AN: You guys, this story.
This story.
I love this story so much, and I'm sad to leave it (though knowing me, some one-shots will pop up in the future, set in the same universe). I know that it is ridiculously long, and I am so grateful that so many people have taken the time to not only read, but also leave encouraging comments and kudos. I couldn't have done it without you.
"I was reared in the garden, you know."
-Emily Dickinson in a letter to Louise Norcross, late April 1859
"What next?"
Rosie, who was swathed in an apron much too big for her small form, frowned at the recipe jotted onto the lined notepaper. "Eggs," she said after a moment, lifting two fingers. "Two, Daddy."
"Very good," Phil said with a smile, pushing the carton of eggs across the counter toward her. "Do you want to crack them for me?"
She nodded enthusiastically, reaching for egg number one. As he expected, a number of eggshell shards ended up in with the batter, but they had long passed the point when Rosie would become upset over such a little thing. She liked to be good at things, his Rosie. "Practice makes perfect," she chirped, helping him divest the bowl of the thin shell scraps.
They would miss some, most likely. No crisis there.
"I want to go to Sweden," she informed him with all the seriousness a five-year old could muster as he whisked the pancake batter into shape.
"I know you do, sweetheart, but I think you would find the speeches pretty boring." He gave her a conspiratorial grin. "I probably will. A pity they didn't offer to let your mother give one."
"Uncle Clint said that you would listen to Mummy read the phonebook." She wrinkled her nose in confusion. "I don't know why."
He probably would listen to Jemma read the phonebook, if it came down to that. "He just means that I like her voice very much."
He did, even after nearly six years of marriage. Jemma whispering to him in the dark of their room, or explaining her research over breakfast, or even just asking in passing if he had seen her latest batch of notes. The sound of her voice still made him want to pull her into the nearest lonely corner and kiss her breathless.
Not that he would be telling Rosie that. Some editing was necessary.
"Besides, I know you like spending time with your aunt and uncle. And Aunt Skye will be visiting as well- don't tell me she doesn't spoil you rotten whenever she gets a chance," he said teasingly, noting how she struggled to hide a smile. "I'll be lucky if they feed you vegetables more than once or twice while we're gone."
"We eat vegetables," she said slowly, obviously considering her answer carefully.
"You eat fries." He tossed a pat of butter into the hot pan, and then reached out to ruffle her hair. "And canned peas, if Clint can be bothered to make them."
She stood on her step-stool a safe distance from the stove, watching as he poured out the first neat circles. "Are you bringing back another baby?" she asked suddenly, and it took all of his self-control not to drop the bowl on the floor.
Just a few nights before Jemma had caught his glance in their bedroom, and once she was assured of his attention had lifted her container of birth control pills in silent question. His answer (after carefully tucking the container into the depths of her underwear drawer) had been to toss her onto the bed and strip her of her clothing posthaste as she laughed and encouraged him onward.
"It doesn't quite work like that," he replied after a moment, belatedly flipping over the first round of pancakes. "But we might have another baby someday."
"I want a sister," she said firmly. "Pinky swear."
"We don't get to choose," he explained as she continued to stubbornly hold her hand out. "Would you be upset if you had another brother?"
"No," she said, her tone grudging. "I just want a sister."
Jemma entered the kitchen at that moment, Stephen balanced on her hip. Gangly for a two-year old, he had his arms looped around Jemma's neck, his head tucked against her shoulder. "You want a sister?" she asked, looking slightly distracted. She held a sheaf of papers in one hand. "We'll just have to see, love."
He piled the pancakes onto a plate and handed it to Rosie, who took it carefully. She stepped down to the floor and carried the plate over to the table. "Mummy, this is your plate," she said, taking a few steps to tug on the belt-loops of Jemma's jeans. "You need to eat."
Phil turned toward the stove, hiding his smile. When he turned back around Jemma was seated at the table, eating the stack of pancakes without complaint. Stephen was seated on her lap, sharing her breakfast. They would probably both be smeared with maple syrup by the meal's end, as would Jemma's notes.
Jemma looked up and caught his glance, a smile on her face. He was well aware that she was reluctant to leave, even with the great honor that was due to her. It wasn't so much Rosie that was holding her back- Rosie, who was quick and tough and possessed of more questions than they could ever have answers for- but Stephen, who from birth had been happiest when cuddled by one of his parents. Rosie had always liked strangers, within reason, but Stephen was shy.
He would be fine for a few days without them. It was simply a fact, a fact that Phil was taking comfort from at the moment, because he wasn't eager to leave their children, either. If it weren't for his absolute trust in Skye, Clint, and Natasha, he wouldn't be leaving at all, and neither would Jemma.
Though to be perfectly honest, even with his trust in them, Phil would still be seriously wary about leaving if it weren't for Stephen's bond with Natasha. They had clicked at some point in his first year, and it wasn't unusual to walk out into the garden or the living room and find them sitting together in companionable silence, Stephen dozing across her lap as Natasha read. She had been teaching both children Russian, but Rosie had little patience for language lessons, and it was Stephen who spoke with her, mixing up endings and tenses like any child first learning to speak. He was their little linguist, chatting in a babble of English, Russian, Limean and (thanks to May) a smattering of Mandarin. Rosie contented herself with English and Limean, choosing to spend most of her time following Clint on whatever adventures he could make safe for a five year old.
Rosie, it was clear, would be leading them on a merry chase once she hit her teenage years. Phil was both looking forward to it and dreading it.
"How many bites are left?" Jemma was asking Stephen in a patient, encouraging tone, carefully pushing the five pieces apart to make the number clear. "Would you like to count them with me?"
Rosie scampered over to him, tugging on his apron. "I know the answer," she declared in a loud whisper.
"I know you do, smart girl." They exchanged a grin, and she lifted a finger to her lips, giggling. Stephen, who was concentrating on his mother's question, ignored them.
"Five." His answer was more a question. "Five, Mummy. Five?"
"Perfect." Stephen laughed, high and bright, as Jemma wrapped him in a hug. "That was perfect, love."
"He's very clever," Rosie told Phil seriously, and he knelt to wrap her in her own hug.
"So are you."
"Like a fox, Auntie Tasha said," she informed him, her grip tight around his neck.
He had to laugh at that. "Knowing your aunt, that was a compliment of the highest order."
She had five million things to see to and roughly five minutes to do it in, but Rosie had hold of her skirt and Stephen was wrapped around her like a barnacle, and so Jemma resigned herself to not triple-checking the contents of her suitcase (though she was suddenly worried that the supportive undergarments that went specifically with her dress had not been packed), nor making sure for the dozenth time that her lab was properly secured against very curious little girls. There were other things, but if Jemma had learned anything in her five years as a mother, it was that plans were made to be shattered by smaller, but no less stubborn, human beings who shared in your DNA and had suckled at your breasts.
"Mummy, when will you take us to Sweden?" Rosie asked again, tugging on her hem. "Stevie wants to go to Sweden, too," she continued, though Stephen had done nothing other than snuffle against her neck, trying to stave off his nap in the last moments before she left.
"Maybe in a few years." Jemma took her daughter's hand, mentally compiling a list of what sights Rosie might like best in Sweden. "I don't think Stephen is ready to go abroad, not quite yet."
Rosie gave her brother a considering glance. "He needs a nap."
"Yes, he does." It would certainly be easier for Jemma to sneak away with Stephen asleep, but she wouldn't put him through the pain of waking up to find his parents nowhere to be found. "Sit down with us," she said, taking a seat on the couch. Rosie clambered to take what portion of her lap was still free, wrapping her arms around Jemma's neck. Jemma felt slightly crushed, and several knees and elbows were sticking into her softer parts, but it was sweet to hold both of her children at once. Rosie was so often on-the-go that Jemma rarely had a chance to cuddle her; she was a child that ran in and out of rooms, tracking mud behind her as she went and offering people hard hugs when least expected. A tempest of a girl, which, considering the circumstances of Jemma's pregnancy, almost seemed appropriate.
Her pregnancy with Stephen had been, in comparison, perfectly calm, even with Rosie underfoot. He had been a fussy baby, but was turning into a quiet and sensitive child. She spied the beginnings of deft hand-eye coordination, as well as a kind of attentiveness that she recognized all too well.
"Are you tired, Mummy?" Rosie asked in a whisper, and Jemma cuddled her closer. She was tired- she was exhausted, most of the time- but it was a happy kind of tiredness, and Jemma would not give up her life for the world.
"A little bit, love."
Rosie's curly head against one shoulder, and Stephen's corn-silk fine hair brushing against the other side of her neck- perfection, or almost. Phil nearby would be the final touch.
Clint passed through the room, hefting two suitcases. He flashed her a quick grin but didn't interrupt the moment.
When Phil did show up, it was with a bag in one hand and a sprig of orange blossom from the tree outside in the other. "For my bride," he murmured, tucking the freshly picked flower into her hair, his already gentle expression softening further as he took in the sight of her covered with their children.
"I think bride status tends to be rather fleeting," she replied softly, smiling nonetheless. "A week at most."
"Nonsense." He knelt in front of her, brushing his hands over their children's hair before placing them on her knees. "I'll be calling you my bride until well into my nineties."
His romantic streak was definitely one of the qualities that made her love him so dearly. He had seen her through two deliveries- rather more calmly the second time around, at least outwardly- and the way he touched her still communicated a heady mix of desire, love, and respect that she couldn't resist. "We have to go," she whispered reluctantly, suddenly wishing she had told the Nobel committee to mail her the damn award and forget the ceremony. "They've both fallen asleep."
He gently pulled Rosie away, scooping her into his arms and murmuring to her as Jemma turned her attention to Stephen. "Wake up, sweetheart." He opened his eyes, which were as blue as Rosie's, and stared up at her. "Mummy and Daddy have to leave for a few days," she reminded him as he slipped his thumb into his mouth. "You'll have a nice time with Auntie Tasha though, won't you?"
His eyes began to fill with tears, and she seriously considered losing her passport. In a vat of chemicals, perhaps.
"Mummy?" he whispered, staring deeply into her eyes.
"Yes, love?"
"Bring me chocolate?" he asked seriously.
"Yes." The word came out a little strangled as she resisted the urge to laugh, and she brushed several kisses across his face as he squirmed. "Daddy and I will bring you some chocolate."
He went easily to Natasha after that, looking pleased with himself as only a toddler could. She was whispering in his ear as they settled themselves in the car, and Rosie was already tugging at Clint's hand, likely trying to convince him to take her on a walk in the outskirts of the jungle. Skye would arrive later that day, and Jemma was fairly certain that the three of them would keep up with her offspring just fine.
Even with that knowledge she was still crying before they made it less than a mile from the house. Phil pulled the car over to the side of the road and handed her a handkerchief, producing a second for himself.
"They'll be fine," he said, pressing the small bit of cloth below his eyes.
"I might not be fine," Jemma replied honestly, and laughed. "What the hell was I thinking, agreeing to make an appearance?"
"You deserve it." He tucked his own handkerchief away and turned toward her in his seat, laying a hand on her knee. "The work you've done- it's immense, Jemma. Even a layman like me can see that."
Her fascination with drosera had paid off, in the end. She had been right, all those years ago, when she had planted the first drosera in her Limean garden- the mucilage held untapped potential. Several years and hundreds of drosera later, she achieved the pinnacle of her research with the substance: an incredibly elastic adhesive that, when used as a coating on surgical implants, dramatically increased the odds of the foreign object being accepted by the body as a new part of itself.
Revolutionary, the articles said.
"Quite right," Jemma would always say in reply.
"It's the first time I've left them for more than a day," she explained, covering his hand with one of her own. "I hardly know what to do with myself."
"I know." She could feel the warmth of his hand through the denim of her jeans, and it anchored her. "We'll be home soon enough."
She nodded, and then stretched as best she could in the confines of the car. "It will be nice to have a few days to ourselves, though," she admitted, casting him a sly glance. "I seem to recall someone made me a promise years ago- something about a Nobel baby."
His slow smile held enough promise to make her toes curl. "I hadn't forgotten."
Mindful of the ridiculously long flight ahead of them, she slowed her breathing to curb the heat his expression had inspired. Reaching up she brushed a finger against the bloom, catching a hint of orange blossoms as she allowed herself to relax into her seat. Their children would be fine, and they would have several days after the ceremony to enjoy each other's company in peace. It would be the honeymoon they had never managed to take, and all the sweeter after six years of marriage and two children.
Three children, she mused, liking the idea. It sounded like a good number.
Phil lingered with Jemma near the entrance to backstage, holding her hands for a few minutes more before she parted from him to join the other laureates. "You look beautiful," he told her, lifting one hand to press a kiss to her fingers. "Natasha was right about that dress."
She grinned, glancing down at the crimson confection. "I'll certainly draw enough attention. A cardinal amongst all of those black and white tuxedos."
"It would be a pity for you to blend in with the crowd." He leaned in to kiss her lightly, careful not to smudge her lipstick. "I'll be with your other devotees in the audience. If we're lucky, Tony won't catcall when the king hands you your medal."
"I'm not sure we can count on Tony to behave, even in the presence of royalty," she responded dryly, looking toward the door as the final call came. "And so it begins," she said, a tad breathless, and then gave him a devilish look. "And tonight, it will be you, me, and a bottle of champagne," she purred into his ear. She slipped out of his grip with a wink. "I love you, Phil."
"I know you do." He pulled her back in for another quick kiss, ignoring the consternated look a rather stiff looking man gave them as he passed. "I love you, too."
She disappeared backstage with a final smile, draped in red silk with diamonds clasped around her neck. A gift from Tony and Pepper- and a gift that had definitely been chosen by Pepper, because the necklace and earrings were refined and delicate, a perfect match to Jemma.
They were waiting for Phil in the auditorium, as were Bruce and Fitz. The curvy brunette by Fitz's side raised a brow when she spotted Phil. "Agent," Darcy said in greeting, a teasing glint in her eyes. "Confiscate any ipods lately?"
"Not recently." He eyed her small purse meaningfully. "Maybe I should search your bag."
"I'd like to see you try," she replied with a laugh. She turned slightly toward Fitz, her hands curved around her stomach. Fitz had a tendency to look somewhat awestruck around his wife, especially as her pregnancy progressed. Phil understood the feeling.
Jemma had been right: she gleamed amidst the other laureates, one of the few splashes of color in a small sea of black and white. Her bearing was composed as her name was called, stepping forward to receive the diploma and medal from the hands of the King of Sweden, who said something that made her laugh spontaneously.
"I hardly know what to do with these," were her first words on rejoining them after the ceremony, lifting her full hands. "I hope I'm not expected to cart them around the banquet."
She left them in Tony's car, instead, placing them to the side as she turned her attention to their friends' congratulations. He was quiet on the drive over to the banquet hall, happy to have her back by his side, flushed with success. The silk of her dress slipped smooth beneath his fingers when he placed an arm around her waist.
The food was good, but not up to his standards; the champagne excellent; the band slow but in perfect sync. Waltzes seemed to be the order of the evening, with the occasional fox-trot and quickstep livening the mood. Jemma drew a crowd of admirers eager to talk science with her, but she gracefully made an escape at regular intervals to pull him onto the dance floor.
"I think the French ambassador has taken a fancy to you," he told her with a smile one such time, and she rolled her eyes.
"He did kiss my hand rather lingeringly," she agreed dryly. "Meanwhile, his wife is trying to box poor Bruce into a corner. Perhaps we should rescue him."
It would not be very good for diplomatic relations if the Hulk decided to make an appearance amidst so many diplomats. "Probably."
Divide and conquer was the order of the day with this rescue, and speed would be to their advantage. Jemma took Bruce's hand, pulling him into a sudden and off-tempo waltz, and Phil offered his hand to the ambassador's wife, resigning himself to several uncomfortable minutes.
The ambassador's wife did not seem to mind- she looked rather delighted with her new prey, truth be told- and at the end of the dance he had to discretely check to make sure he still had his wallet, so thorough had she been with her delicate and seemingly innocent touches.
"She groped you, too?" Bruce asked him with a murmur, looking both grateful and faintly amused.
"Perhaps we should pass her off to Tony," Phil muttered back, happy to reclaim Jemma's hand. She smiled at him and brushed a kiss across his cheek.
All in all, Phil had been to worse parties, but he had also definitely been to better ones.
A second dinner and a bottle of champagne awaited them when they returned, and Jemma gave a sigh of relief. "Oh, thank God. I barely got a chance to eat anything." She slipped out of her shoes, instantly dropping from an inch or so shy of his height to just barely tall enough for her head to brush the bottom of his chin. Her gown puddled on the floor around her feet, gathering in soft folds. "I'm going to change," she said with a smile, "because this dress is becoming very uncomfortable- and before you protest that you wanted to undress me, let me just say that the kind of undergarments required to make silk lie flat like this are not at all sexy, and rather more like body armor."
"Can I unzip anything for you, at least?" he asked, and put the unopened bottle of champagne to the side when she turned to offer him the back of her gown.
The shower turned on several minutes later, and he tossed his tuxedo jacket and bow-tie to the side as he waited for her to return, undoing the cufflinks (her cufflinks, which as yet had not seen any use) and rolling up his sleeves.
When she did return she wore only one of his dress shirts, the hem hitting mid-thigh and the top buttons undone. "Much better," she said cheerfully, shaking out her tousled hair around her shoulders. "I admit I thought about pulling out some devastating lingerie," she said candidly, seating herself on his lap and picking up a glass of the champagne which he had just poured, "but I think that might be better suited for a night when I haven't already been poured into binding elastic."
"I like this a lot," he said once he could speak, running a hand up the soft skin of her thighs. "This is devastating all on its own."
"Good." She caught him in a deep kiss, tasting of champagne and the barest hint of mint. "Wouldn't want to disappoint," she said once she pulled away.
"You never do," he murmured, slipping a hand under the hem of the shirt and stroking it over the bare skin of her hip. She was curvier now, after two children, though regular sessions with Natasha kept her quick and possessed of lean musculature. "As beautiful as ever."
"My stretchmarks have stretchmarks," she replied with a laugh. "Imagine what my abdomen will look like if we manage to produce baby number three."
He shrugged. Some of her scars rippled slightly, now, but she said they didn't hurt and that she wasn't in any kind of medical danger, and he put his faith in her. "I really don't care. My scar still looks worse, so I'm afraid this is a contest you just can't win."
She laughed harder at that. "How about the fact that my breasts are slowly but surely losing the fight against gravity?" she asked teasingly. "Surely that wins me some points."
"Your breasts are still perfect. It's amazing what breasts can do, really," he mused, eyeing her cleavage. "You've nursed two children with those breasts, and despite seeing them quite regularly for over six years I still think they are absolutely fascinating."
"I'm very glad to hear it." She wriggled into place on his lap, her back against his chest. "This is very nice champagne."
"Only the best for my laureate." He wrapped his arms around her waist, nuzzling his nose against her hair. "You should eat something. Making a baby takes a lot of effort."
"I remember." She shifted on his lap again, offering him a cracker smeared with brie. "Thankfully, I have a very dedicated partner."
"I'm always ready to go the extra mile."
She smiled and handed him a full water glass. "Better stay hydrated."
They were both a little tipsy by the time they fell into bed, in a way that made Jemma feel delightfully buoyant and giggly.
"The King complimented my dress," she informed Phil as she pushed him backward onto the sheets, tugging at his shirt and popping several buttons in her haste to rid him of it. "He said that I looked like I was wearing rose petals."
She rucked up his undershirt and smiled in satisfaction at seeing the line of hair on his lower abdomen. Bending low, she swept her tongue along the line, pleased when his abdominal muscles quivered in response.
"It was a good dress," Phil agreed, sounding a bit breathless. His hands grabbed her shoulders, though not as a deterrent. "Briefly considered actually ripping it off of you."
"Probably would have let you."
She was in the process of undoing his belt when he tossed her off of him onto the mattress, and she laughed in delight as she bounced slightly on landing. "That was fun."
"Was it?" He had crawled on top of her, pinning her hips down with his and bracketing her head with his arms. "I'll keep that in mind."
"I think you should take those trousers off."
"I think I want my shirt back."
He was smirking, which was very unfair, in Jemma's opinion. It made her want to reach back and lay her hands loose against the bed, leaving him free to do all kinds of devilish things to her.
Of course, the smirk in combination with that sudden touch of dominance in his voice- that always meant a very, very fun night.
"I think you should rip it off," she said softly, but in definite challenge. "If you want it back that badly."
He sat back, placing his hands lightly on the button bands of her shirt. "Really?"
"That was a dare, Agent Coulson."
He held her gaze for a moment, as if assessing her sincerity, and then-
Buttons. Buttons all over the damn place, sudden cool air against her skin, and the sound of torn cloth that still seemed to linger in the air. She stared up at him, feeling rather stunned.
The moment lasted long enough that he began to look uncertain, and she took in a deep breath before speaking. "I know it's dreadfully wasteful," she said, "but I think you are going to have to rip clothing off of me more often."
"You liked that, then?" he asked, relaxing.
There were no words for the frisson of excitement that still ran beneath her skin. "Phil, get those trousers off right the fuck now."
He was smirking again, damn him. "I don't think rushing to conclusions was what got you a Nobel, Dr. Simmons."
The way he was moving against her was not fair at all. "Will you kiss me, at least?"
His smirk turned into a warm smile. "Of course, dear."
And then his weight lifted off of her and he pulled away, only to resettle himself between her thighs. "You didn't say where," he said with a shrug, and proceeded to drive her absolutely crazy with that level eight smart-arse tongue of his.
"Still with me?" he asked some unknown amount of time later, his hands stroking down her sides.
"Barely." Six years had only taught him how to best push her buttons- no pun intended- and he had dedicated himself to the task with the thoroughness he applied to nearly everything. "The room might be spinning." She blinked up at the ceiling, and then turned her head to look at him, holding out her arms. "Hold me for a minute, hmm?"
It was still her favorite place to be, tucked against the warmth and strength of his chest. Her harbor, even when the reason she needed a harbor was because he had managed to render her senseless.
"So what does it feel like to have a Nobel?" he asked her after a moment, arms holding her close.
"Rather like not having a Nobel." She could feel herself slipping into sleep, which was not on her agenda. "I'm not very interested in defining myself as a Nobel winner," she said as she dragged herself into a sitting position, feeling pleasantly boneless. "I'm proud of my work, but eventually someone will figure out a new and better way to manipulate or use that mucilage, and I'll become some chapter in a medical textbook- or a footnote, more likely." She smiled wryly. "If I'm lucky."
"I think Tony was talking about a memoir." His hands clasped her waist gently, thumbs sweeping over the beginning of the flare of her hips. "You're hardly a footnote, dear."
"Oh, I know that. I have so many more ideas." She stretched upward, comfortable with the exposed, scarred skin and the stubborn handful of pounds that she had never managed to shake after her last birth. "I'm going to discover some amazing things- and I'm going to continue raising our remarkable children, with you. They're the best of my work."
"I think they're the best of mine, too." He sat up, his arms sliding around her waist. "They say third time's the charm, you know."
"Oh, yes." She sighed dramatically and fell backward onto the bed, dragging him with her as he laughed. "It's a very cold night," she purred, wrapping her arms around his neck. "Come here and keep me warm."
"Sophie," she would say roughly nine months later as she regarded the protesting blue-eyed newborn in her arms. "She looks like a Sophie, don't you think?"
"Sophie," he would whisper even later, as he walked the halls and the garden in the night to soothe her cries, passing by the rooms which held his safe and sleeping children and wife and occasionally meeting Natasha and Clint on their own nocturnal patrols. "It's okay, sweetheart. Go to sleep."
