refrain. "And I couldn't- I couldn't be happy, knowing that we left Ward to some unknown fate." She gave him a teary smile. "Even if we aren't entirely sure of his motives."

He nodded after a moment. "Chile it is." He restarted the car and pulled back into traffic. She flipped down the visor and checked her makeup, relieved to see that only a few minor fixes were necessary.

"If the guard asks," he said as they passed a sign informing them that the Chilean border was a mere kilometer away, "tell him you were crying over my prostitutes."

Jemma fell asleep after they successfully passed through border control. She had put on the perfect performance of a distant, prickly wife, and the guard had given him a sympathetic look after stamping their passports, but the effort had obviously taken a great deal out of her.

She roused shortly before they reached the rendezvous, blinking sleepily in the sun. "How long?"

"We'll be there in about twenty minutes."

She nodded and undid her messy braid, pulling the rumpled strands back into a neat ponytail. She was displaying nothing more than the typical weariness associated with travel and stress, but he still remembered how tired she had been in those first days, and how little she had eaten. It was a disservice to her, perhaps, for him to worry so much over her health when she was perfectly capable of taking care of herself, but it would pain him to see her lose the vitality she had regained.

Maybe they should have run off to New Zealand after all.

"We could take a few back roads and head to Argentina," he offered, and she looked tempted. "It's not too late."

She shook her head. "It's too late for me."

It was not a sentiment he liked hearing from her in any circumstance. He was not surprised that the thought of putting Ward in danger had been the last straw for her conscience, but a little part of him wished that she would be a bit more selfish. Still, he nodded his acquiescence. "Just remember: if at any time you decide you're ready to leave, all you have to do is say the word."

She gave him the barest approximation of a smile before moving as close to him as her seat belt would allow, resting her head against his shoulder. "Believe me, Phil," she murmured, "if I ever decide that I want to raise sheep with anyone, it would definitely be with you."

Neither Clint nor Natasha gave any indication that they were at all startled to see them actually arrive within the specified time frame. It was likely that they had foreseen Jemma's softheartedness winning the day. Perhaps he had been the only one who had retained some hope that she would say yes, though even he had known that the odds were against it.

"Traffic?" Clint asked, casually stepping in between Jemma and Ward when the latter seemed to be studying her face a bit too closely. "Trouble at the border?"

"We just took our time," Phil demurred. "Any trouble at your end?"

"Why would there be trouble?" Clint asked innocently. "We're just two bros seeing the sights. Two bros and a dame, that is."

"That sounds like a very confused remake of Guys and Dolls." Phil glanced at Ward and gave him his best unimpressed stare. "Problems, Ward?"

"None, Sir," Ward replied, as straight-faced as ever. He definitely did not look like someone who would ever be called a 'bro', at least not unironically. Phil briefly considered bribing Skye to do so, if only to see Ward's reaction. "Are you sure we should go so long before the next rendezvous?"

That could simply be caution on Ward's part, or it could be a desire to keep tabs on them for other reasons. Either way, Phil had no intention of changing their current plan without good cause. "No need to play nursemaid," he said, allowing just the slightest condescending scold to creep into his voice. "Jemma and I will be just fine without anyone watching our backs for the next day or two."

"The faster we get there, the better," Ward insisted, and Phil exchanged the slightest of glances with Clint.

"The extra time is built in for a reason." Phil glanced around their sheltered grove, noting that Jemma had slipped away to speak quietly with Natasha. "Traffic jams, landslides, the odd parade- this isn't the kind of journey we can plan down to the minute. Besides, just because we couldbe in Antofagasta by late tomorrow morning is no reason to do so. Your average tourist wouldn't be driving all night."

"A valid point," Clint said in mock solemnity. "Perhaps you don't know how dedicated Phil is to crafting a perfect alias, Ward. I'm sure he is planning a romantic evening of wine, fine food, and seduction with the lovely Ms. Simmons for solely that reason. That is, after all, what men with younger wives do while on vacation."

Phil made a mental note to ask Jemma never to reveal the extent of her backstories to Clint, or at least not the ones that involved bartered brides and ladies of the evening. "And you will be searching out whatever nightlife Iquique has to offer, I suppose?" he asked Clint dryly. "Take Ward with you. Please don't get arrested, but if anything embarrassing happens, I want pictures."

"Of course." Clint looked legitimately offended. "I would never deny you the sight of Ward attempting to dance."

"What makes you think I can't dance?" Ward asked, looking somewhat offended himself.

Clint gave him the kind of look that people generally reserved for adorably overconfident children. "I'm sure you can."

Not for the first time, Phil was very glad that he was no longer traveling in the same car as the operatives three.

Natasha and Jemma rejoined them, Jemma slipping her hand into his. "Ready to go?" she asked quietly.

"Definitely." He glanced at the others, and suddenly felt a bit mischievous. "Natasha is in charge," he said, and saw the briefest hint of glee spark in her eyes. Clint gave him the kind of long-suffering look that Phil recognized as the preface to his more elaborate quests for revenge.

Ward, on the other hand, looked slightly nervous.

"That was a bit cruel," Jemma commented once they were back in the car, but she seemed entertained nonetheless.

"She will certainly keep Ward busy," he replied, and brushed his hand against her own. "We're still a good six hours to Iquique. Are you hungry?"

She shook her head. "No, not really." She shot him a perceptive glance. "Don't worry, Phil. I won't slip into that same pattern again."

He suppressed his sigh of relief. "Take another nap, then," he said, noting the shadows under her eyes that concealer was barely hiding. "It's mostly desert from here to Iquique."

"Seen one desert, seen them all, I suppose," she said cheerfully, putting on a pair of sunglasses. "Though the Atacama desert is supposed to be beautiful when it blooms. A pity that it's the wrong time of the year."

She relaxed beside him, but he could tell that she wasn't sleeping- she was too present, even as quiet as she was. "Do you even know anything about sheep?" she asked suddenly, sounding intrigued. "If, theoretically, we ran off to New Zealand, would alpacas be equally acceptable?"

"I know that sheep are very popular in New Zealand," he replied with a smile. "But yes, I would also accept alpacas. Possibly even chickens."

"And what else would we do, other than care for animals that neither of us have seen other than in passing?"

"Plant flowers and visit the Lord of the Rings filming locations, I suppose." He dropped his free hand lightly on hers. "There are a number of excellent vineyards there as well."

She chuckled. "Aren't you concerned about getting bored?"

She said it casually, even playfully, but he sensed that there was more worry behind that question than she was allowing to show in her voice. "How could I be bored? This is the one adventure I never got to have."

She turned her hand over under his so that they were palm to palm. "Someone was also paying attention to our Doctor Who marathon."

"I actually was paying attention to things that happened on the Bus, you know," he replied in mock indignation. "I wasn't just navel-gazing up in my office."

"And yet you missed all of our orgies," she murmured sorrowfully, and when he glanced at her in shock he saw that her doe-eyed expression rivaled that of a Disney princess- and that she was lying through her teeth. "Even May came, but not Agent Coulson."

"If you are going to keep pulling lines like that, I think you need to drive," he responded after his brain had finished processing her words. "Anyway, there couldn't have possibly been orgies."

"Because you were so very attentive?" she asked him, beginning to giggle.

"No," he replied seriously, and then allowed his lips to quirk into a small smile. "Because there is very specific paperwork needed for such an occasion. Weren't you paying any attention to the seminars you attended before you joined the team?"

She was laughing outright now. "Does it have to be filed in triplicate?" she asked. "Signed by all parties?"

"And notarized."

"Ten days before the fact?"

"Thirty."

"And what department would you file that with?" she asked when she had regained enough of her breath to continue.

"Payroll," he said dryly, and she began laughing anew.

"I'm afraid to ask if that would result in a bonus or a fine," she said a few minutes later, accepting the handkerchief he offered her. She removed her sunglasses and dabbed at the corners of her eyes, still giggling occasionally. "So please don't tell me."

"It depends on how highly you're ranked in payroll's Hot-or-Not listing."

"Phil." She leaned against the car door, shaking with almost silent laughter at this point. She laughed easily, his Jemma, and yet she so rarely had an opportunity to laugh like this, so consumed by merriment that she forgot everything else for the space of at least a few seconds.

She kissed him on the cheek once she had collected herself, and then nuzzled his neck for good measure. "You put up with my flights of fancy very well these days."

He winced slightly, recalling how he had chided her for the train incident.

"No," she said firmly before he could even speak. "It's one thing when I go too far in private, and quite another in public."

"Still," he replied, "you achieved your objective. I've known field-certified agents who couldn't even manage that much. And if I have known that your imagination was quite that fertile, I would have discussed the op with you beforehand. I should have discussed it thoroughly with you anyway."

"Probably," she agreed, laying a hand on his arm. "You underestimated me," she said with a grin.

That he had.

The hotel he had chosen in Iquique was large and impersonal, but several notches higher on the scale than the rooms they had been sleeping in for the past few nights. The color palette of their room might be muted and the general environment sterile, but the bed was soft and the room clean, and that made up for a lot.

He had considered taking her out for a nice dinner on their last night alone, maybe even a bit of dancing, but by the time they had checked in he was no longer inclined to go anywhere. It was clear Jemma felt the same by the way she swayed slightly where she stood, weary despite the relatively early hour in the evening. She stepped into his arms after they had set down their bags, nestling against him.

"We should stay in," he murmured into her hair. "We spend enough time running around. We'll order room service and find something terrible to watch on television."

She sighed. "That does sound nice. Order something simple, please."

He let her go and picked up the phone and the nearby menu, absently listening to her movements in the room behind him while he placed his order with the restaurant. When he turned back around he found that she had pulled on one of his sweaters over her pajamas, and was rolling the long sleeves up several times to her wrists. He supposed it was cliche for a man to enjoy seeing a woman dressed in his clothes, but it was a classic for a reason.

"Cold?" he asked, taking a seat on the couch and pulling her down onto his lap. She drew her legs up onto the couch and snuggled against him, and he saw that she had put on a pair of his socks as well. "The air-conditioning must be set to arctic."

She nodded. "I like wearing your clothes, though; it's comforting." She yawned. "I shouldn't be this tired. I don't have any excuse, this time around."

"Stress and worry are bad enough on their own," he replied, enjoying her weight against him. He had never been with anyone who enjoyed cuddling quite as much as Jemma did; it was almost as if she were part cat. "And the past few days have been difficult."

"The honeymoon is definitely over," she agreed, and she was smiling when he looked down at her. "Now I'll have to start nagging you about leaving dirty socks on the bathroom floor, though I've never known you to do so in the past."

"I'm sure you'll find some annoying quirk." He relaxed further into the cushions and ran a hand down her side. "Though if you keep making jokes while I'm driving, neither of us will be around long enough to become disgruntled with the other."

"They should be teaching operatives that in their defensive driving courses," she said, running a finger along the skin that bordered the collar of his shirt. "Shame on them."

"My education was rather lacking." He picked up the remote and switched on the television, flipping idly through the channels until he came across a sight so bizarre he had to stop. "Jemma."

She turned her head to look at the television, and he could see her frowning slightly as she attempted to follow the announcer's rapid fire Spanish. After a moment she sat up on his lap, her shock equaling his. "Surely that footage has been faked."

"No," Phil said slowly as the footage played through for a second time, resisting the instinct that would have had him placing a protective arm across the scar on his chest. The clip was short, perhaps only thirty seconds long, and merely showed a familiar figure strolling down a city street. "That is, without a doubt, Loki Odinson."

She held still on his lap as they watched the broadcast in silence, but was on her feet the second it became clear that the news program had imparted every shred of information it had. "Is this good or bad?" she asked quietly, pacing a stretch of about six feet.

"Both," he answered after considering the question, trying to push away the dread that he felt. "Theoretically, we're nowhere near as important as another Asgardian invasion."

Not that the footage showed any indication on Loki's part that invasion was on the agenda, but as several of the boroughs of New York were still repairing the damage from his last visit to Earth, it seemed prudent to assume the worst.

"Unless they need more super soldiers," she continued, and bit one of her nails. "In which case I become priority number one."

"They're not getting you," he said firmly, standing up and taking her gently by the arms. She looked delicate in his sweater, and there was a furrow in the center of her forehead. She stopped worrying at her nail when he took another step toward her and kissed the slight line. "I'll get on my knees to Stark before they get you."

Whether her astonishment was at his words, or was merely a holdover from their most recent shock was difficult to tell. "No need to debase yourself," she whispered after a moment, and laid her fingers gently on his shirt, squarely above his scar. "They won't get either of us, this time."