Nearly everything Jemma had packed for herself had been of the slouchy and comfy variety. She doubted they would be leaving the house much, if at all- and if she were honest with herself, now that she knew pictures of her face were circulating through some very dangerous members of various crime rings, she wasn't feeling particularly touristy.
She did, however, take a serious look at the few nice dresses she still had to her name. Prim sundresses, mainly, but there was, tucked away in an opaque garment bag, a dress that Skye had wheedled her into buying before their lives had turned upside down. Twenties-style, beaded and low-waisted. Blush pink and gold, and falling just to the knees. Absolutely ridiculous as a wedding dress. She had packed it anyway, along with a perfectly respectable navy dress that she had every intention of wearing for her trip down the aisle.
And yet here she was, dressing in the tiny bedroom of one of Natasha's many safehouses, and she was pulling on the pink and gold dress. She had obviously gone crazy.
Still, she continued on, looping up her hair in a style that synced well enough with the dress. She looked like she had just strode off the set of a period film, and Jemma had to admit that she looked beautiful. Sexy, even, in that kind of way that Phil particularly appreciated. There were still bruises dotting her legs and arms, but with a bit of makeup and a shawl even she couldn't see them.
It was a struggle to keep from stripping it off and pulling on the prim piece that covered shoulders and decolletage, but she resolutely squared her shoulders and strode through the door before she came to her senses.
Phil had been chatting with Natasha when she entered the room, but turned as soon as he heard the click of her heels on the floor- and then froze, and made a strangled kind of noise that was very gratifying. "You like it, then?" she asked as Natasha exited quietly. "You don't think it's too much?"
"I'm not sure there are words in the English language to cover how much I like it," he replied, a dazed expression on his face. "Or how much I want to know what you have on under it." He blushed, which was rare for him. "Not that you're expected to show me."
She wasn't in a position to make promises, though she dearly wanted to assure him that he would be finding out exactly what she was wearing under the dress. She felt nervous and turned on all at once, almost as if it were their first time all over again. "You look very handsome."
He still looked somewhat dazed as she came closer and straightened his tie, barely changing expressions as she brushed a kiss against the corner of his mouth. "I'm going to do my best to show you," she said softly. "Not ideal, I know."
His expression did shift at that, turning from dazed to gentle. "No pressure." He slid his arms around her, keeping them circumspectly above her waistline. "If you aren't ready, I'll wrap you in my shirt and tuck you into bed… stroke your hair until you fall asleep… or we could have that Doctor Who marathon I suggested."
"You hate Doctor Who."
"I don't hate it. I just don't love it; there is a difference."
"Right." She brushed her thumb against the same corner of his mouth that she had kissed, wiping away a red smudge from her lipstick. "I suppose I'll marry you, anyway."
"We'd better get a license before you change your mind, then." He drew her arm through the crook of his elbow, the fluid drape of her shawl a sharp contrast to the tailored lines of his very fine suit.
They slipped into the Clark County Clerk's office at the tail end of the day's crush, when the various deputies were weary and just a bit less observant than they should have been. Natasha had handed Jemma a long, black, lightweight coat before they left the car, ensuring that any security cameras would only catch three soberly dressed individuals. License in hand, they made their way to one of the largest chapels in Vegas.
A woman in her fifties flashed Phil a conspiratorial smile as they approached the receptionist desk. "Found your soulmate at last, I see?" she asked rhetorically, accepting the handful of cash he handed her. "It's about time, Phil. You're getting a bit long in the tooth."
Jemma, shed of the black coat, frowned at that. "Excuse me."
"Don't mind me," the woman said with a smile. "I've been giving Phil hell ever since that muck-up in Paris ten years ago."
"Rightfully so, unfortunately." Phil shrugged even as Natasha smirked, and Jemma resolved to pull the story out of him one day. "Not my best moment."
"Now," the woman said, raising a brow. "Sadly for you, our most discrete Elvis is not the best singer."
"He can't be terrible, surely," Jemma replied.
"No, but- well." She sighed dramatically. "You'll see."
The man was perfectly lovely, in Jemma's estimation. Before walking her down the aisle (part of the package after all, as it turned out) he had taken the time to chat quietly with her for a few minutes, dimming his exuberant character performance into something much more approachable and almost gentle in order to put her at ease. His first grandchild had been born just a few days before, and with a wink he had pulled a Starkphone out of a pocket and shown her several pictures of the plump-cheeked infant.
The ceremony itself was as over-the-top as Jemma had suspected it would be, but to her surprise she found that she couldn't stop smiling. The officiant was funny and personable, and even Natasha was laughing in the front row at his sly wit. Phil had taken Jemma's arm in his once the ceremony had begun, and every time she looked up at him she found that he was already staring down at her, a soft smile on his face.
It was true that the singing was not quite what it should have been. Their Elvis wasn't exactly tone deaf, but he bordered that territory, and for a moment his voice was a small shock- and then he had winked at them all in a conspiratorial fashion, pouring such heart and soul into his rendition of "Can't Help Falling in Love" that Jemma couldn't help but laugh and pull her arm from the crook of Phil's elbow, wrapping her arms around her husband-to-be and resting her head against his shoulder. As she did so she caught a glimpse of the second witness to their marriage, Phil's friend Claire from the front desk, who looked so satisfied by the scene it was as if she had arranged the marriage herself.
Jemma was the one who leaned in first at the call to kiss the bride, pulling Phil down to her level and kissing him with enthusiasm. "All mine now, jazz man," she whispered with a smile as Elvis began his final song, and the words earned her a decidedly heated gaze that was not unwelcome. She wanted him- wanted him with a fierceness that she hadn't felt in weeks.
There was, of course, a journey to endure first, and it was possible that by the time they arrived her longing would have ebbed into something tamer, something edged with that same timidity which had kept her wrapped in layers, but maybe not. She might be able to have the wedding night she wanted, after all. Or wedding morning, most likely, given the number of hours they would be in the air.
After congratulations and a receiving a copy of the completed license (and Claire's promise that she would 'accidentally' shuffle their paperwork to the bottom of the pile), they left quickly and quietly. Jemma had donned the black coat again, but she kept her right hand twined with Phil's left, pressing as close to his side as she could without hampering his own movement.
"We're married," she told him with what she suspected was a silly grin once they had boarded the quinjet. "I was worried we would never get this far."
"We are married." His tone was wondering, almost dreamy, as he kissed her fingertips and the delicate skin of her inner wrist. "Properly and legally."
"Which is going to annoy Talbot to no end," Natasha pointed out dryly as she went through her pre-flight check. "Which will, in turn, lead to Fury asking you if you had taken leave of your senses."
"Only in the best possible way," he replied, pressing a kiss to the dip of Jemma's palm that made her toes curl. "I'm not apologizing to Fury for taking a wife."
He seemed to realize that he might be coming on too strong (which he wasn't), because he loosened his grip on her hand and slid an arm around her shoulders. "Feel free to use me as your pillow."
She wasn't tired, not yet, but she leaned against him anyway and closed her eyes. They had hours yet before they could be alone. She would take what closeness she could get.
Snow was falling when they arrived, thick and fast in the early light, and at first glance he had to admit that Tony- or Pepper, probably Pepper- had chosen this house well: it was small, for a Stark residence, and every inch of it was cozy and well-outfitted. Natasha left them after prowling the length of the house, searching for bugs and pointing out the location of every security camera.
She exchanged a few private words with Jemma while he checked the kitchen (well-stocked, thankfully, and not just with alcohol), and then made her farewells. Jemma disappeared shortly after into the master bathroom, and the sound of the shower starting filled him with both regret and desire for a shower of his own.
The regret was solely because he had wanted to slide that dress from her body himself, but her comfort was more important than his fantasies. Something soft and concealing would calm her nerves, as would a good meal and a few hours of deep sleep. If any seduction happened during this trip, it would have to be on her end.
He had showered in one of the other bathrooms and was pulling together a meal by the time he heard her footsteps coming down the hall. "Do you want mimosas?" he asked without turning around, pulling a chilled bottle of champagne from the fridge. "It would almost be sacrilege to dilute wine like this with orange juice, but-"
He was fortunate that he had put the bottle on a nearby counter before turning, because he had a feeling that it would have ended up on the floor if he had still been holding it when he first saw Jemma. She was barefoot, her hair loose around her shoulders, but she was wearing her wedding dress again, the beads gleaming softly in the light.
"And what were you planning on feeding your wife?" she asked, taking a step toward him. "A nice word, isn't it?"
"It suits you," he replied, his mouth dry.
"I like the word 'husband', too."
It was very like their first meeting: him standing still, and her taking those crucial steps to bridge the distance. She looked almost as nervous now as she had then, but she reached out and took one of his hands, drawing it to rest against her marked shoulder. "May I make a suggestion?"
He stroked his thumb over the penultimate z, admiring for the millionth time the astonishing sight of his words against her skin. "Please do."
"No need to be fancy. Make a plate of something good cold, grab that bottle of champagne, and then come find me." She rose on her toes and brushed a gentle kiss against his lips. "Do you want to undress me?"
Jemma grinned when his only reaction was shocked silence. "I thought so."
She was halfway down the hall, that glorious dress swinging in sync with her hips, when she paused and turned back to face him. "I want to be brave," she said, her face serious. "Because I love you, and I trust you, and I miss how we were in bed."
"I miss that, too." More than his own pleasure he missed seeing her own. There was something especially beautiful in Jemma post-orgasm, lying boneless and breathless and wearing a sly smile which he only saw in the privacy of their bed.
He also liked knowing that he was the one who brought that smile to life. He realized that was terribly alpha-male of him, but he was only human.
"So we'll see how far we get. But I'll make it good for you, Phil, I promise."
"Jemma." He waited until she met his eyes to continue. "Your pleasure is the only pleasure I care about."
She blushed, the tense set of her shoulders easing. "Hurry."
Fruit, cheese, charcuterie and fresh bread- all within reach and easy enough to arrange on a tray with the bottle of champagne and two glasses. "That is a hell of a dress," he told her once he entered the bedroom, placing the tray on one of the dressers. "I'm not sure I ever told you."
"You didn't." She smoothed her hands over the beading on her hips, looking pleased. "I never thought I would wear it- Skye dared me to buy it, really."
She turned, lifting her hair to reveal the row of small buttons down the back of the dress. "Would you do the honors?"
Button by button, inch by inch- revealing both her lovely skin and still fading bruises, as well as blush colored silk. A vintage style bra and tap pants, with- God help him- another row of buttons down each hip and an inset of lace.
"You picked these just to torture me," he said, his voice alarmingly hoarse to his own ears. He was kneeling by her side at that point, unable to tear his gaze from the contrast of pink silk and the pale skin peeking between the gaps. "Wow."
"Fair trade." When he looked up she was smiling hesitantly, her stance less confident and more uncertain. "Lose a few layers, please."
Simply undressing did not seem to be the right move, not at that moment, and as he considered her expression an idea came to mind. A rather wild idea, because he really was not of an age to be doing a striptease, but she looked like she wouldn't mind a distraction at the expense of his dignity.
Her lips twitched first as she realized his intentions, and then an incredulous giggle escaped her as he undid the buttons of his shirt more slowly than was his usual wont, and certainly with more shaking of his hips.
"What- what-"
Then he tossed her his shirt and she burst out laughing, staggering backward to sit on the bed.
"Not enjoying the show?" he asked her teasingly, and she shook her head quickly, laughing so hard actual tears were sliding down her cheeks.
"No, no. Keep going." She dabbed the sleeve of his shirt against her eyes. "This is much more of a turn-on than you realize."
It was SHIELD training, rather amusingly, that allowed him to lose his shoes, socks, and pants without tripping all over himself. "I think you've done this before," she noted with a laugh, his shirt still in her lap. "Please tell me Striptease 101 isn't a class at the academy."
"More like 'how to rid yourself of any unnecessary clothing in sixty seconds or less'." His bruises were worse than hers, especially on his back, but she didn't appear to notice as he moved toward her clad only in his underwear. "Never know when you might need to ditch your coat while submerged in an ice-covered lake."
"Or your trousers?" she replied archly.
"Those too."
Amused as she was, he sensed that she was on the verge of blushing and growing tense once more. "Let me help you put this on," he said, touching a finger to his shirt. "If you like."
He meant over her current ensemble, but after giving him a perceptive look she reached up and unhooked her bra, allowing it to drop to her lap. The remnant of one burn mark was still visible on the inner curve of her right breast. "Maybe now," she murmured after a moment, and allowed him to draw the shirt on over her arms to settle on her shoulders. She didn't button it- didn't even draw it close to cover her breasts- but just having the fabric fall around her made her sit up visibly straighter.
She moved to sit against the headboard, holding out her hand to him in silent invitation. Her first act, once he was seated beside her, was to run her fingers over the wedding band on his left hand. "I like seeing this on you."
"I like seeing yours on you." She looked beautiful in her silk and white cotton, with the crisp black across her collarbone and the gleam of gold on her left hand. A single inset diamond glittered in the light of the lamp. He had offered her more elaborate rings, but she had picked that one, because- she had said with a smile- it would fit under her gloves in the lab. "How are you feeling, wife?"
She looked briefly startled by the word, but her expression quickly softened. "Your wife would like a kiss."
"Just one?"
"Or five." She settled herself on his lap, knees on either side of his hips. "And how is my husband?"
"In dire need of a kiss."
"Well." She shifted lightly on his lap, a devilish expression on her face, and lifted the hand she held to curve it around one of her breasts. "Our interests seem to dovetail nicely."
She met him for one long and tender kiss, which would have been incredibly arousing even without the warm weight he held neatly in one hand. "Perhaps I could be on top?" she asked in a murmur when they parted.
"The shots are yours to call."
She took him at his word, and she was obviously in no hurry to reach any kind of finish line. He would have called their lovemaking languorous, if his cognitive functions had been operating at that level. As it was, what brain cells he could call to attention were focused on doing exactly as she wanted. It was like a dance, in a way- she didn't so much voice her preferences as use body language to guide him, and she made it very clear that she was quite pleased with the way he took direction.
"Good?" he asked once he could speak again, almost afraid to even open his mouth for fear that she might move from her spot. She lay draped over him, making soft, contented noises against his neck.
"You get high marks for honeymoon sex." She stretched lazily, which was an interesting and possibly even inspirational experience. To his regret she moved to lie beside him, the wrinkled shirt she still wore the perfect frame for her body. That fascinating bit of silk and lace underwear she had been wearing was somewhere unknown, and he made a mental note to pack them safely away for another night. "And I'm feeling very good," she continued, meeting his gaze squarely. "Perhaps not 'tie me to the headboard' good, but definitely better than I have been."
"And I didn't push you too far?"
He hated that he had to ask- and he knew that if she had made an overt attempt to put an end to things, he would have noticed and responded immediately- but there was always the fear that she might have gone farther than was comfortable as a kindness, of sorts.
"Asks the man who would have let me cuff his hands to the railing while I rode him, if that had pleased me." The smile she gave him was warm and utterly sure. "Everything was exactly what I wanted. And you were well taken care of, I think?"
"Yes."
"How certain you sound."
"I'm certain about that." He took in several deep breaths, still feeling mentally scattered. "Not quite certain what day it is, though. My name is Phil, right?"
"Last I checked."
She slid off the bed while he was distracted, and when he glanced over at her found she was making her way toward the bathroom. "I'll be back in a moment," she said, flashing him a quick smile. "You might want to think about opening that champagne."
He wasn't sure he had the strength to open it neatly, but if she wanted champagne she would definitely be getting champagne.
They had a small picnic at the foot of the bed amidst the rumpled sheets and blankets, drinking no longer chilled wine and working their way through the food. She was eating heartily, he was happy to see, and she lounged next to him with every appearance of ease, still wearing his shirt.
"Have you thought about some kind of plan?" she asked eventually, having moved to sit against the footboard. He had topped up her glass only moments before, and she held a half-eaten strawberry between two delicate fingers.
He was resisting the urge to kiss the traces of strawberry juice from her lips. She looked too focused for that. "I've been brainstorming a few plans. Anything in specific?"
"For us." She shrugged, blushing slightly. "I really would be happy if you were no longer Director- not because I don't want your career to advance- but the additional, albeit theoretical, free time wouldn't necessarily equal freedom."
She had a point. If Nick took over once more, he would be under outside orders- and while that relieved him of overseeing every other SHIELD cell on the planet, it was hardly a free pass. "I'm still thinking on that."
"No Victorian in the Cotswolds," she murmured with a smile. "Though we wouldn't be able to have that anyway, not with Hydra out and about." She looked uneasy, all of a sudden. "And my… admirers."
"Those assholes won't be laying a single finger on you."
She looked momentarily startled by his heated tone, and then smiled. "Such language."
It had been bad enough when she had only been a target because of her association with SHIELD and with him, but now unknown pictures were circling with her name and pertinent details attached, and that was beyond the pale. "Nat will track down every name and every image," he reminded her, wishing that Skye were in ready enough form that he could also recruit her for the task. "And you will be perfectly safe, Jemma."
She drew her knees up against her chest, feet turned in and overlapping in front of her. "If there are naked pictures of me floating around the internet, you won't be embarrassed, will you?"
"What, for my own pride? No." He considered her sadly, wishing they didn't have to have this conversation. "I'll be outraged for your sake, and fiercely protective, but embarrassed or angry at you- never."
"Well. That's good." She sighed and offered him a shaky smile. "I admit that I don't know what I want, either. A bit more normalcy, a baby, eventually… but I know we'll never be a normal couple."
"You're right. Most couples don't have trackers in their wedding rings." He moved to sit beside her, draping an arm around her shoulders. "We could always run off and start that coffee shop in Seattle."
"I'm told there are already too many coffee shops in Seattle."
"Exactly. We'll blend in."
Her tense posture was relaxing as she leaned against his side, and slowly but surely she eased back into something close to her post-orgasm state: warm, sleepy-eyed, and free of tension. "And if we lived in a little apartment in Seattle, would you still be happy to have me and the daily grind?" she asked in a murmur.
"Now look who's punning." He angled himself toward her, bending to brush a kiss against her hairline. "A cozy apartment… we could paint the walls something cheerful. Maybe live above the shop so we wouldn't have to commute. Adopt a pet."
"I like cats."
"So we get a cat."
They could get a cat. The Playground probably had mice, anyway.
"But we'll find a place with a spare bedroom," he continued, keeping his voice quiet. "Because one day we'll need space for a crib."
"It's completely impossible." She was beginning to sound tipsy, and even he was feeling a bit of a buzz. "But I do like this little fantasy life."
"Me, too." He took a long look at her, fully appreciating her tousled hair and and the relaxed, content expression on her face. The amount of skin on show was nice, too, if rather more bruised than he was comfortable with. "Though this life has its high points."
"Too many near-death scares." She brushed a finger lightly against the scar on his chest, frowning. "You are a magnet for trouble."
"I could say the same for you."
She laughed at that. "I was perfectly boring before I joined the team, thank you."
"Safer, maybe. Definitely not boring."
She straightened, wrapping her free arm around his neck and pulling him down for a kiss. When she pulled back it was barely an inch, just far enough that he could meet her gaze. "You're not boring, either," she murmured. "In fact, I find you fascinating."
"Do you?"
"Hmm-mm." She rubbed the tip of her nose against his playfully. "I'm ready for sleep, I think. You?"
"I could be persuaded."
He expected her to pull on pajamas, but instead once their plates were cleared away she climbed into bed wearing just his unbuttoned shirt, curling up against him skin to skin. "You're always so warm," she told him in the dim room. "I like that. I'm not pressing against one of your bad bruises, am I?"
"No." Her body was too relaxed and loose for her to be anything but comfortable, and all she did when he wrapped his arms around her was nestle closer. "I love you."
"Oh, I know." She yawned, and pressed a kiss to the scar above his heart. "I love you, too."
Jemma awoke to afternoon light creeping around the curtains and an empty bed. She would have been perturbed by that, but she could hear him singing (singing, he must be happy) in the kitchen, and that went a long way to appeasing her.
A leisurely stretch brought a satisfied smile to her face, as she luxuriated in the softness of the sheets and the ache in her muscles that reminded her she had been well-loved earlier that day. She wouldn't mind a round two.
Still, not a miracle cure. She acknowledged the fact as she gathered clothing and went to take another shower. Jemma knew better than to think that she would be entirely comfortable with standing in close proximity with strange men anytime soon, or that she would even feel comfortable jumping into bed with Phil at any given moment. She was better, though, and didn't regret a single moment of the consummation of her marriage.
The remembrance of the morning had her feeling amorous as she walked into the kitchen, enough so that when Phil turned to greet her she twined her arms around his neck and kissed him heatedly.
"Hello to you, too," he murmured, following her as she moved them backward until her back bumped against the counter. "I'm sorry, I thought you would sleep a little longer while I started dinner."
"Early for dinner," she commented, holding him firmly against her.
"The steaks need to marinate for a few hours. I was going to get them started, then come back to bed and admire my wife."
He was taking his cues from her, she realized without surprise. If she had edged into the room and kept to the other side of the counter, she would be getting a far gentler Phil right now. "You'd better take care of that, then," she replied, loosening her grip on him. "I'm in the mood to be admired."
She did go to the other side of the counter at that, but leaned against it with her best come hither look so that he wouldn't get the wrong idea. "It's because I trust you," she said suddenly, feeling as if he needed to hear the words again. "You make such an effort to keep me comfortable, Phil, and I see it. I love you, and I trust you."
When he paused, considering her words, she continued. "And I want you. When you kissed my palm on the plane, I nearly climbed onto your lap."
He put aside the package of brown sugar that had been in his hand and leaned against the counter opposite her. "That dress nearly had me on the floor," he said. "But I would have slept on the couch, if you had asked me to."
"I know." She reached across the counter and took his hand, rubbing her thumb against his wedding ring. "So finish what you're doing, because after I'm done with you we're both going to need a good meal."
She lit a fire in the living room while he finished preparations in the kitchen, and was lounging on the couch by the time he joined her. "I like this house," she informed him as she moved to sit on his lap. "A pity we can't just stay here."
"It's surprisingly cozy for Tony. Usually he goes the ultra-modern route."
The immediacy of her desire had dimmed, though not unpleasantly: it was simply lovely to curl up with him in front of a fireplace and let him pet her.
After a while she shifted positions and kissed him, gradually drawing him down on top of her and gauging her reaction as she did so. She hadn't been sure about giving him the dominant position, but she always had liked feeling his weight on her- and she still did. Because he was Phil, and because he would immediately roll off of her onto the floor if she pushed him away, and because she felt so safe sheltered underneath him.
"When was the last time we were this relaxed?" she asked in an interval, one of his hands underneath her shirt and warm against her skin. "When we just lay about and snogged like teenagers?"
"Greece, I think." The brush of his thumb against her nipple made her squirm. "Far too long."
He shifted their positions so that they were spooned up on their sides, and slipped his hand under her waistband when she pouted at the loss of his weight. "Just relax," he said, kissing the curve of her ear. "Let me take care of you."
He had callouses on his fingertips, and chuckled when she pointed out that fact in a breathless voice. "I hadn't considered that," he murmured. "I'm glad it pleases you, sweetheart."
It was afterward, as she lay in drowsy contentment and considered how she might repay the favor, that he brought up one topic she hadn't expected to discuss with him. "Is everything all right between you and Skye?"
That dispelled some of the lovely afterglow, but not as much as she might have expected. With his arms around her and one hand pressed warm against her stomach, Ward's plans for her seemed very far away. "She's just having a rough time of it. She said something regrettable, that's all."
"Will you tell me?"
Jemma considered the request. "She said that she wished she had never taken my place. I can't blame her for it."
He sighed, pulling her closer. "Neither can I, though I wish that she hadn't said that to you."
"It put me in a bad place for a bit," she admitted. "We're all a little fragile right now, aren't we?"
"From a certain perspective. From my perspective, you are anything but fragile." He nuzzled his nose against her hair, a sweet sensation that had her smiling and wriggling to turn in his arms. "My wife is the strongest person I know."
"I have a strong husband to lean on."
He really was an excellent kisser. A pity they couldn't stay here indefinitely, engaging in hedonistic pleasures and cut off from the weirder parts of the world. As fascinating as the weirder parts were, she was becoming weary of the dark underbelly.
They had this week, at least, and then it was back to the cold Playground and the quiver of earth beneath their feet. Jemma was not so blase about her encounter with Skye as she had put forward- her friend's words had cut deep, and even if Ward seemed so very far away at the present moment, she had a feeling that he would be haunting her once they returned to the confines of the base. The Playground lent itself to ghosts of all kinds.
He drew back slightly, brushing his thumb along her cheekbone. "We're going to be fine, sweetheart," he said, as if he had heard her every thought. "I might be running a little low on faith at the moment, but I have faith in us." He flashed her a quick grin. "Especially now that we don't have to worry about aliens taking over my brain."
"That is a relief." She kissed him quickly, draping one leg over his to pull his hips closer to hers. "I'm growing very fond of Phil 3.0."
"The extra-devoted version intent on making love to his wife?"
"Is there any other?"
His ardent expression softened. "When we get back…"
"Yes?" she prompted, half-expecting to hear something about long hours and new missions.
"...I'm going to teach you how to drive Lola."
She stared at him for a moment, amused. "You are desperate for a shag, aren't you?"
She was pretty sure the word he called her was 'minx', but she was so distracted by the way he was tickling the sensitive skin along her ribs that she wasn't entirely sure. "I get to touch Lola," she said in a teasing, sing-song fashion once she had regained her breath and stopped laughing. "I must rate."
"Of course you get to touch Lola; you're my wife." He gave her his best Agent Coulson glare, which was somewhat spoiled by the fact that his arousal was pressed firmly against her. "You get to touch a lot of things."
"Is that so?" she asked, relishing the wicked impulse she was feeling. "There's only one thing I want to touch right now."
"My wife definitely gets to touch that." He dropped the act abruptly, looking concerned. "Okay, sweetheart?"
She smiled, snuggling closer. "Kiss me, jazz man."
Let the ghosts come. She would have her honeymoon.
AN: As often happens with me, the story is much longer than I ever expected it to be. As a result I have run out of titles from the song I originally chose! Because of this, I have chosen to end part one here, and will post the first chapter of part two sometime next weekend. Be on the look-out!