She herself was thinking of the way she had once planned to be married- away back in her early teens when such a thing had not seemed impossible. White silk and tulle veil and orange-blossoms; no bridesmaid.
-The Blue Castle, Lucy Maud Montgomery

It wasn't often that Jemma woke before Phil, but as she surfaced from her nap she could tell that he still slept, judging by the sound of his breathing and how lax his arm was around her waist. He didn't relax nearly enough, and so she kept herself still and loose against him.

She was still processing- obsessing over, really- her encounter with Fitz earlier in the day. She had known his mum, had been close with her, even. Granted, it had been obvious that Fitz's mum had expected the two of them to make a match of it, and Jemma wondered what, exactly, Fitz had told her when Jemma disappeared the first time, and what had gone through the poor woman's mind when SHIELD turned up at their door, full of prying questions about where Fitz might be and how he had sounded when last they spoke.

No one could accuse Leopold Fitz of not thinking through his own decisions, but she ached in the wake of his words, as the guilt began to build into an almost physical burden. Jemma had known that he would follow her to the Bus, that the pull would be too strong for him to resist. She hadn't thought much of it, at the time, thinking only that she would finally get the field experience she had been longing for. A little adventure was all Jemma had wanted, and the more fool her, she had thought that Fitz would enjoy it, too.

She held as still as possible and kept her weeping quiet, allowing her tears to dampen the sheets unimpeded. They had been in each others' pockets for so long that she no longer had any shields when it came to Fitz, and each word he had aimed her way had struck true and deep.

Phil muttered something unintelligible in his sleep, tightening his grip on her and pressing his face against her shoulder. It should have been comforting, but instead she found herself practically sobbing into her pillow, driven on by a hormonal surge that was akin to a tidal wave.

She wouldn't trade Phil for Fitz. That was a certainty, and she acknowledged that in many ways she had lost Fitz long ago. He was no longer that beloved, exasperating man who had finished her sentences more often that not as they walked blithely through their safe, sterile little world. She had forgotten what it was like to have interests separate from Fitz, to work on research that had nothing to do with his research. There had been a kind of comfort in working with him, in knowing almost exactly how he would respond to a given situation or what suggestion he might make if they were stuck on a problem, but she couldn't deny that the brief amount of time she had spent speaking with Bruce and even Tony had been exhilarating. The clash of differing opinions, the unusual angles they attacked problems from- it sparked her imagination and intellectual appetite.

That wasn't stopping her body from reacting as if her own mother had died. She was so tired of crying over everything and nothing. The day before she had literally cried over spilled milk, and at the time had thought that would be the low point of her week.

She missed the moment when Phil woke, but she felt when he clasped a hand over hers. Wisely, he refrained from offering platitudes, and instead just tucked himself more securely around her as she shuddered with the force of her sobs.

Finally her tears waned, and she said more shakily than she liked, "I should be stronger than this."

"At the risk of sounding like an after-school special, don't judge yourself by societal expectations." He ran his thumb over the knuckles of the hand he held. "We can't all be Melinda May."

She found herself giggling at that, but it was a very teary kind of giggle. "I knew pregnancy would make me emotional, but this is just ridiculous."

"He was very important to you, and for a long time," he said softly. "He still is, I think, and that's perfectly understandable."

She wriggled in his grasp until she faced him. He was gazing at her with a gentle and open expression, though he frowned slightly when he saw the reddened skin around her eyes. "You're more important," she told him firmly, placing a hand over his heart. "I wouldn't trade you for anyone."

"I know." Such a simple answer, but the confident way he said it was worlds away from the tinge of flattering, if frustrating, disbelief that had occasionally been present in his voice in the early days. "I trust you completely," he continued, one hand stroking her back soothingly. "I know that you're not going anywhere."

She wrapped her arms around him and tucked her head under his chin, feeling pleasantly overwhelmed by his words. "I'm glad you're here," she said after a few minutes of cuddling had further restored her equilibrium, "but I'm sorry that Natasha disturbed you at work."

"Natasha does as she pleases," he responded. "She's just as apt to show up to tell me that she's taken out of a mole in the administrative department, and could I take care of the paperwork, as she is to show up and rat out a mouthy Scot who made her friend cry."

"Do you know what she made me eat before she handed me off to Clint?" she said, and the memory inspired the tiniest of smiles. "A pudding cup, Phil. She stood over me and made me eat butterscotch pudding, and then she went to tattle."

"Would it have been better if she had given you a shot of vodka and then tattled?" He pulled back just enough to meet her eyes, and he was smiling. "Though it is interesting that when Natasha tries to find the non-alcoholic equivalent of a soothing drink, she immediately turns to pudding."

"I think we would need to run more experiments before we could make such a definitive statement."

There was mirth in his expression. "Are you up to the challenge, Dr. Simmons?"

The idea amused her, and even better, distracted her. "Oh, most definitely. I can think of a number of scenarios that might work."

"We can never tell her," he said seriously.

"No, never."

His gaze softened, and he leaned in to kiss her gently, the hand on her back moving down to curve over her hip. "Thor has returned. He'll be at dinner tonight, but we can make our excuses, if you prefer."

"No, I would like to meet him. It should be very exciting." And she was, she really was legitimately excited about meeting Thor, who by all accounts was personable and charming and genuinely kind. "You seem to like him a great deal."

"He is dreamy," he replied with a wry smile, and pressed a kiss to the crook of her neck. "I invited Skye, too. Hilarious hijinks for everyone."

He began to pull back, but stopped when she placed her hand lightly on the back of his head. "That felt nice," she said softly. "Do it again?"

She relaxed back into the pillows, letting her eyelids slip shut as his mouth trailed slowly across her neck and throat. The hand on her hip moved to her belly, hesitating there until she tipped her hips up in silent invitation.

His fingertips had barely slipped beneath the waistband of her underwear when the phone rang in the other room. "Go," she said with a small sigh, pushing lightly on his shoulders. "Alaska."

He left, and she took a moment to appreciate the sight of him in boxers and a t-shirt. Jemma liked him in just about anything, really, but she especially liked him in nothing. She slipped out of the bed as she heard him answer the phone, moving over to the window in the ensuing silence.

It was only mid-afternoon, and in the time she had been asleep a light dusting of snow had built up on the windowsill. The flurries were pretty, if one could ignore the possibility of a lightless, heatless city slowly blanketed by snow and ice.

She was still staring out the window when he returned a few minutes later, looking remarkably cheerful, all things considered.

"So, Alaska and half of Austria have power, and the hospitals in Belarus are running just fine on backup generators." He wrapped his arm around her waist and nuzzled his cheek against her hair. "Good news all around."

She turned into his embrace, slipping her arms around his neck. "Do you need to return to headquarters?"

He shook his head. "Not unless the lights here go off."

They both instinctively glanced upward at that, only to remember that the lights in the room were already off. "Knock on wood," he said wryly, and tapped his fist lightly against the window frame.

"How about a movie?" she suggested, kissing his collarbone lightly. She wasn't very interested in actually watching a film, but she would happily take a few more hours of cuddling up against him as cinematic white noise washed over them. "And maybe a snack," she added. "Are you hungry? I think the baby is hungry."

He was grinning when she looked back up. "Then we should do something about that." Rather than pull away, he dipped her unexpectedly over his arm, kissing her mid-laugh. Not for the first time, she was reminded at how fortunate she was in his many talents.

He pulled her back up, holding her tightly against him. "What would you like to eat?" he asked, brushing his lips against her forehead. "I'm not sure why I'm suddenly so excited."

"You just like feeding people," she said with a smile, squirming playfully out of his grasp. "If only we had known, on the Bus, that all we needed to do to make you happy was ask for dinner."

"I like feeding you," he corrected, following her into the living room. "Perhaps if you had come into my office and batted your eyelashes."

She glanced back to see his teasing smile. "I think you would have just asked me if I had a fever," she replied, and slowed so that he could catch up with her. "Not that I would have been brave enough to enter your office on such an errand in the first place."

"A pity." He rummaged through the fridge, pulling out cheese and the leftover fruit salad from that morning. "If you had been brave enough to ask, I probably would have indulged you."

She couldn't quite imagine such a thing, her mind getting as far as Phil giving her his best Agent Coulson expression with a mild, 'You want me to do what, again?' before stalling out entirely.

It was a funny thought, actually. If they actually had made it as far as the kitchen, she was sure it would have turned into some kind of team cooking lesson. He would have roped in Skye, Fitz, and Ward, and May would have most likely lingered in the doorway with a slight smirk on her face.

And then Fitz would have set something on fire. She couldn't begin to count the number of times he had set something ablaze when they had shared an apartment before the Bus, and the memories were suddenly bittersweet.

She pulled herself back into focus, spearing a chunk of pineapple from the plate Phil put in front of her. "Thank you for coming home," she said again, softly, and he took her free hand.

"Anytime."

Jemma still looked a bit bruised around the edges, but by the time they arrived at dinner her smile was no longer the pale shadow it had been earlier in the afternoon. Her resiliency was hardly a surprise to Phil at this point, but he still found it utterly remarkable.

Thankfully, Thor's exuberant welcome did a great deal to smooth over any lingering discomfort. It was difficult to be sad around Thor, whose cheerful attitude had a way of pummeling lesser emotions into submission.

"I am overjoyed to finally meet your bride," the man said, and gave a surprised Jemma a courtly half-bow. "I am told that you are a scholar of the first rank, Lady Jemma, and a fitting consort for the Son of Coul."

"She's too pretty for him," Tony interrupted, and Phil suppressed his annoyed sigh. He was becoming sick of that particular mantra, no matter how true it was.

"The Son of Coul is a warrior," Thor replied patiently, as if Tony were a small child, which Phil thought was an apt comparison. "I am sure that they are both fortunate in the other."

There were times when Phil really, really liked Thor, and this was one of those times.

"And as she is young and fertile, may they have many sons and daughters worthy of their lineage!" Thor continued, beaming, and that was the absolute end of Tony and Clint pretending to be at all serious for the evening.

"You want to teach me how to drive Lola?" Jemma asked him in disbelief when he brought up the idea in early February. "It's a bit cold, don't you think?"

"She does have a top." He adjusted the burner underneath his chicken stock in progress before turning away from the stove. "I think you need to know how to handle her more interesting abilities in case of an emergency. You do know how to drive stick, don't you?"

She looked amused at that, and answered primly, "You haven't made any complaints thus far."

"You've been spending far too much time around Clint." He shook his head, grinning. "And I do think you are very talented when it comes to that kind of gear shifting."

"Thank you," she replied graciously. "And yes, I do know how to drive a manual vehicle."

"One less thing to worry about, then." He leaned against the kitchen island opposite her, taking her hand across the brief expanse. "This Saturday? Tony said we could use his airstrip."

"It's a date," she said with a smile, though she looked just the tiniest bit nervous.

"I won't be mad if she gets scratched." He stroked the inside of her wrist with his thumb, giving her his most reassuring smile. "Or dented. Damage can be fixed. Don't worry."

She still looked worried when Saturday came, though she seemed to relax slightly when she surveyed the wide, empty tarmac, which was impeccably maintained without a pothole in sight. He wasn't surprised when she proved to be a more than competent driver, managing the combination of clutch, gas, and stick shift with quiet confidence.

"She handles very well," Jemma commented as she drove in lazy loops across the airstrip. "I can see why you guard her so fiercely."

Phil was more than enjoying the experience of seeing Jemma behind the wheel, especially as her nervousness continued to drop away. "She used to be my best girl," he said, only half joking. "Luckily, Lola doesn't mind no longer being first in my heart."

Jemma smirked slightly and slowed to a stop. "So what else can she do?"

Thus began several hours which both of them found more than a little harrowing. Jemma was perfectly fine with handling the guns and even maneuvering Lola in the air, but had difficulty doing both simultaneously. Phil thought that it was mostly a lack of familiarity which would clear itself up with practice, but Jemma was not so sure.

"It's like one of those horrible video games Fitz and Ward used to play," she griped during one of their breaks. "I hated those. Someone was always coming around a corner and shooting my character."

By the time they left her defensive maneuvers were still rather shaky, but he could at least rest easy in the knowledge that given the need, Jemma was capable of flying Lola away very, very quickly.

Jemma happily abandoned the driver's seat in favor of riding shotgun, and he drove them a few miles away from the airstrip, where he parked in a quiet and remote clearing. They were an hour away from the city, but it was still early afternoon and he saw no need to rush back.

"I have something for you," he said with a small smile, and handed her a manila envelope.

She pulled out the contents and after a moment her eyes widened. "We're no longer dead," she said in disbelief, and then paused, quirking a smile. "What an odd thing to say."

"We're officially alive and most likely owing taxes to our respective countries," he replied a bit dryly. "If the world weren't already in such turmoil, I might actually worry about that."

She laughed and stroked the surface of the document proclaiming Jemma Simmons' death certificate to be null and void. "I'm almost looking forward to it. A bit of normality, at last."

She looked up when he placed a small box onto the dashboard, and turned to give him a quizzical glance. "That's for you, too," he said. "I think you'll find them familiar."

Jemma tucked the documents back into the envelope and tucked it carefully to the side before picking up the box. She looked as if she already knew what was in it, her expression soft and dreamy, and still she sucked in a slightly shaky breath when she cracked open the lid.

"My sapphires," she said quietly, and looked up at him with tears in her eyes. "Natasha did save them."

She had also slipped them into his pocket earlier that week, on the same day that Maria had handed him proof of his own legal existence. Not a coincidence, as far as Phil was concerned. Natasha was masterminding everything, per usual.

Jemma poured the three rings into her hand, and after a moment pulled off the pair she already wore and presented her left hand to him. "Would you like to do the honors?"

He would, but not quite yet. "Can you wait until tomorrow? I may have overstepped my bounds," he admitted. "I asked Hill to get us a marriage license."

She stared at him for a moment, wide-eyed. "A marriage license?"

The hesitant way she said it was not an ego boost. She certainly deserved a better wedding than a few minutes before a magistrate with a handful of witnesses, but there was little more he could give her as international borders closed and the lights flickered out, city by city.

It wasn't just the power, now. Dams were leaking, and a train had derailed in Italy just the day before. The track had been sabotaged, the spikes ripped from the iron and thrown to the side.

It was a terrible time to marry. Phil didn't particularly care, at this point.

She smiled, suddenly, beaming as if he had offered her the moon itself. "We're getting married tomorrow," she said giddily, and dropped the rings back into the box before shutting it hastily.

"You're not disappointed?" he asked, relief making him feel lightheaded.

"How could I be?" She climbed into his lap, an echo of that day in Lima, but this time her tears had nothing at all to do with fear. "We're getting married tomorrow," she breathed, peppering his face with kisses before laughing and sitting back on his thighs, her back against the steering wheel. "It's for the best," she said with a teasing smile. "If we gave Tony too much notice, there would be elephants and strippers at the reception."

Strippers on elephants, most likely. A horrifying thought. "I'm sorry you won't get to wear a wedding dress," he said, his hands sliding down her sides to her hips. "You would be beautiful in white."

"I'd rather be married," she said with a shrug, and then gave him a look of consternation. "Not that I didn't feel married before. But it would be nice to see it in black and white, don't you think? There is something so official about a paper trail."

"I know," he assured her. "I wasn't playacting in Lima, and neither were you. We're just taking advantage of-"

"Of being alive?" she asked with a smile.

"Exactly."

Her expression turned a bit wicked. "I made a very good decision when I dressed this morning, then."

He hadn't paid much attention to her outfit that morning, other than noting that she looked lovely, as usual, and warm, which always made him feel more at ease. He took careful stock of her, now, stroking his fingers down the cashmere of her sweater to the soft wool of her skirt. Her stomach was still little more than a soft swell, though he expected that would change very shortly. "You look beautiful," he said earnestly, moving his hands to her legs.

She gave him a sweet smile before pulling up the hem of her skirt, revealing the tops of thigh-high stockings and what was indisputably a garter belt. Black lace against her creamy skin, and in that soft, pretty voice that drove him crazy she asked, "Do you like it?"

He was momentarily speechless. "My only complaint is that you've never worn anything like this before," he answered her when he found his voice again, running his fingertips across the tops of her stockings. "It's a stimulating sight."

"I noticed." She looked very pleased with herself, he noted, and she had every reason to be. "I'm glad my hypothesis was correct," she said as she undid his belt. "Would Lola mind, do you think, if we celebrated our engagement right here?"

In answer he leaned forward and kissed her deeply, feeling her hands temporarily relax against the fastenings of his trousers. When he pulled back she looked veritably starry-eyed.

"I'm going to be Mrs. Coulson," she murmured, unbuttoning his shirt with steady hands.

"You want to take my name?" he asked softly, absurdly touched by the notion.

"Oh, yes," she said with a smile. "Though I expect that Tony will call me Mrs. Agent no matter what name I use. But," she added seriously, "I've only published under Jemma Simmons, so professionally I really should retain my maiden name."

"I wouldn't want you to lose an iota of your professional reputation," he said, even as Jemma Coulson echoed in his mind. "I'm afraid the idea of you being Mrs. Coulson is making me feel very possessive."

"As long as we're both equally possessive, I'm perfectly fine with that." She kissed him again, and pulled back with a satisfied expression. "Mine."

They got home before dark- barely.

"I'm not going to lie, this is ridiculously exciting," Skye said the next morning as she rifled through Jemma's closet. "It's like our very own team shotgun wedding."

"I think Clint is actually bringing a shotgun," Natasha said from her spot on the bed as she carefully painted her nails with a second coat of polish. "For form's sake."

"Is this something Americans actually do?" Jemma asked, confused. She unwound her damp hair from her towel turban. "I thought that was a myth."

"Ehh." Skye shrugged. "Not very common these days, admittedly. But still, the idea- the idea- is comedy gold." She pulled a long white silk dress from the closet, giving it a confused frown. "Did we buy this, or did it just evolve in some kind of wedding miracle?"

Jemma caught Natasha's smirk. "I think Natasha has been plotting." She shook back her damp, uncombed hair and took the dress from Skye, holding it in front of herself before the mirror. "It does look nice, doesn't it?" she said softly, giving the skirt a twitch so that it swished slightly.

"It will look better when you're in it," Skye said firmly, taking the hanger from her hands and pushing her toward the bathroom. "Hair first."

"I don't want it straight," Jemma insisted as Natasha trailed after them to supervise. "I like a bit of curl."

"Soft and romantic," Natasha agreed with a nod. "The less we do, the better."

Jemma only hoped that their definition of 'less' lined up with hers. After several disagreements they all arrived at what Jemma considered to be a somewhat reasonable compromise for her hair and makeup, at which point she herded them out of the bedroom and shut the door. The only person who should know with any certainty what she wore under her dress was herself, and, eventually, Phil.

She shrugged off her bathrobe and smiled at her reflection in the mirror over the dresser. Eventually the scars over her abdomen might cause her some trouble, but she suspected they were small enough that all she faced was some annoying itching when she was closer to term. It was practically a certainty that they would look worse after she gave birth, and she would likely have stretch marks in the bargain, but she felt it was a small price to pay.

Jemma saw no need to hurry as she dressed, enjoying the slide of silk and fine lace against her skin as she drew on each piece of clothing, finally robing herself in the folds of the white dress. In another week or so it would have been too small, and Jemma found herself wondering where, exactly, Natasha had obtained such a dress last minute- and when she had found the time to sneak it into Jemma's closet like a mischievous sister.

She blinked back a few tears, wishing for her parents. It was a futile wish. She might legally exist, now, but England had closed its borders during the last week of January. Until the current situation was taken care of, she could hardly appear without warning on their doorstep. It wouldn't do to draw attention to them; better that they should pass under Loki's radar for as long as possible. There would be time enough, after, to break the news that she was still alive- as well as the news that they were going to be grandparents, and that their son-in-law was not that much younger than they were.

"Are you done yet?" Skye called through the door. "Seriously, Jemma, I'm ready to party."

She gave herself a slight shake and dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief before opening the door. "Will I do?" she asked cheerfully.

"Admirably," Natasha replied with a smile as Skye circled her, grinning. "One last thing." Natasha pulled a small spray of orange-blossoms out of a pasteboard box and pinned them carefully into Jemma's hair. Real orange-blossoms, miraculously, still fragrant despite the February chill and the growing number of darkened florist shops.

"There," Natasha said in satisfaction, pulling one lock of hair forward to drape over Jemma's shoulder. "A sop to tradition. Don't cry, even waterproof mascara can only take so much."

Jemma laughed at that. "I'll do my best, but I can't promise anything."

"Wait, wait." Skye pulled a small Starkpad out of her bag and switched on the camera. "We need a picture. Squeeze in."

Natasha and Skye crowded on either side of Jemma, each of them placing an arm around her as Skye angled the eye of the tablet to catch the three of them in the same frame. "Say 'wedding day selfie!'" Skye ordered with a sly smile, and the first shot captured Natasha rolling her eyes in response to that phrase.

"Definitely saving that one," Skye said with a grin. "Okay, one more. Let's look like the badass bitches we are."

The photo, which would eventually be emailed to everyone who could claim a friendly connection to the Avengers, featured Skye grinning cheerfully, Natasha's good-natured smirk, and Jemma, laughing wholeheartedly between them.

"No," Phil said, staring at Tony as if he had lost his mind. "Absolutely not."

"Agent, I did not become an internet-ordained minister to just sit on the sidelines." Tony waived the certificate at him again. "The state of New York says I am a legally registered officiant, and I intend to take advantage of that fact."

Phil exchanged a glance with Pepper, who merely rolled her eyes. "I'm done arguing with him about this," she said, a flute of champagne in her hand. "Count yourself lucky that he's not wearing one of his suits."

"Though that would be impressive," Tony mused. "Think of the wedding photos."

From the corner of his eye he could see Clint and even Maria snickering at the thought. Every event with Tony inevitably turned into a circus, even with less than twenty-four hours notice. "Fine." Phil held up his hand in warning. "But you are not officiating as Iron Man. And put away the shotgun, Clint, it isn't funny."

"Yes, it is," Clint disagreed, but left the room nonetheless.

Phil retreated to a quiet corner of the room, watching Tony suspiciously as he discussed something with a disapproving Pepper, who looked unamused by his exaggerated gestures. May joined him, watching the same sight for a moment before speaking.

"I won't lie, this relationship worried me at first." She cut a glance at him, smiling slightly. "But I was wrong. You're good for each other, and I'm happy for you."

"Thank you." He hadn't needed her approval, but he was glad to have it. "Jemma is-"

Words failed him, but May offered them up easily enough. "She's the best thing to ever happen to you," she said dryly. "I know. I'm looking forward to seeing you as a doting father. Your daughter is going to wrap you around her little finger."

They hadn't learned the sex of the baby yet, and he wasn't sure they would until the birth. Jemma had said she was content to be surprised, but admitted she was also hoping to stem the tide of gender normative color-coded onesies. "And if we have a son?"

May shook her head. "It's a girl. I have fifty dollars riding on that fact in the betting pool."

"I'm sure Jemma will do her best not to disappoint you," he said with a small smile, spotting Clint returning sans shotgun. Across the room Tony had roped Bruce and Maria into whatever fruitless conversation he was still attempting with Pepper (a mistake on Tony's part, as Bruce and Maria were likely to side with Pepper, no matter the topic), and Ward lingered in another corner, making what Phil could only guess was awkward small talk with Thor and Jane Foster, a glass of whiskey in his hand. Natasha and Skye- who had all but shoved him out of the apartment earlier that morning- would be along with Jemma shortly.

Fitz slipped into the room at that moment, hesitating in the doorway as all eyes turned his way. Phil hadn't seen him since before his conversation with Jemma in January, though he knew that Skye sought him out on a regular basis. Phil had briefly considered trying to speak with the other man- not to chide him for snapping at Jemma, but because having lost both of his parents, Phil knew all too well the pain of familial loss- but he had doubted that Fitz would be willing to speak with him.

Fitz met his eyes from across the room, and after a moment gave him a solemn nod before joining Ward, who slapped him on the back in greeting.

Awkward as it might be, Phil was glad that Fitz had joined them. They might no longer be the team they had been before Jemma had left the Bus, but Phil was fond of everyone who had served with him during that period of time, and he knew that Jemma would be the happier for having Fitz at the ceremony, even if their relationship was still strained.

May poked his arm. "Pay attention to the door, Phil," she said in a dryly amused tone, and he turned to see Jemma in white silk with flowers in her hair, and he was suddenly very glad that he had put on his best suit, the better to be a foil for her. He didn't know where Jemma had found that dress, but against the rain-spattered windows she was like a vision of lush summer, vibrant with life and promise. She met him in the center of the room, smiling as she reached out to smooth a nonexistent wrinkle on his tie.

"Are you ready?" she asked softly, meeting his gaze, and he leaned forward to kiss her gently, his fingertips pressed lightly under her chin.

"Excuse me, Agent," Tony protested, interrupting what had been a perfectly lovely moment. "The kissing comes at the end. There are rules, you know."

"I can't believe Tony Stark is chiding me about rules," Phil replied dryly as he offered Jemma his arm. "Get on with it, then."

"Is he officiating?" Jemma asked, looking amused. "How very kind of you, Tony."

'Kind' wasn't the word Phil would use, but Tony's paperwork checked out and he didn't have the patience to try and dig up another officiant at this point. This was obviously his punishment for having asked Pepper to arrange for an officiant in the first place.

"You're welcome," Tony said with a nod, and opened the small book he held. He took in a deep breath, a smile curving his lips, and began.

"Mawwiage. Mawwaige is what bwings us togethew today…"

Really, it was only the fact that Jemma was laughing along with everyone else that kept Phil from throwing something at the most exasperating and generous man he had ever met.

"Now, now," Jemma interrupted, gently but firmly, a smile still on her face. "We did not ask for the Princess Bride special. The traditional ceremony will do well enough."

"Probably for the best," Tony admitted. "I only practiced the first few lines." He flipped to a different section of the book and cleared his throat. "Fellow scientists, assassins, unrepentant jackasses, and peerless Pepper, we gather here today to join this totally undeserving man to this fine specimen of brilliant womanhood, and yes, Pepper, I can see you telling me to cut it out, but I am on a roll, so..."

Jemma had half-expected candlelight and slow seduction from Phil (ever the romantic) on their wedding night, but once they actually made it back to their apartment they were both too eager to wait. He had insisted on carrying her across the threshold, at which point he kicked the door shut behind them and carried her off to bed with single-minded focus. She had already loosened his tie when they were in the elevator, and by the time he placed her on her feet in the bedroom the tie had been abandoned in the hallway and his shirt was halfway unbuttoned.

Now they lay panting in the aftermath, the lights still burning overhead and her dress crumpled into a heap on the floor. In their haste they had never unpinned the orange-blossoms from Jemma's hair, and the flowers hung loosely from their moorings, all the more fragrant for being half-crushed.

"I can't believe Tony asked me to love, honor, and obey," Jemma said with a laugh, staring up at their reflection in the mirror. "That wretched man."

"Kicking him in the shin was absolutely the correct response," Phil replied, pressing a kiss to her shoulder. "I'm not sure what I would have done if you had actually sworn to obey. I might have just walked out of the room."

"I hope Skye got a picture of that moment." Jemma turned her head slightly to meet his eyes. "We could frame it and hang it above the mantel."

"Such a photograph would deserve the place of honor," he agreed, and spread his hand across the slight swell of her abdomen. "Are you satisfied, Mrs. Coulson?" he asked with a slow smile, the dimples she loved so appearing on his face. "A hurried affair, perhaps, but I thought it went pretty well, despite Tony's antics."

"I'm very satisfied," she assured him, and added pertly, "In all possible ways."

"Good." He was stroking her stomach now with apparent fascination, the calluses on his fingers rasping deliciously against her skin. "Hopefully we'll be back in Lima soon."

She was beginning to doubt that they would make it back before the birth at this point, if at all, but decided not to bring it up. "I'm very happy you arranged this," she told him, placing her hand over his on her stomach. "Mr. Coulson."

That sounded decidedly odd, and she frowned. "I'm not sure I like that. I like Mrs. Coulson, but not that."

"Senor and Senora Coulson?" he suggested, his thumb dipping into her belly button. "Or just Jemma and Phil Coulson. I'm easy," he said, and moved a little closer. "If you change your mind about taking my name, I could always become Phil Simmons."

"I haven't changed my mind." She stretched, moving her arm so that his head rested on her shoulder. She was tired, suddenly, worn out from the excitement and pleasures of the day. Tony's eccentric ceremony had led straight into a raucous reception, though she had noted that Bruce, for obvious reasons, had slipped out fairly early.

Fitz had been next to leave, but he had caught her in a quietish corner beforehand, taking her hand and wishing her joy in an earnest, if solemn, tone.

Phil touched her cheek lightly, and smiled when their eyes met. "Go to sleep," he said, stroking his thumb along her cheekbone. "I'll still be here in the morning."

After a moment longer she stood lazily, stretching contentedly before walking into the bathroom to clean herself up. As she pulled the pins and blooms from her hair he joined her, brushing his teeth as she washed her face. All perfectly normal activities, but the buzz of glee she had felt when she signed her name to the marriage certificate still lingered, lending a rosy glow to the moment.

"Good night, Mrs. Coulson," he murmured in her ear when they returned to bed, the room now cast in shadows, and she smiled, moving so that her head was lying over his heart.

"Good night, Phil," she said, and slept.