Reach me a gentian, give me a torch
let me guide myself with the blue, forked torch of this flower
down the darker and darker stairs, where blue is darkened on blueness.
Even where Persephone goes, just now, from the frosted September
to the sightless realm where darkness was awake upon the dark
and Persephone herself is but a voice
or a darkness invisible enfolded in a deeper dark
of the arms Plutonic, and pierced with the passion of dense gloom,
among the splendour of torches of darkness, shedding darkness on the lost bride and her groom.
-"Bavarian Gentians," D.H. Lawrence

There were no stars that night, and the waxing moon was covered by the clouds that had been gathering since sunset. As insulated as the Playground was, the storm was close enough that Jemma could still hear the faint crack of thunder outside the window, followed in short succession by a streak of lightning which cast the desolate landscape into sharp relief. When the rain hit the glass, it did so to odd effect, pattering and sliding in such a way that there almost appeared to be a full six inches of difference between the glass in Jemma's room and the actual exterior window.

There was a sharp, almost frantic, rap on the door that coincided with the next burst of thunder, and Jemma hesitated before undoing the lock. "Who is it?"

"Skye." The answer was muffled, but her voice was distinctive. Jemma pulled open the door to find Skye waiting on the threshold, sword in hand.

"Is that SHIELD issue?" Jemma asked after a moment, raising a brow.

"Yes." Skye shook her head, a look of despair on her face, and stepped into the room when Jemma moved back in invitation. "There is an entire sword section in the armory, Jem. It's right next to the machine guns."

"And why do you have one?"

"Sif insists that I have to learn," Skye replied. "I'm not sure how I'm supposed to learn how to handle a sword in, you know, twenty-four hours, but instead of pointing out that I could probably kill us all, May and Natasha just laughed."

"May laughed? May?" Try as she might, Jemma could not remember hearing an actual laugh from May, ever.

"It was more like a secret agent snicker. It's in the eyes." Skye pulled a few inches of steel from the sheath, and the edge flashed razor thin under the light. "When I come back without fingers and toes, do you think Fitz will build me replacements?"

"Likely." Jemma took the sheathed sword from Skye and examined it. "Well-balanced," she said finally. "The hilt is a bit awkward for me, but I'm used to epées."

"You know how to use a sword?" Skye asked in a flat tone. "Is this a British thing?"

"I know how to fence," Jemma corrected. "A different matter entirely. I wouldn't know the first thing about using this beast."

The bathroom door opened and Phil stepped out in sweatpants and a t-shirt, though he stopped on seeing the sword in Jemma's hands. "Are those standard issue now, Boudica?"

"According to Sif, yes," she replied with a smile, and handed the sword back to Skye.

"AC, will you please explain to Sif that orphaned urchins are rarely instructed in the fine arts of war?" Skye gave him her best puppy-eyed expression. "I mean, I've read Sun Tzu, but that didn't exactly come with a practicum."

"I'll do my best." He shook his head. "Life was much simpler before Asgardians started to visit on a regular basis. You didn't walk here alone, did you?"

"My room is two doors down," Skye reminded him as she left the room. "I walked, like, thirty feet by myself, and met no one."

"I'd slap you on the wrist, but I'm sort of afraid that you would hit me with that thing." He followed her out into the hall, looking back at Jemma. "I'm just going to check her closet for monsters. I'll be back in a few minutes."

She locked the door after him and began to turn down the bed, fluffing the pillows and tweaking the blanket straight. Outside the window another streak of lightning forked across the sky. A good night to stay in and snuggle- not that they had any choice about the staying in.

"Skye said that there are swords in the armory," Jemma informed Phil after he returned, flashing him an amused smile. "Do they often teach operatives how to use a sword?"

"It's an elective, basically." He turned off the overhead light, leaving only the glow of the bedside lamps. "Or it was. After Thor and his friends showed up, the academy seemed to take swordplay a bit more seriously. I admit, I never learned."

"Even with the Asgardian invasion, I'm not sure a broadsword really has many applications, these days." She tried to make herself comfortable under the sheets, but felt for the first time that the pillows were too soft behind her back. With a frown she got back up and walked over to the closet, pulling two more off the shelves.

"Using it as a cudgel would probably work pretty well." He watched as she tried to situate herself again, a look of concern on his face. "Anything I can do?"

"No." She shifted positions a few more times before giving up with a wry smile. "I can't get enough support behind my back."

"Lean against me." He helped her lie back against his chest, bringing his knees up on either side of her, and curved his hands against her stomach. "Better?"

It was better, and not just because of the added support. "Nice and warm," she said happily, pulling the covers up higher. "Are you comfortable?"

She felt him brush a kiss against the back of her head. "Very."

She had learned over the course of their relationship that Phil was very aware of his own strength- had glimpsed it in that moment when he had balanced her hands in that barely remembered motel room, and had gained a greater acquaintance with it over the course of their nascent physical relationship. He was still careful to make adjustments in how he held her, as her body changed day by day and week by week. She could feel it in the way he eased his arms around her, in the way he made allowances for her belly when they kissed.

She had, at least, broken him of the habit of holding her as if she were fragile. She had preferred the china doll treatment in the very early days, because it had made her feel as if escape were a legitimate option, should she become too overwhelmed. Even then she had known that Phil would have allowed her to break away at the slightest hint of uncertainty, no matter how firm his hold, but it was easier to remember that when his arms only draped loosely around her waist. By the time she was ready for sex, she was perfectly happy to have him pin her down (though not on her stomach- perhaps never on her stomach), and to pin him down in return.

Or play at pinning him down, really. It was almost more exciting to have him underneath her, knowing that he could take control at any moment he pleased, but had chosen to remain at her mercy.

"It's so odd, knowing I'll be the only woman here by tomorrow evening," she admitted quietly, trying to force herself to relax further. "I'm tempted to ask Sif to take Garrett as bait. His boys, too."

"How would she keep them under control?" he asked, his tone serious enough that she could tell he was actually considering the idea.

"Shock collars," she replied after a moment of thought, and he laughed.

"I'm very glad we're on good terms." He tickled the exposed skin of her belly, and then brushed aside her hair so that he could kiss her neck. "You don't have one set aside for me, do you?"

"Oh, no." She almost felt offended that he had even joked about it. "You are far too exemplary a husband."

"And you are far too sweet a wife." He began kissing his way down her neck, which was… distracting. "Though, much like Lady Sif, you are pretty badass."

"I can't walk fifty feet without feeling out of breath," she countered, a small smile playing over her lips.

"Because the baby is crowding your lungs." He rubbed his hand soothingly against her stomach, dipping his thumb into her still-concave belly button on each pass. "I remember watching you run in Lima. You were like a gazelle."

"You missed the days when I tripped over thin air and fell on my face, apparently," she replied. "More like a baby gazelle."

"No, I saw those, too." She could feel him grinning against her neck. "As Skye would say, you caught some serious air."

"I don't think Skye would say that," she protested, laughing. "It's a bit too… actually, I don't even know what that would be."

He hummed briefly against her neck, cinching his other arm under her breasts. "You've got Bruce, Clint, and Cap on your side, Jemma," he said softly. "And myself and Fitz- and probably Trip, as well. And somehow you've managed to charm the Hulk. I wasn't sure that was even possible."

"Hulk's a dear," she murmured, letting her eyes close. "I think he has better control than we think."

"I hope so." He continued rubbing her stomach slowly, gentling his touch, and her burgeoning arousal began to slip beneath her anxiety-driven fatigue. "Let's lie down. How can I help your back?"

She wriggled once she was on her side, and tried placing a pillow between her knees, like every pregnancy guide suggested. It didn't quite work, to her disappointment, and after a moment she rolled over onto her other side to face him.

"Put one of your legs between mine, please."

"Like this?" He tried a variety of different placements, only to have them all vetoed by an increasingly amused Jemma. "I've played simpler games of Twister," he said as she giggled, then finally seemed to hit the sweet spot.

"Perfect," she sighed with relief, wrapping an arm around his chest. Perfect, except… "Damn," she groaned, pulling away and sitting up grumpily. "I'll be back."

He was laughing as she walked toward the bathroom. "I'll try to remember the right coordinates."

"They'll be different tomorrow night," she predicted glumly. "If this is the midpoint, I'll be henpecking you come the due date."

He helped her resettle herself when she returned, finding the same perfect spot with minimum fuss the second time around. "Don't be shy about what you need," he said, stroking her back lightly. "If I can make you more comfortable, I want to know."

"Bad enough you have to worry about keeping me under lock and key." She pressed her face against his chest, nuzzling her nose against the patch of skin just above the collar of his t-shirt. "You smell very nice." She was too tired to go much beyond that. It was a simple fact, and nothing more- he smelled delicious, and he smelled utterly familiar in a way that never failed to either soothe or arouse. She suspected that, if blindfolded and given a pair of earplugs, she could still pick him out of a line-up by scent alone.

"I don't like keeping you locked up," he groused, and slipped one hand under her shirt to trail his fingers up her spine.

"I know you don't," she assured him. "It's just temporary." She hoped.

"Maybe next time-"

He hesitated. "If we decide to have another baby; I mean, if you want one-"

"Theoretically, yes," she interjected when it seemed as if he would remain mired in the subjunctive. "I didn't like being an only child. It was very lonely."

The loneliness had not at all been helped by her intelligence, which had rocketed her past lessons with her age-mates into the world of special tutors and carefully picked extra-curricular activities. Jemma loved her parents- they had done their best by her, and had loved her, and she was duly grateful for the advantages they had given her- but until the academy she had always been the youngest person in every seminar and in every class, and friends had been few and far between.

Strangely, it had not bothered her a great deal until the day she sat down to defend her first dissertation. Fourteen years of age and dressed in a skirt suit which had cost a fortune and yet barely flattered her at all, she had answered every question with enthusiasm and ease as various members of the panel stared at her with expressions that ranged from doting to what she remembered as barely concealed loathing. It was as she waited outside the room for their verdict, nervously wringing her hands, that she realized she stood in an utterly bare hallway. No one had come to wait with her, and other than a phone call from her parents that morning no one had given her their best wishes for the ordeal.

Jemma had eaten dinner alone that night, and had returned to her tiny room alone, and surrounded by piles of library books and notes she had waited to feel different, and never quite did.

So yes, she wanted more than one child- two at least, but maybe even three or four- and she wanted them in any way they might come. She wanted them regardless of where they fell on the spectrum of intelligence; she wanted them even if they were born with swirling blue tattoos and alien eyes. She wanted to raise happy and healthy children who would know, without a doubt, that when their day came to stand in some unfriendly hallway and wait for any kind of answer, there would always be someone willing to wait with them.

He waited to speak again, seeming to sense that she was temporarily distracted. "Then next time you're pregnant, we'll find somewhere nice to stay," he said quietly. "A little house in the country somewhere, where you can relax in the shade and take afternoon naps with the windows open. Have you ever been to Bulgaria? It's a beautiful country."

"I haven't." She smiled and closed her eyes. "Though you just described the house in Lima perfectly- except for the size."

"I do miss that house." There was a note that was almost mournful in his voice. "Being back there would be ideal."

She generally tried her best to avoid all thoughts of the house, if only because her elevated hormones preyed on those happy memories and left her in a weepy mess. Or worse- left her with an urge to nest in a place where nesting was practically impossible. If she were in Lima she could putter through the house to her heart's content, child-proofing cabinets and electrical sockets and asking Clint and Phil to shift the furniture first here, and then there, until Clint inevitably asked her if she would like him to move everything up onto the roof or the lawn. In the Playground the furniture was all sharp corners and bare lines, and the urge to staple pillows to the edges of the tables was almost overwhelming, at times.

"It's very old-fashioned," she began with a quiet laugh, "but I would like to give birth in that bed, where she was conceived." She paused, considering that statement. "Probably conceived," she amended, and he began to laugh. "Though I suppose I should just say 'in that room', because I'm not planning on lying down when I push."

"Is there a schedule I should know about?" he asked, his voice rich with mirth. "I'm not sure childbirth is as easy to prepare for as a train heist."

She opened her eyes and smirked, and tugged down his shirt slightly to kiss his chest. "Prostitutes," she said, making sure to roll the 'r' and draw the word out in the plummiest accent possible. "Plural."

He laughed so hard that he let her go so that he could lie flat on his back, though he left his legs tangled with hers. "Jemma, you are a terror."

She propped herself up on one elbow, no longer feeling quite as tired. "Surely you didn't think that I wouldn't study up on optimal labor positions," she teased.

"Oh, I know that you have." He rubbed a hand over his face, still grinning. "I'm sure you have them ranked in order of preference."

"Yes," she admitted. "But the body wants what it wants, so I have decided to simply do what feels best." She lay back down and snuggled up against him. "I will try not to yell at you during labor."

"I thought that was traditional."

"You won't take it too seriously if I accidentally say something mean, will you?" She fisted one hand in his shirt, blinking furiously when a traitorous mood swing suddenly made her tear up. "I need you there, but I don't want to hurt you." A thought struck her, and she spoke again before he could reply, feeling herself drop further into hormone-induced worry. "Do you even want to be there? I never really asked, and I could get Natasha, but I... I need you there, and-"

He interrupted her before she could ramble further. "I want to be there. Natasha can be in the room if you like, but I want to be there." He raised a hand to curl it lightly around the back of her head. "Yell at me all you like. Labor means you get a free pass."

Despite her best efforts, she was crying, and frustrated with her shifting mood to boot. "I like being nice to you," she muttered against his shirt.

"I know you do," he replied, and managed to do some kind of contortion that put him at her eye level without moving his legs. She found herself laughing tearily in response, and untangled her legs from his.

"You'll hurt your back," she protested, still laughing and crying simultaneously. "I need that back in good condition."

"I'm more concerned about yours." He brushed the tears from her cheeks and pressed a kiss to her forehead. "It's going to be okay, Jemma. I don't want you to feel silenced. Scream whatever you want."

"I'm sorry." She sighed. "This is such an irrational meltdown to be having."

"Don't worry about it. My feelings aren't so easily hurt." He watched her face for a moment, and whatever he saw must have reassured him. "We never did turn the lamps off. Do you want to leave them on?"

"No." It took her a minute to move to the edge of her side of the bed and switch the lamp off, but he waited patiently until she had resettled herself near the center before cutting off his own lamp.

"Let's find that spot again," he said quietly, arranging himself against her. "Good?"

"Very good," she answered, still sniffling a little as she wrapped an arm around him. "Thank you."

He reached out, snagging the other pillows in reach and placing them behind her. She didn't particularly need the extra little bit of support, in this position- especially once he snugged his free arm across her back- but the act of consideration was so very Phil that she felt tears well up again.

She knew three languages, had read more than her fair share of poetry and prose, and could rattle off the periodic table perfectly after eight shots of tequila (or had once been able to, in the neon-lit boiler room of the academy), but in that moment she couldn't string together a sentence that perfectly expressed that she loved him for everything he was and had been and would be, and that she loved every atom that was a part of him as much as she loved the atoms that made up the sun and the moon and the flowers she tended.

I love you was too simple a phrase, really, to encompass such a concept.

"Mon coeur," she said instead, breathing it against his chest, and in a moment of almost ridiculous sincerity followed it up with, "You really do smell wonderful."

It was a while before they slept, after that- first because they were laughing too hard, and then because desire would have its way- and thenbecause a pregnant woman simply could not go without visiting a bathroom for nearly any amount of time, sleep be damned- but when she did sleep, she slept well.

Except for the dream about chasing a flying baby through the Bus. That was just weird.

Phil was used to being left behind on missions- before the Bus, he had spent more time behind a desk than out in the field, though that had been at least partially due to the large amount of paperwork Natasha and Clint tended to accrue- but it was a bit odd to watch Sif and her team of three prepare to leave, and to know that his particular skills were absolutely useless thanks to a matter of biology.

"And now you know how we feel," Natasha said dryly as she passed him toting a duffel bag and a brace of knives, reading him so easily that he was forced to add another mental check to his Natasha Romanov: Possible Psychic list.

He found May going through her pre-flight check, and she gave him the minutest of nods when he entered the cockpit.

"All right with this?" he asked her, and she flicked a quick glance at him. "You're meeting with another team, right? Sif was reluctant to give me most of the details; I think she's afraid we might try and swoop in to save the day."

She gave the barest roll of her eyes. "The last thing we need is for Steve Rogers and the Hulk to get roped into this woman's net." She gave him a sharp glare. "Play the hero and you will regret it, Phil."

"Not intending to." He ignored the annoyed twitch at the corner of her eye when he took a seat in the copilot's chair. "I'll be here, trying to keep Garrett from stealing a plane and playing the hero."

She muttered something uncomplimentary in Mandarin, her voice so low it was barely audible.

"I think Fitz would argue that most monkeys are much more useful and personable that Garrett," he replied with a straight face, and she quirked the smallest of smiles. "Besides, you can house-train a monkey."

She dipped her head slightly in a nod, then turned to face him, her check complete. "Kaminsky," she said flatly, drawing the name out slightly.

"What about him?"

"Too cheerful." She turned away, apparently having addressed her remaining concern. "Stay out of trouble."

It was a clear dismissal, and there was something about her body language that told him she was done talking for that particular moment, and nothing would convince her otherwise.

Sif gave him a grave nod when he passed her in the lounge, where she was polishing her sword with all the care that he had once given to handling his vintage Captain America cards. The upper level was otherwise empty, and he walked quickly through the halls and down the staircase, where he found Skye and Jemma chatting in the bay.

Jemma was perched on Lola's hood, and she smiled when their eyes met, looking lovely in her black dress against the red. "I'm almost jealous," she said cheerfully. "A pity I can't go with them. I hope Natasha or May requisitioned a science team, just in case."

"At least you get to be in charge." Skye leaned back against the passenger door of the SUV. "You okay with that, AC?"

"I'm confident Jemma won't abuse her power," he replied, then considered the subdued glint of mischief in Jemma's eyes. "Much."

"If you institute Shirtless Saturdays while I'm gone I might never forgive you," Skye informed Jemma seriously.

"There are several people currently on base whose chests I do not wish to see." Jemma shook her head, her expression suddenly turning prim. "And only I get to look at Phil's chest."

Alarmingly, Skye turned to him, a considering look on her face. "Like, ever?"

"Like, ever," he parroted back, dead-pan. "Try not to lose any limbs while you're gone. I hear that hacktivists are rather dependent on things like fingers and hands."

She gave a long-suffering sigh. "Just, please, never tell Stark about the sword, okay? He'll add it to the uniform, or something."

"I could be persuaded to keep my mouth shut." He held out his hand to Jemma. "May's ready to take off. Want to take a drive?"

Jemma smiled and took his hand before standing. "Keeping Lola on base, are you?"

"Too many swords," he replied with a shake of his head, and held open the passenger door for her. "I'd fret the entire time."

Jemma settled into the seat, carefully arranging her seatbelt around her belly as he shut the door. "Stay safe, Skye," he said as he circled around the car to the driver's side, and gave her a smile. "As the future cool aunt, you have a duty to return in one piece."

"Yes," she said excitedly, and to his amusement did a brief victory dance. "High five, AC. You won't regret this."

"I certainly hope not." He met her high five and slid behind the wheel. "Ready, dear?"

"Very much so," Jemma replied, and waved goodbye to Skye as he backed the car out of the Bus. "Is it still cold outside?"

"A bit chilly, but I thought you would like some fresh air." He drove the car well away from the Bus, putting Lola in park as the plane departed the hangar. There were a few blankets in the trunk of the car, as well as some emergency supplies, and he fetched the warmest of the blankets as May took off outside.

"Thank you," Jemma said appreciatively as he tucked the blanket around her, grinning when he pulled it up around her chin and finished by tugging one of his knit wool caps down over her ears. "Very snug. Do you even have a coat for yourself?"

"We won't be gone long." It had been a last-minute decision, made in that instant when he had seen her sitting on Lola's hood. Next time, he would pack the trunk with coats and gloves and a thermos of hot chocolate. Maybe they would even do some stargazing.

There was no road, per se, but that was hardly a problem. Lola flew easily over the rough terrain, the longer blades of tough grass brushing against the underside of the car. He parked in a small valley a few miles away from the base. "Are you warm enough?"

"I think I should be asking you that." Her cheeks were pink in the crisp air, but she looked happy to be outside. "I have more than enough blanket to share." She held up the edge in invitation. "Or I could just come over there."

At any other time he would have taken her up on that offer, but on the off-chance that someone surprised them he needed to be unencumbered by a snuggling wife. "Keep it, Jemma. I'll be fine."

She nodded, and then took a long look around her. "Thank you for this," she said after a few minutes, just as he was beginning to feel the chill. "I have missed the outdoors. Windows will only make up for so much. But," she continued, eyeing him, "I'm ready to go back, now."

"We'll do this again soon," he promised as he restarted the car. "Just let me know when you start to feel too hemmed in."

"I will."

"You still carry your key, right?"

She gave him a sharp glance. "I do."

"Let's sit down tonight and take a look at the satellite images," he suggested, raising his voice over the wind. "We'll find the best route to the nearest town."

She nodded in response, huddling down into the blanket, but she was smiling by the time they made it back to the base. He circled around the car to open her door as she untangled herself from the blanket, tugging the cap off of her head as he handed her out.

"That was a nice little treat," she said, looking happy and rosy, her hair delightfully mussed. She wrapped her arms around his neck and lifted onto her toes to kiss him sweetly.

She was frowning when she pulled back. "You are much too cold, though."

"I'll warm up in a few minutes." He slid an arm around her waist as they began to walk toward the main corridor. "What are your plans for the rest of the morning?"

"I think," she began slowly, considering her options, "that I am going to take a nap. I'm still a bit tired."

"There is a very comfortable couch in my office," he offered, not quite ready to be parted from her. "Unless you would prefer a bed."

"No." She shook her head in a decisive manner. "I don't really want to be alone. It's too quiet in that bedroom, by myself. I won't distract you?"

"Only in the best possible way," he assured her, leaning in to kiss her temple without missing a step.

Once inside his office he watched as she pulled off her shoes and tucked them neatly underneath the couch, the simple maneuver now requiring a few extra steps as she made allowances for her shifting center of gravity. He sifted through the reports on his desk as she made herself comfortable, and after a moment shrugged out of his jacket.

"You're still too cold," she protested when he draped it over her, and grabbed his hand. "Your hands are like ice."

He knelt down next to the couch as she began to gently chafe his hand back to warmth, frowning slightly as she worked. "I did have a nice time," she murmured. "Other hand, please. Maybe you should lock the door and lie down with me until you really warm up."

"Both of us won't fit on this couch, sadly." He pressed his free hand lightly against her stomach, wondering how much longer it would be until he felt a kick. "I'll turn up the heat in here a few more degrees. Take your nap."

She finished with a kiss to his knuckles, and released his hand. "I will sleep if you let me fuss over you tonight."

He was fairly certain her idea of fussing would involve tea, a hot bath, and cuddling with her under at least three duvets, all of which sounded very pleasant and vastly preferable to the pile of paperwork on his desk that seemed to grow larger every day. "Deal."

He quickly adjusted the thermostat, and then grabbed the pile of reports and a pen before returning to the couch. "There," he said, taking a seat and arranging her legs across his lap. "Warmer already."

She smiled, seeming to be satisfied for the moment, and drifted off to sleep quickly. He had a peaceful half hour before there was a quiet knock on the door. Jemma barely moved in response, and Clint slipped into the room almost silently, seeming relieved when he spotted her.

He grabbed a pad of paper off of Phil's desk and dashed off a quick note. Just checking in. Bruce and Fitz were wondering where she was.

Clint's next note made him grin. Suspect they depend on Jemma to play peacemaker. Bruce is looking suspiciously green.

Given Fitz's propensity to run his mouth continuously, that didn't surprise Phil at all. He quickly wrote his own note and held it up. Make Steve run interference.

Clint gave him a wounded look and gestured toward himself.

You would only egg them on, Phil wrote in firm letters. He didn't want to have to explain to Jemma or Fury why the Hulk had smashed Fitz through a wall. Let Steve mediate.

Clint sighed theatrically and silently, and then left the room as quietly as a cat.

Phil returned to his reports, resting a hand lightly on one of Jemma's stockinged feet. She sighed softly in her sleep, curling one arm more tightly around the cushion under her head. It was a quiet, perfectly idyllic moment- and he was actually getting more work done, surprisingly, just by virtue of having her safe and secure and practically in his lap- and it was quickly ruined when the door flew open and Garrett strode in with his team.

Trip was with them, looking mildly annoyed and, once he noticed Jemma startling awake, rather embarrassed.

"Sorry, didn't mean to wake up the missus," Garrett said, dropping into a nearby chair. "Though I don't think this is SHIELD protocol, Phil."

"We're in the middle of a civil war," Phil replied acerbically, helping Jemma sit up. "Protocol has gone by the wayside. What is it?"

"I'm gonna take my boys out for a training exercise. Just us and a few days in the wilderness. Maybe we'll hunt squirrels or something." He grinned. "No offense to your cooking, Phil."

"None taken," he said dryly. "It's a bit nippy outside. Dress warm."

"Will do." Garrett stood and stretched, not in any apparent hurry to leave. "Remember, if an Asgardian enchantress shows up, don't answer the door."

"Becoming a mindless drone is not high on my list of priorities."

Trip hesitated long enough to give Phil and Jemma an apologetic look before following Garrett and the others out the door, looking as if he would rather be doing just about anything than camping for a few days in the early March drizzle.

Jemma yawned and lay back down again, this time with her head in his lap. "Can we change the locks while they're gone?"

"It would be almost worth getting written up for insubordination," he said after considering the idea, a small smile on his face. "But Koenig would just let them back in."

"Tell them it was a training exercise," she said. "Tell them you were testing base security. Tell them Fitz and Bruce were engaged in a prank war."

"I think I could swing that excuse if Tony were here, but Bruce isn't exactly the type." He brushed his fingers lightly over the curve of her ear and down the line of her jaw before picking up his abandoned report, forcing himself to return to work as her breathing grew deep and slow.

With any luck, Sif and the others would return before Garrett and his team, though as Phil had been the beneficiary of precious little luck lately, he doubted that would come to pass.

Between her little field trip and Garrett's unexpected (but entirely welcome) departure, Jemma was ready to declare the day a success. She had spent a lovely afternoon in her small garden, cossetting the flowers and discussing the results of her preliminary tests on the drosera mucilage with Bruce. He had some very interesting ideas about alternate applications that she hadn't yet considered, and she had a feeling they would be co-authoring a number of papers together in the future.

Dinner was unsurprisingly a raucous event, made even more so by everyone teasingly insisting on deferring to her as if she were the bloody queen. But Sif said was apparently the motto of the day, and she had a feeling that particular phrase would be following her for the foreseeable future. The teasing was lovingly meant, and had the culprits been anyone other than her boys (and when they had become 'her boys' she wasn't quite sure) she most likely would have muttered 'zeitgeist' at some point during the evening and left someone snoozing on a plate of pot roast.

Clint, probably. It just wouldn't do to get on the Hulk's bad side, and even if her ring affected Steve, it would only lead to Phil giving her the kind of dismayed look that rendered her practically helpless (and zapping him, of course, was entirely out of the question).

And Fitz- well, he would complain about it for the next fifty years, and Jemma just wasn't that patient.

"You realize I'm perfectly warm now, right?" Phil asked her once they were back in their room and she was nimbly unbuttoning his shirt. "No need to fuss."

"Ah," she replied with a smile, "but I was promised the right to fuss. And I'm supposed to get my way. Sif said so."

And she did get her way, much to their mutual satisfaction, first by coaxing him into the bath and then by wrapping him up inside a duvet. He didn't seem to mind the latter, probably because she had wrapped herself up inside the duvet as well, as if she were, as he put it, some kind of latter-day Cleopatra.

"Then take me, Caesar," she had purred in response, and it was all very sweet and silly, with a great deal of laughter and some truly ridiculous ad-lib on her part. He was warm and relaxed when he finally fell asleep in her arms, and she smugly gave herself high marks for her ability to fuss before falling asleep herself.

A craving woke her several hours later, one so fierce that the hunger was almost overwhelming. Three a.m. cravings were not uncommon for her, but she generally did her best to ignore them at the Playground. She certainly had no intention of wandering down to the kitchen by herself, and she was uncomfortable asking Phil to go in her stead. She had no doubt that he would, if asked, but she was loathe to ask him to wander potentially unfriendly halls just to fetch her some ice-cream.

With sriracha sauce. That was weird, wasn't it? She was fairly certain that it was weird, and yet she was close to kicking someone for a taste.

"You're thinking very hard," he muttered against her shoulder.

"The baby wants ice-cream," she replied apologetically. "Do you think it's safe to go down to the kitchen?"

"Just us and Koenig." He sat up, going from drowsy to chipper with the kind of speed that she envied. "Let's take a midnight stroll."

They both pulled on clothes and sneakers, and he draped one of his cardigans around her shoulders with a smile. "You've never woken me up before," he commented with a knowing glance. "Taking care of cravings is supposed to be one of my jobs."

She shrugged, and then put her arms through the sleeves of the cardigan and secured one button. "I didn't feel safe sending you," she admitted. "I preferred to keep you close."

It was as much for his safety as hers, really, and judging by his expression he understood that. "And what does the baby want?" he asked instead, taking her hand and gently squeezing it. "Ice-cream, you said?"

"Mint chocolate chip." She paused. "With sriracha sauce." Another pause, this one more thoughtful. "And peanut butter."

"Do you want that in a bowl, or in milkshake form?" was all he asked, and she blessed him for repressing the shudder that any normal person would have responded with.

"Ooh." She quickened her step, inspired. "A milkshake does sound nice."

And that was exactly what he made for her, after a very serious consultation on the exact ratio of ingredients she desired. He managed to find an insulated cup with a lid and a straw in one of the cupboards, and she happily settled back with her treat. It was disgusting, and it was perfect, and anyone who tried to pry it out of her hands was going to get smacked.

He settled back into his own chair, watching her with a satisfied expression on his face. She suspected that she could ask him to make her bargain brand fish fingers and he would seriously consider actually jumping into Lola and driving into the nearest city, which was a hundred miles away, give or take a few hills.

"Thank you," she said, propping her feet up on the empty chair across from her. "I know the combination of ingredients does not meet your usual standards, but I truly am enjoying it."

"That's the important part."

Her reply, which she intended to be teasing and as flirtatious as possible for someone who was imbibing a milkshake which contained a healthy amount of vinegared hot sauce, was preempted by an odd whump, almost as if something had just imploded.

"I knew this day was going too well," Phil muttered as he jumped to his feet, reaching out to swipe his sleeve across the ring of condensation her cup had left on the table. "Keep that," he said as he pulled her up, and began to urge her across the room, flipping off the lights at the last second. "I am sorry, but we have to go into the basement."

There was an echo as a door crashed open perhaps a few halls away, and she pushed away her instinctive fear as they entered the pantry and walked quickly and quietly down the stairs. She had her ring, at least, though his cufflinks were tucked securely away in a drawer.

"It's okay," she replied, trying to hide her anxiety.

He drew her around the first corner and stopped, his hands clasped securely around her shoulders as he considered her carefully and quickly. "You are so brave, Jemma," he said soothingly. "We're going to be fine."

"I know." She drew in a shaking breath. "Where do you want to go?"

He released her shoulders and reached under his shirt, pulling out a gun that she hadn't even realized he was carrying. "When did you put on a holster?" she asked in confusion as he pulled her down the hall, walking at half his normal speed.

"When you were putting on your shoes," he answered easily. "Drink your shake."

"You have to promise me," she panted, trying to keep pace, "that the next pregnancy will be absolutely normal and lazy. I don't want to lift even a finger for nine months."

"I will dress you in silk and carry you from room to room, swear to God." He pulled her into what was indisputably the long-sought for laundry room, and dropped her hand. He began to press his fingers along one wall, searching for several nerve-wracking minutes before finding some secret trigger, causing a seam to appear in the wall and a door to swing open.

"Is that in the plans?" she asked in a whisper as she followed him quickly into the spider-webbed passageway, and to her relief he shook his head.

"Nat found it. She showed me last night." He switched on the overhead light which, while dim and tinted a rather ghastly green, did allow them to see their surroundings. "She said that it loops through the facility. Should allow us to stay backstage until we figure out what's going on. But first," he continued, "sit down, catch your breath."

"Our lives are in danger and our friends are still sleeping," she replied somewhat incredulously, "and I should sit down."

"Yes," he said firmly. "Sit down, feed the baby, take a breath."

"This feels wrong," she muttered, allowing him to help her take a seat on the floor. After a moment's thought she took a sip of her shake, rolling her eyes at the absurdity of carrying it all the way to a secret passage in the middle of an invasion.

"Hey, Jemma?"

She looked up at him, catching a glimpse of his smile, which was somehow just as bright and affectionate as it had been in their bedroom. "Yes?"

"You look beautiful," he said with utmost sincerity.

She took stock of her appearance, from her tousled hair to her now dusty and be-webbed clothing, and to her surprise, she grinned. "Flatterer."