Bold, knowing winks when the Titans battle the HIVE Five. Her hand catching Vic's as she glides through the apartment door, pausing just long enough to plant a kiss along the knuckles. Smiling to herself at the sound of his surprised laugh. Making him blush, over and over.

Making him second guess all he thought he knew about loving and leaving, each new gesture building up the wild hope awakening in his chest. Because loving? Jemma can't seem to help herself (does he dare believe what's happening before his eyes?). Leaving? Not a sign the thought has crossed her mind (he wants to believe, dang it, and he'd take on an army just to try). He was wrong, so wrong, about her and about him. And Vic can hardly come to terms with how ridiculously thrilled he is to throw all his assumptions and roadmaps out the window. How ready he is to fly blind with nothing but this crazy, heady faith to guide him.

Everything has changed.

Take tonight, for example. He ducks out of the room for a minute and comes back to the coffee table pushed aside, his record player plugged in and B.E.R. playing low and slow. To Jemma standing waiting, hand outstretched and eyes shimmering.

"Join me?"

Something like this, something soft and simple and sweet was unthinkable in the days of text taunting. Vic was so far, then, from guessing what Jemma intended. Couldn't comprehend the idea of someone wanting to sweep him off his feet.

Him? Victor Stone? Nah.

Even now, he has to admit he struggles to make sense of it. To remember that it's real, and it's his. Scenes like this happen in stories, not his living room. They happen to people online, not him.

It's happening to him.

Vic crosses the room to Jemma. Laces his fingers through hers, left hand drifting to her waist. "Where's all this coming from?"

"It's Valentine's Day," she laughs.

Vic snorts, rolling his eyes. "I know that. I meant–" He shrugs. Glances at the candles lining the bookshelf. "–I mean all of it. Stuff's different between us now." His eyes drop to their clasped hands. "We never danced before."

"Maybe we should have. Maybe I should have bought a record from your favorite band and told you I loved you in the blanks between tracks." Jemma runs her thumb over Vic's wrist. "And maybe I should have done it months ago instead of leaving you to wonder just how much you matter to me." Tugging him closer, she tips her head back to search his eyes. "I won't do that again. I need to be perfectly clear about this."

So serious. Was there really a time he doubted that? When the fear he was falling too deep, too far, too fast lurked behind every moment, souring them with its dissonant echo of doubt?

Hard to believe now.

"Babe." Vic tucks a rebellious strand of hair behind her ear. "You don't need to prove yourself to me."

"I know." A grin steals across Jemma's face. "But can't I woo my man?"

My man. He stands taller, straighter, whenever she says those words. When she takes notice of his frustrations, his bottled tension, his age-old bitterness, whatever it might be, and slows down. Offering reassurance and a safe place, her attentive gaze gone soft and concerned around the edges.

Piece by piece, she's building him up.

Of all the people in the world, Vic never thought it'd be her. Never thought a thief would steal his heart and return it better and stronger than she found it. Never thought that Jinx would kiss his scars and send him down the path of learning to be whole again.

He never thought he'd love anyone like this.

Candlelight catches on the teasing tips of her canines. And Vic can't find a reason to hold back. Not anymore.

Leaning forward, he kisses his girlfriend.

If Jemma's different now, then so is Vic.

Because suddenly he has to see her. Needs to. It'd be every night if he had his choice. He has to drink in her smile, inhale the steady confidence she vests in herself and in him, in them together. He has to see her.

Some nights, she comes to him.

It was Friday. Vic opened the door to a warm apartment and the savory aroma of his favorite dinner. To the teasing lilt of Jemma's greeting, brushing past his ears like wind chimes. It wasn't a holiday, wasn't his birthday, wasn't anything special. Just the end of a long week. And she knew it.

Lightly, casually, Jemma leaned against the counter, keeping a careful eye on the stove timer and talking like she'd been waiting all day to see Vic.

"I know it's your favorite, but I couldn't resist putting my own spin on it."

She shot him a grin, twirling the tie of her apron around her finger. His apron, actually.

"I hope you don't mind."

"Not a bit." Vic settled onto the stool and rested his folded arms and heavy head on the island.

The dish would turn out great. Vic was fully confident in that. But all he really wanted was to close his eyes and let the sound of her voice roll over him.

Other nights, Vic reaches out to her.

Yet another string of endless hours in the dark. Lying awake and counting rotations. He gave in, called Jemma, almost hung up when he heard her voice. He apologized for bothering her, said he didn't mean to wake her up. He'd call back after the sun rose.

But her laugh trapped him there.

"Vic, really, it's fine. What is it?"

"Nothing. It's nothing."

Mirth lingered in her voice, even as a subtle note of concern filtered through. "You didn't call because of nothing. A nightmare?"

Vic sighed, lowering his finger from the 'end call' button. "No. Just lying awake thinking."

"I'll be over in fifteen minutes if you say yes." No hesitation.

Vic worked his jaw back and forth. "Yes," he exhaled.

Ten minutes later, he opened the door and was met with a hug. Her arms wrapped tightly around him and the coiled springs inside his chest began to do the opposite, unwinding at the firm, fierce touch.

"Do you need company or sleep?" Jemma asked after a moment, leaning back to study him. Her hands still rested on his waist.

"I don't know." Vic shrugged. "You."

The new, gentle smile resurfaced. The one that said he reached as deep into her as she did him: straight down to sinew and marrow. "You have me either way."

That was the first night Vic worked up the bravery to call. It isn't the last.

Sometimes, they curl up together in his bed and he slips away to the sound of her heartbeat and the warmth of her skin. Other times, they stay awake till dawn, talking about everything and nothing (a few things never change).

With each hour, each evening and night spent in her presence, the tension in Vic dissolves. Undoing the knots he's tied himself up in and freeing the loops to wind around her. Every soft, tender moment ties him closer, fastens the threads of his being more securely to Jemma.

Whatever happens next. Wherever this takes them… Vic meant what he whispered in the dark as rain poured from the rooftops. When he woke from a hazy dream to pull Jemma close, relieved to find her still tucked against his chest and breathing slowly. Words mumbled into her hair, full-truth brought to light in a state of half-sleep:

"You will always be a part of me."

He didn't give Jemma enough credit, didn't trust that her words and actions meant what he wanted them to. What she intended them to. Always throwing up walls and putting down safety nets just in case.

Does he give his friends enough credit?

Late Thursday evening, after game time. Gar and Kori are loud and annoying, rough-housing in the living room and sending lamps teetering. Vic pauses in the doorway. He rolls his shoulders, lets out a breath. Convinces his mind and body to relax. And joins in with a whoop.

After, the three of them sprawled across the carpet and laughing, he wonders why it's been so long since he did.

A lazy Sunday afternoon. Charts cover Dick's room, theories and photos and police reports. Endless evidence, the pieces torn from the walls and piled in the center of the table for the Titans' leader to scrutinize over and over. Vic takes it in. Remembers the kind of life his friend has been through. The kind of person he trained under. And sits down to listen as Dick works through his thoughts, offering suggestions when he can.

When they're done, the charts reorganized and the table empty, Dick shuts the door and thanks Vic, sincere and quiet. Some of the strain has left his smile.

Early morning Wednesday, on the beach. Tara growls at the traitorous sand where it sits smugly, not an inch moved from the position it's held since the tide went out. She swears up and down that she should be able to control it, that it vibrates like the dirt and rock under her touch. With a grin, Vic fetches his board and coaxes her into the waves. The girl's never surfed, but teach her the basics and she hangs ten with the best of them. A natural, of course.

Vic's never heard her laugh like that before, when she tumbles off the board into the waves. It's like wind under an eagle's wings. Wild and free.

Midnight, halfway between one week and the next. Vic's grabbing a snack. Before he can sit down, his hyper-sensitive sonar system catches the ghostly sound of footsteps up the hall. Temporarily abandoning his frankfurter, Vic pivots back to the counter and rummages through a cabinet. The tea is steeping on the breakfast bar when Raven emerges.

She studies him before taking a seat. "You figured it out. Good."

Vic frowns. "Come on, I've brewed a cup of tea before. It's not that hard."

"No." Raven removes the tea infuser. "I meant your situation. Tea is easy." She grimaces. "For most people."

They both shudder, remembering the state of the kitchen after Kori's latest attempt to make a cup.

Vic looks down and clears his throat, wondering how much Gar told the others. "Do I wanna know what situation you're referring to?"

"You know more about it than I do."

So his buddy kept his suspicions to himself. Loyal, even when Vic isn't.

Raven's shadowed eyes examine him quietly. "All I know is you haven't been yourself for a while."

Funny. Vic's not sure that has as much to do with Jemma as Raven would suspect if she knew the whole story. This disconnect between Vic and his team? Always been there. His secret just brought it to light.

He's been a Titan for four years and he's never learned how to let them in. Meaning he's never let anyone in. Not really.

"Yeah." Vic passes Raven a coaster. "I'm working on it."

Her gaze flicks to him as she takes a sip. She centers the mug on the coaster, hands still cupped around the warm ceramic. "It's… good to see you happy."

"Thanks. And thanks for bearing with me and giving me my space." The hurricane of emotions he's carried around for months? Couldn't have been a picnic for Raven. But she never complained.

"You do the same for me. Also," she extends one finger toward the mug. "You make the best tea."

"Man, I told you I had the leaf water touch!"

"Do you really have to call it that?"

Vic closes the door behind him softly. He casts a glance around his living room, lit by dim evening silver. And blinks as a slow realization settles over him like a blanket.

The apartment feels nothing like it did the week he moved in.

It looks about the same. A little more lived in, a bit changed to meet his tastes, but still about the same. Definitely not different enough to account for what feels like a shift in the air itself.

Vic hangs up his coat and crosses the room to the couch. Stretching out on it, he closes his eyes. Listens to the gentle thrum of electricity coursing through the circuitry behind thin walls. A smile starts on his lips.

Peaceful. That's the name for this. Feeling okay here, in these four walls. Alone but not lonely. Not wishing someone would come wake him up, jar him back to life and out of the gloom.

For once, being in the dark doesn't dip his mind into the gray.

Vic's good. Good with the red light bouncing off the walls when he opens his eyes to watch the night falling in, stealing through the windows and lengthening the shadows. Good with the click of his metal prostheses against each other as he folds his arms over his chest. Good, period.

Maybe it's temporary. Maybe by this time tomorrow he'll be right back to the awkward feeling of puppeting his own body, of his brain catching when he sees the metal in his peripheral vision, like tires jarred by a bump in the road. This peace could be a thing of the moment.

But it's a start, isn't it?

Vic's gaze wanders across the apartment. The bedroom and bathroom doorways, the half wall dividing the living room from the kitchen. He breathes it all in, the place that's becoming more than just the walls he lives between.

His eyes land on the coffee table Star helped him pick out at the flea market. The pattern carved lightly into its surface, delicate squares and triangles, adorns the edges and frames the items displayed in the center.

A portrait. And a frayed Bible.

Vic sits up and takes the latter in his hands. Large, metal hands fingering the worn paper gently. Remembering the way, brow furrowed, his mother used to turn the pages reverently, lips moving silently as she read.

Vic trails a fingertip along the top of the Bible. Taking a guess, he flips it open to the New Testament. Lifts pages until he reaches 1 Peter. His mother's favorite book.

Nightfall finds him in the same position, elbows on knees and head bent over the words. Images of his childhood rolling by in sepia-toned film slides.

Gentle mist condenses on the windshield of the T-Car. Vic switches on the wipers absently, mind and body attuned to his animated passenger. A smile rests on his lips as he watches her from the corner of his eye.

"Of course, there are limitations to the theory. Personalities hardly fit into boxes." Jemma tosses her bangs out of her eyes, squinting through the open window at the red sun lingering just above the horizon. Her elbow on the door armrest, her chin propped on her hand, she taps a finger against her cheek thoughtfully. "But the wings do allow some flexibility within the enneagram, allowing for more nuanced typing beyond the nine core numbers." Her words roll one into the next like salty ocean waves, loose and fluid under the rhythm of her accent. "Not to mention lines of regression and progression, and a whole host of triads…"

Vic glances over as Jemma drops her arm from the door and turns to look at him.

"What's that face? Did I do it again?"

He lifts his eyebrows, biting his lip to hide the smile. "Do what? What face?"

She watches him intently. "Drift into a monologue. You're looking at me funny."

Vic half-shrugs, flicking on the turn signal and taking a right onto deserted highway.

"I was monologuing."

"Come on, it's cute." The grin breaks through as Vic slips one hand from the wheel to find hers, where it rests on her lap. "I love it when you get going on stuff. I like to see you excited."

He winks and Jemma flashes a smile of her own, sitting a little straighter in her seat.

"Eyes on the road, Handsome."

"Little hard when I've got company like you."

The sweet, electric scent of incoming rain stings Vic's nostrils as he glides the T-Car to a stop and opens the moon roof.

Jemma tips her head, surveying the empty field before them with eyes just beginning to glow in the fading light, shining a shade Vic can't place.

"Where are we?"

"A couple dozen miles outside town."

"The middle of nowhere," she muses, not disapprovingly.

"Best place to see the stars, according to Tara." Vic starts at the sound of a slamming door, turning his head to find an empty passenger seat. Quickly, he ducks out his own door and joins Jemma outside. Folding his arms, he follows her gaze to the sky.

Thick, irregular clouds form vague shapes over the horizon, almost otherworldly in their uncertainty. The sunset stains the undersides gold and pale orange, suffusing the hulking shapes with a gentle transparency at the edges. Broader, darker clouds cross the sky directly above, blotting it deep gray-blue. White lightning forks over their heads, leaping through the clouds like a Secretariat of blazing light.

Jemma sets her hand on the hood of the T-Car, tearing her eyes from the strange, stormy dusk to send Vic a questioning glance.

To Vic's credit, he hesitates only a moment before nodding. The T-Car is built sturdy like no other, he reminds himself as Jemma slides onto the hood and he slowly follows suit. It's more than strong enough to support his cyborg frame, especially with the recently reduced bulk and metal content of his prostheses. As long as he's careful not to scratch the paint, there's no real reason they can't hang out on the hood of his beloved T-Car.

Leaning back on his elbows, Vic takes Jemma in. Legs folded underneath her, posture perfect, hair long enough to wind into braids that rest against her exposed collarbones.

Vic smiles. "I like to hear your accent, too," he admits. "When you start really talking and it comes out full force."

Jemma steals a sideways glance his direction. With a hum, she refocuses on the sky. But her eyes seem to see farther away.

"I grew up in England."

Spoken like a confession.

Vic keeps cool, his expression neutral. Careful not to make it a big deal, not to make Jemma uncomfortable by showing how he's flipping the information over in his head. Searching for the right way to turn and connect this piece with everything else he knows about her, her past a jigsaw puzzle composed of one-off mentions and casual comments.

"Is… that where your family lives?"

Jemma's lips twist in a bitter smile. "No. Vietnam and India, actually. But they're not my family."

Vic shifts positions, rolling onto his side. He checks her face before speaking. "May I ask why?"

With a shrug, Jemma lies on her back next to him. "They gave me up." The sky continues to draw her steady attention, her eyes flicking across as if reading the clouds. "I don't really remember them, but I suppose their dream daughter didn't include bad luck powers or a complete color palette change."

"Jem… I'm sorry."

She flashes him a brief smile. "Why? I didn't need them."

When he closes his eyes, Vic is confronted with memories. The ones he doesn't let surface often. His father, teaching him about robotics and chemistry in the lab, working alongside him in the garden, making him breakfast when his mom had to head into work early. Raising him. Before his father lost himself to grief and science, he was Vic's hero.

"How old were you?" Vic murmurs.

For a moment, he isn't sure Jemma will answer.

She watches the fading sunlight blankly. "My powers manifested when I was three years old. I left the orphanage at ten."

Vic furrows his brow in concern. "And after that?"

"I was on my own." Flat neutrality shifts to the rise and fall of mild humor as Jemma crosses her arms behind her head. "I'm self-made, in the truest meaning of the word."

She doesn't look at Vic as he studies her expression, firmly frozen in a carefree smirk.

He swallows.

She is just within reach, just close enough for Vic to drape his arm over her waist and fold her to his chest. And she's just guarded enough to stiffen with uncertainty when he does.

"I'm sorry," Vic says, forehead pressed to her temple. "Sorry that they screwed up so royally."

Jemma blinks up at the first emerging stars, sparse and dim. "Vic, it doesn't matter anymore."

"It matters to me." Vic kisses her hair. "It matters that you know you deserve better than that."

"But of course." The hint of a smile on her lips tugs at Vic's chest as Jemma twists to look at him. Her hand cups the nape of his neck. "I caught you, didn't I?"

He has to chuckle, closing his eyes and lifting his eyebrows. "Yeah. Yeah, you did."

As the stars flood the sky from between thick folds of darkened cloud, Vic wants to promise Jemma he won't leave like her parents did. To swear he won't let her down, won't hurt her. That he'll catch her when she falls, every time.

But even now, even after tonight, the words are buried deep in his chest. Tangled in hopes and dreams thought long dead and still fragile from their recent resurrection. Enmeshed in the aching arteries and veins of Vic's heart.

He doesn't have the courage yet to tear them free and bleed.