A/N: sapphireglyphs said: "Ward x Simmons: Target practice with marshmallow shooter and the local kit of pigeons."

"A field team? Really?"

"Yes, really," Jemma confirms, for what must be the tenth time. "Fitz and I are joining a field team. We will be safe, we will have fun, and they'll have plenty of time to rebuild our lab."

"Uh-huh," Grant says. He's leaning attractively in the doorway, watching her pack, and she determinedly keeps her back to him. He's already distracted her three times today; she can't afford another. "And how did your field assessment go?"

"Very well, thank you," she answers. Then she silently curses herself, because her voice just jumped an entire octave. Why is she such a terrible liar? Four words! Four words, only two of them actually relating to his question, and she can't make them convincing?

That's just…embarrassing, really. Nearly as embarrassing as her field test itself.

"You wanna try that again?" he asks, amused.

"Oh, all right," she sighs. "I'll admit, it didn't go very well, but…"

"But?"

"We very nearly passed," she says optimistically. "And really, how closely can they recreate actual field conditions in a closed test like that? I think their method is—"

"So what you're saying is you failed it," he interrupts.

"Well….yes," she admits.

He sighs and says nothing. She continues her packing, but she's tense, now, waiting for the inevitable explosion. Grant takes her safety very seriously, and that she's going into the field without the proper training and without him to watch her back—well, she's fairly certain this is about to turn into a fight.

She's wrong.

"Jemma," Grant says a few minutes later. There's barely contained laughter in his tone. "You shot the examiner?"

She whirls to face him and finds him studying a tablet.

"Aced the written portion, of course," he mutters to himself, scrolling through something. "Nine minute mile, not bad. Strength t—"

"Grant!" she exclaims, finally finding her voice. "Are those—did you hack the report on my field assessment?"

"Hack is a strong word," he says, looking up from his tablet. "I just pulled a few strings, that's all."

"That is—that is private," she snaps, crossing the room to snatch the tablet from his hands. He lets her take it, visibly amused (which does nothing for her temper). "It's classified, you can't just—"

"I can't check on my wife's field status before she goes into the field?" he asks mildly.

"Not by reading classified records, you can't," she says. "You could just ask me."

"I did ask," he points out…which, admittedly, is fair. "And you lied—or tried to, at least." He takes the tablet back. "So, yeah, I'm gonna read the classified records."

She's not going to win this one, so she just throws her hands up and returns to packing. She does her best to ignore Grant's muttered commentary as he reads through the field assessment report, but it's difficult. Especially once he reaches the detailed account of the…incident on the range.

She knows the exact moment he reaches it, because he starts laughing. A lot. It's not his usual quiet chuckle—he's actually holding on to the doorframe for support as he nearly wheezes with laughter. She hasn't seen him laugh like this in years, and it would be a lovely sight…if not for the fact that he's laughing at her.

She tolerates it for a few minutes, then storms back across the room to take the tablet away from him again. Then she whacks him on the arm with it.

"All right," she snaps. "So there was a slight mishap during my weapons certification. It is not that funny!"

"It is," Grant disagrees, somewhat breathlessly. "It really, really is."

She's considering whacking him again, and it must show, because he straightens and clears his throat, swallowing down the rest of his laughter.

"It is that funny," he reiterates. She narrows her eyes at him. "But it's not that bad, Jemma. Your form, your stance—you've got the technicalities down. We just need to work on your aim."

"Oh, is that all?" she asks, a tad grumpily.

Grant smiles a little and takes the tablet from her, then tosses it across the room—where it lands safely on the exact center of the bed. Which is just showing off, really, and entirely unnecessary.

"Yeah," he says. "That's all." He takes her hand and tugs her out of the bedroom and into the living room. "Your problem is all in your head. You start thinking about it—about what shooting someone means—and you freak yourself out. It screws up your aim."

"So what would you suggest?" she asks, following him to the couch and dropping down next to him when he sits.

"Practice."

"Practice?" she echoes, incredulous. "That's your expert advice? Do I really need to remind you of the report you just read—of what happened the last time I practiced shooting?"

He clears his throat in a manner that suggests he's swallowing another laugh—a supposition supported by the strained quality of his voice when he answers.

"No, uh, no, I remember it." He clears his throat again. "But it's not shooting you need to practice. It's aiming."

"I don't understand," she says.

"Look, your problem is that you're too connected to the consequences," he says. "You point a gun at someone—or something—and you start thinking about injury and fatality."

"And that's a bad thing?"

"No," he says. "It's not—in moderation. You always need to be aware of the potential cost of your actions when you've got a gun in your hand. But you can't let it consume you, or you'll never be effective."

"Okay, so…?"

"So, we need to disconnect you," he says. "Just a little. We need to get you used to aiming at something and pulling the trigger, without having to worry about hurting anyone."

"Isn't that the purpose of those paper targets that are shaped like circles instead of people?" she asks. "Because that ended…poorly."

"Usually, yeah," he acknowledges. "But I think we'll have to start a little smaller with you. We'll work our way up to the paper targets."

"How do you start smaller than shooting at paper targets with paint rounds?" she asks.

"Paint rounds are still bullets," he says. "Shot from a real gun. It's too close to the real thing for you. We need something that's obviously not a weapon. Something that won't remind you of a gun at all."

She really has no idea where he's going with this. "Like what?"

He grins and stands, tugging her up after him.

"I'm glad you asked."

x

Three hours later, she finds herself in a nearby (relatively speaking, at least) park with a marshmallow shooter and several dozen targets—in the form of the pigeons who have apparently colonized the swing area.

She was skeptical when Grant first suggested the plan, but it turns out that he's right. Knowing that she can't cause any real harm with marshmallows keeps her from panicking, and there are no mishaps. She's able to hit what she aims at seven times out of ten (once she gets the hang of the marshmallow shooter, that is; it's really nothing like firing a gun).

By the time she runs out of marshmallows, she's managed to increase her accuracy, regularly hitting her targets (the poor, startled pigeons) four times out of five. Grant is both proud of her progress and amused by her glee over it.

"It won't translate directly to an actual gun," he warns her as they gather the marshmallows scattered around the park. "It's just the first step."

"I know," she assures him. "Still, it was fun." She deposits her bag full of dirty marshmallows into the bin next to the picnic tables, then brushes her hands off. "What is the next step?"

"Bullseye targets," he says, throwing away the marshmallows he's collected. "If that goes well, hopefully we'll be able to move on to silhouette targets by the end of the week."

She hesitates. "I'm leaving on Saturday."

"I know," he says casually. "So we probably won't be able to fit in any sims, which is unfortunate. But as long as you have reasonable accuracy with the silhouettes, I'll call it a win."

She blinks at him, a little taken aback by his calm demeanor. This whole day has been a little bizarre. She was expecting a fight about her decision to accept a position on a field team, not shooting lessons with marshmallows.

She has a brief internal debate as he leads the way back to the car. It's not that she wants to fight about this. It's just that his calm acceptance is entirely out of character, and she's concerned that he's bottling up his feelings about the topic. And that never ends well.

She has to ask.

"You know," she says, as she buckles her seatbelt. "You've taken this much better than I expected."

He glances at her as he starts the car. "'This' being your decision to go into the field and put yourself at risk?"

"Yes."

"When I first heard about it—from Hill, by the way—I was furious," he acknowledges. "And I'm still not happy. But it's your choice, and I've got no room to throw stones after all the danger I've put myself in over the course of our marriage. Even without training, you're at a lot less risk in the field than I am."

She eyes him for a long moment, considering.

"Bobbi and Trip talked you down, didn't they?" she asks.

"Oh, yeah," he agrees. "We went six rounds in the ring before I came home. They helped me…work through my initial reaction."

She makes a mental note to buy something nice for Trip and Bobbi, because getting Grant past his initial, over-protective reaction can't have been easy. Then she considers their methods.

"Did anyone require hospitalization?" she asks, not entirely jokingly.

"They're fine," he dismisses. "No permanent damage."

Make that something really nice.

"Comforting," she mutters, then frowns a little. "So you sparred all of your anger out?"

"Most of it," he says. "And I got some of the details on your team. Your specialist—"

"Marcus Wright," she recalls.

"Yeah. He's one of Garrett's other students. He's solid," Grant nods to himself. "He'll have your back."

Well, that's certainly an unexpected boon. It's been years since Grant worked with Garrett, but he still thinks the world of him. Of course having someone who trained under him assigned to the team's protection would be a comfort to Grant.

"Not to mention your pilot," he adds.

"What about her?" she asks, confused. "She's transferring from Administration."

He smiles to himself. "Yes, she is." At her expectant look, he laughs. "I think I'll leave that one as a surprise."

Jemma is not, generally, in favor of surprises, but she'll let this one go. It can't be anything too bad, if Grant is so amused by it. And she can tell, by the slightly smug smile he's wearing, that he won't be moved to share any more.

"So, we're all right, then?" she checks.

Grant drums his fingers on the steering wheel and takes a deep breath. Then he nods.

"We're good," he says. "I'm not crazy about the idea, but it's your career and your choice. Just promise me you'll be careful."

"I will," she promises. She really does owe Trip and Bobbi; she was expecting to fight about this for days before he reached that conclusion.

"And if anything goes wrong, you know who to call," he says. "Screw orders and compartmentalization. We'll drop what we're doing and be there as fast as a Quinjet can get us wherever you are."

"I know," she says, and reaches across the console to squeeze his knee. "I'll keep it in mind, but it won't be necessary. You've nothing to worry about. You'll see."

He lets go of the wheel with one hand to cover hers on his knee and lace their fingers.

"And," she adds. "At least we know now that, should the situation call for it, I am well equipped to fire marshmallows at enemies."

He snorts. "Oh, yeah. You have no idea how many times I've needed to attack people with marshmallows."

"I imagine it's a near weekly occurrence for SHIELD agents," she says.

"It is," he nods, mock-solemn. "Which is why the shortage of marshmallow marksmen is such a problem."

"Well, not for my team," she says, and squeezes his hand. "We'll be just fine."