"You should have told someone."
Vic winces as Jemma grasps his arm, but it's a brief drop of discomfort in a sea of sleep-warm contentment. The pain washes out, forgotten in seconds. Being with Jemma does that to him. Even when she's frowning and too distracted by his minor injury to let him finish kissing her.
"Come on, it's just a little scrape." Vic tucks her hair behind her ear, following it with a kiss brushed to the lobe, just below her helix piercings.
Jemma purses her lips and tilts her head to fix him with a look. "A 'little scrape' that bled through your sleeve. Vic, how deep is it?"
Okay, maybe he's the distracted one. "I'm not sure."
Jemma works the sleeve of his hoodie up, folding it toward his shoulder. She frowns at the site of the gash underneath. "What caused this?"
"Ninja shuriken."
Shaking her head, she pulls the sleeve back into place and sighs. "I can't get at the whole thing. Alright, shirt off."
Vic's brain grinds to a halt, love-dizzy haze evaporating. Call him a fool: for freezing or for waiting so long to make a move, either works. But this isn't how he pictured her saying that.
Jemma lifts an eyebrow expectantly and Vic jerks back to reality.
"Right, right," he mumbles, tugging his sleeve toward his hand. His elbow catches in the fabric, and for a mortifying 1.2 seconds Vic is positive he's about to get stuck halfway out of his sweatshirt like a little kid. Adjusting his shoulder, he pulls free.
The hoodie ends up inside out, somehow, slipping over his head. The air hitting his skin feels cooler than the 70 degrees the bedroom thermostat reports. Goosebumps lift along his back. And Vic is exposed, body and soul, sitting in the middle of his bed half-naked and scared breathless.
As far as costumed heroes go, Vic's case is an odd one. The distinction between the prosthetic pieces that are actually a part of him and the armor plating installed for protection hasn't always been clear. Initially, the plating and prostheses were fused to each other. His father's design. Supposed to help it all stay together and to protect the seams between skin and metal.
It made Vic feel like a robot.
He's had the skills to change the design for a while now, but not the courage. Only this past year could he shut up enough of the doubts in his head to take the plunge. Finally modifying the parts to his own preference, prosthesis and plating alike. It took precision, patience, and a whole lot of late nights. But he did it. Trimmed down the bulky armor, made it removable. Reclaimed every inch of real skin he has.
It isn't much.
Vic shifts, crossing one leg over the other and uncrossing it. He hands Jemma the hoodie, gaze cemented to his knuckles. Heart pounding so hard he swears it echoes in its steel chamber, reverberating to fill the metal shell forming half his torso.
The line bisecting him is too clean. A straight cut, from belly button to chin. On its right, genuine Victor Stone. To the left, Cyborg. Sometimes he wonders how much unsinged skin his father removed to make it that crisp. Dr. Stone always did treasure neatness.
From there, the cybernetics branch across Vic's left shoulder. The whole joint is false. The explosion shot the original full of shrapnel, fractured the bone, and trashed his rotator cuff. Everything below the shoulder was blown off completely. Leaving his left side, torso and arm, nothing but cybernetics.
On the right, Vic's mostly real. Some nasty scarring, of course, but honest-to-goodness flesh and bone remains above his elbow. Can't say the same for anything past that. Which makes both forearms and hands robotic, and Vic very lucky that his father had the technology to install state-of-the-art sensation along with motion.
Jemma hasn't seen most of this. She didn't know what lay beneath his short-sleeved tees and sweatshirts. Didn't know how much of him was gone.
Until now.
Vic traces her motions as she leaves his bloodstained hoodie soaking in the bathroom sink, returning with a roll of gauze. He holds his breath when she rejoins him on the bed.
No hesitation, no trailing her gaze over his exposed chest. Jemma simply cups the back of Vic's shoulder with her left hand and presses gauze to the front with her right.
Ironic how it's the same place he cut himself throwing the letter away. The night, he's just now realizing, when things first began to change between them.
"You should know better than to ignore this," Jemma mutters, eyes trained on the dressing under her fingers, watching for any blood seeping through. "There's no telling where that shuriken has been."
It kinda rhymes, the way she pronounces 'shur-u-ken'. Vic would chuckle, but he's a little busy trying to ignore the sharp, lightning strikes of panic paralyzing his nerves. Funny. He'd think the metal sheath around his spinal cord would protect it from such a visceral, human phenomenon like that. But there's nothing in him hard, or cold, or willing enough to prevent the storm of her touch.
A couple minutes must pass, slipping, speeding beneath Vic's awareness, because Jemma lifts the gauze to check the bleeding. Her focused frown fades when she sees it's stopped.
Vic's breath catches as she leans forward to rub at something stuck in the cut. She reaches for the table and he blinks. When did she get the tweezers out?
Jemma sets her right hand on his chest. The metal side. To hold him still as she fishes a tiny, blood-saturated piece of debris from the wound and examines it in the light.
"A thread. From you or the ninja?"
Her musings fall on deaf ears. All Vic hears is the thunderous drum beneath her splayed hand.
Jemma sets the thread aside, looks back to him… And hesitates. Vic sees the moment she fades out of problem-solving mode and really takes him in. The moment she realizes that her hand is planted on his bare chest, their knees touching as they sit in the center of his bed. Wrapped in the shadowed darkness of his room, lit by a single lamp.
Her eyes sweep over him and Vic stiffens, skin prickling under her gaze. A half smile graces Jemma's face, a breathy laugh following. "I'm sorry. I'm not trying to stare."
Vic's too sensitive. Because that? The laugh, the flippant words? That hurts.
His jaw tightens, mind grappling with words. His mouth opens, but he doesn't know how to tell her, how to say he doesn't–
"But honestly." Jemma's gaze flicks to his. Eyes glimmering with a familiar light. The burning fire that says she wants something. "It's hard not to when you're this hot."
Vic's mouth stays open. Jaw just hanging there. "I– wha–"
Jemma shakes her head, yanking her hand back. Using it to brush her bangs off her forehead. "Ugh, sorry. Boundaries, boundaries."
Is it just Vic? Or is her face turning redder than normal?
Jemma climbs off the bed, hands darting to collect her supplies. "I'll need to clean the cut with soap and water. I think it'll work best if you sit on the edge of the tub."
Vic finds his tongue and wrestles it into submission.
"Wait– Babe. Babe, stop for a minute."
His fingers catch her wrist. She stops. Her wary attention lands on their hands.
"I wasn't– offended or anything, you just caught me by surprise." Vic lowers his voice and dips his head, searching for those lovely eyes. "Jem, I promise. You didn't do anything wrong."
She stands still. Just stands there, mouth pressed into a thin line, gaze firmly fixed on the carpet, face on fire.
Vic has never seen her like this.
Slowly, he scoots to the edge of the bed. He winds an arm around her waist and tugs her toward him, guiding her to his lap. Only then, perched sideways on his knees, do her eyes meet his.
"Don't be embarrassed." Vic loops a lock of hair from her ponytail around his finger. "It's okay."
Jemma crosses her arms and leans back into his, letting him half-cradle her. "I'm not good with boundaries."
She announces it like a grand admission, a serious flaw.
"You're not that bad." Vic kisses her temple, smiling when she relaxes, just slightly, into the touch. "Never done anything I didn't want you to."
"I don't necessarily ask either," Jemma mutters.
"You don't have to. Not for everything." Vic lifts her chin with his thumb, turning her face to him. "I'd tell you if I was uncomfortable."
She pulls away from his hand to press her cheek against his chest. Doesn't seem to mind the metal. No barely-there touches or hesitant contact, no shifting against the cool steel alloy, struggling to get comfortable. Jemma rests her head on the hard surface like she would Vic's thick, cotton hoodie.
"I want all of you," she whispers.
Vic blinks. His muscles tense and his brain trips and stumbles over itself trying to catch up. Struggling to process the sound of her voice, the jagged need suppressed under hushed syllables.
"I love you, and I want to love all of you, if you'll let me." Jemma closes her eyes. "The parts you don't show anyone else. The ones you don't like. The beauty you can't see in yourself. I want all of it."
Her arms uncross, left hand wandering to Vic's side, just above his hip. Her nose brushes against his collarbone as she turns her head, pressing her lips to the seam that divides Vic straight down the middle. Sending a shiver through him. Leaving no doubt what she's referring to when she says she wants more.
"Is that selfish, do you think? Is… it too much to ask?"
Vic's breath echoes dully in his ears as his chest rises and falls beneath her touch. "No," he says, barely aware of the words. "Not at all."
"Is it something you would want?" Her hot breath against his bare, cool skin. Voice quiet, words careful.
"I–" Vic pauses to inhale, deeply to fill the spaces of dizzy static in his head. To rush his overheating brain with clarity. "–I don't know."
A long silence to absorb the moment, tasting it soaked into every sense. Skin to skin, they hover so close to what comes next, to what comes next in every story. So close to the glittering lustre of promises Vic doesn't know if he believes in.
So close.
"Take your time," Jemma whispers, softly enough to leave Vic wondering if he heard anything at all.
Sliding from his lap, she regathers the supplies. She sends a small smile over her shoulder before disappearing through the bathroom door.
His arm still aches. Vic will have to follow soon to let her finish fixing him up. But for now, he spreads out on the bed and closes his eyes. Listening to the sound of the bathroom cabinets opening and closing.
Lifting his thumbs to his eyes, Vic rubs the fatigue out of the right and the smudges off the left. He lowers his hands and squints at the clock.
Almost midnight. He's been in the mainframe for five hours.
Shaking his head, Vic gives the computer casing a friendly pat and uses the desk to pull himself to his feet. "Better behave now," he mumbles to the system.
His bag on his shoulder, hood over his head, he heads down the hallway. A couple floors later, he emerges into the humid night. Deep inhale, filling his lungs with the unnamed smell of summer. And then he stops, sensors tuning into voices around the corner of the building.
"Nah, it's not a big deal."
Gar. Vic can practically hear him shrug.
"I try not to take it personally. Friends josh, you know? They don't mean it."
"Sometimes it seems like they mean it."
Tara? She sounds nervous. Almost small.
Vic inches forward, craning his neck. There. A couple of kids, sitting on a boulder and dangling their toes in the water. Close, propped up on hands a shy inch from touching.
"Well…" Gar shrugs. "Sometimes there's stuff going on. We're not perfect. We've all got our issues and lose our tempers sometimes. That doesn't mean we don't care about each other."
He brightens, ears perking. Vic can practically see the lightbulb flash above his green noggin. "Take me and Vic for example."
The cheerful mention of his name shouldn't make Vic wince. It shouldn't flood him with bitter, tongue-coating guilt.
"We're best buds. Brothers, even. But he was goin' through stuff for a while there, and we didn't exactly get along. It happens sometimes."
Tara studies him. Night vision gives Vic a clear view of her gaze flicking from Gar's smiling face, staring out at the shadowed waves, to his swinging legs and curved shoulders. The picture of casual and relaxed.
It makes Vic feel better when Tara's brow furrows. She sees it too.
"What was going on?" Tara tips her head back, to the stars straight above.
"He, uh… Didn't say."
She glances over. "He didn't tell you?"
Another shrug, Gar's shoulders nearly touching his ears. "He doesn't usually." All sunny cheer in his voice, all light-hearted nonchalance. "Vic's pretty private. He likes to deal with his own stuff."
"Do you tell him?"
Gar starts, turning to Tara.
She ducks her head. "When you have stuff to deal with."
Frowning, Gar curls his knees to his chest.
A couple moments pass, thick and still.
"Nah." Gar lets out a sound that isn't quite a laugh and shakes his head. "I'm used to handling things on my own."
"Right." Tara mimics his posture. With a sigh, she sets her chin on her knees.
"Um. What about you?" He tilts his head, pointed ears swiveling toward her. "You good?"
"Yeah. Hey–" Tara grins suddenly, a bolt of lightning in the night. "What was the name of that anime again?"
Gar jerks his head both ways. "Dude, quiet!"
"Right, right." She lowers her voice. "What was it? A color or something?"
"Orange."
"Ooh, yeah. When do you wanna watch the next episode?"
Vic backs away as the two fall into fangirling, previous conversation fully forgotten.
Gar talks big. Acts like he just lets it all slide off his shoulders. Like nothing bothers him.
But the problem with cybernetic hearing is knowing when your friends cry at night.
Vic's gotta make it up to him. Fooling around together and trying to be a better friend isn't enough. Gar deserves a full blown apology, ASAP.
Bz.
A huge, stupid grin spreads across Vic's face as he whips his phone out. He reads the text twice, eyes flitting across the screen too fast to process it the first time. But once he gets it, he's in freefall.
He'll straighten things out with Gar soon, tomorrow for sure. But tonight? It looks like Vic's got other plans.
"There's my man."
Jemma: leaning against a tree split by lightning two years ago. Wearing skinny jeans and a dark blue hoodie Vic lent her a few nights earlier, when she had to walk home in a biting north wind. She's teasing him, one eyebrow lifted, signature smirk on mischievously lovely lips.
It hits a little harder now, makes it a little harder to breathe, sends a little more warmth rushing to his head. Everything about her has, all week. Her every move and word a runaway freight train through his heart.
"Hm. Just me or does that look familiar?" Vic nods to the hoodie, swallowing against his dry mouth.
"Thought I'd better return it." Jemma winks. "Wouldn't want you to think I'm a thief." Her tongue taps the tip of a fang. "Would we?"
"Actually…"
Vic closes the distance. He takes in how Jemma stills, her lips parting as she watches him expectantly. He replies with a smirk of his own, planting his palm against the tree, next to her shoulder.
"...That's exactly what I think."
"Kiss me, handsome." Low and slow, letting the S's linger.
Only too happy to oblige.
Despite the tension, strung tight and heated sun-hot, the kiss is tender. Savored, unrushed. Vic just wants to be here with Jemma. To let his touch –affectionate yet oh-so-careful– communicate the depth of his love for her.
Still kinda surprises him how much she wants the same.
Pulling back, Vic can't resist murmuring in her ear. "You would've waited a moment, wouldn't have needed to ask. I was about to kiss you anyway."
"I know." Jemma releases a dramatic sigh. "I get impatient."
He chuckles. "Dang, I'm good."
"Cheeky." A playful shove to Vic's chest.
His heart rate ticks up when she leaves her hands there.
Her eyes flick to his. "Is this okay?"
So serious, tracing his every movement with attentive concern. The game –the flirt and tease, push and pull– fades into the background. Until next time.
"More than okay."
Vic takes Jemma's face between his hands, bending forward to catch another kiss. Her left hand slips to the back of his head, her right at his waist, both drawing him closer.
This time (longer, harder) they come up breathless. Exhaling into the slim space between their bodies.
Another glance up at Vic. Held steady as, with a tilt of her head, Jemma presses her warm mouth to the side of his neck.
A cross between moan and sudden inhale marks Vic's shocked pleasure. Jemma smiles against his skin, then purses her lips. Sucking lightly, experimentally.
"Do it again," he says when she lets up.
Her fingers trace a line down his neck, curling under the collar of his t-shirt. She pulls it down, out of the way, touching a couple whisper-light kisses along the way. Just below Vic's collarbone, her mouth lingers, pulling harder at his skin this time.
Vic braces his arm on the tree above her head, his own spinning wildly.
Whatever he'd been imagining all week, he can't remember now. Compared to reality? It doesn't hold a candle.
Jemma pulls away, reaching to brush his tingling skin with a fingertip.
"Does it hurt?"
"Just a touch," Vic murmurs against her forehead, pressing a kiss there.
That smirk, resurfacing. This woman is going to drive him wild. "I think I left a mark."
He brushes Jemma's loosely-bound ponytail from her shoulder, hoping she doesn't feel the electric shudders cascading down his body and vibrating his hands with need. Only… he can't find a single reason why he should care if she does.
Vic licks his lips. "My turn?"
Her eyes lock on his. "Gosh, yes."
Pulse spiking, pounding beneath the mark she left behind, Vic cranes his neck. One arm still propped above, his other hand grips her side: a vain attempt to steady them both.
Jemma tips her head, offering him more room.
He licks his lips once more and touches them to the space below her jaw.
It's been so many weeks since Vic first kissed her, and yet he's never explored this skin. Soft, almost fragile beneath his mouth, heightening the cautious awareness of pressure reverberating in his skull. The heady scent of cinnamon fills his senses; spicy, almost stinging, amping his systems sky high.
Distracted by the taste, the feel of her, the sound of her pleased hum, Vic forgets about leaving hickeys. He trails kisses down her neck, arcing a pale crescent moon to rival the one in the sky. Until his lips brush cloth and he blinks.
Vic feels Jemma's laugh the moment before he hears it. "Are you sure you don't want the sweatshirt back?"
He rests his forehead against her shoulder. Touches a long kiss to the space between her collarbones. His whisper, husky with emotion, ripped straight from the depths of his chest:
"I wanna take you home tonight."
Jemma exhales slowly.
Vic closes his eyes, struggling not to regret his words before he knows the answer.
Her hand creeps from his arm to his face, slender fingers curving to cup his jaw. "Vic. Are you sure that's what you want?"
"Yeah."
He collects the bravery to open his eyes.
Jemma's watching him with quiet tenderness, fierce frivolity long given way to softer edges. There's always another expression he's never seen before. Always another layer of stunning, breath-taking depth to her.
"I'm not pressuring you into this?" Jemma tilts her head. Taking in Vic's eyes, his pleading expression, from another angle. "No one says we have to."
"I've been thinkin' about it all week. I made up my mind." Touching lips to her ear, Vic whispers, "I want you too, Jem. Every heart-stopping piece."
Jemma's hands fall from his face. Her fingers find his, colliding and tangling.
"Then I'm yours."
The door clicks shut. The streetlights outside casting the apartment living room in dim twilight, sentries on a nearly moonless night. Nobody flicks on the light.
Vic's hand, holding Jemma's since they left the T-Car, should be drenched in sweat. So for once, he's grateful for cool, emotionless metal.
He steals a glance over his shoulder, steps turning hesitant.
Jemma's been here dozens of times. Twice a week or more, ever since the first visit. Become a part of the place, really. She belongs here as much as Vic does.
But tonight, he's a stranger in his home.
Does he take Jemma to the bedroom? The couch?
Man, is he really gonna do this? Is it really happening?
"Vic?" Jemma squeezes his hand. "Is everything alright?"
"Yeah." He stares down the hallway. "Yeah, I just…"
Her hand gives his a tug, asking Vic to face her.
He does.
Both hands drift to his hips. Carefully, gently, Jemma tucks her thumbs under the cotton hem of his t-shirt. She traces slow circles over the crests of his hipbones (barely hidden beneath tingling skin) and she examines his expression.
"What are you afraid of?"
Vic grimaces. With a breath, he lets his pride slip through silver fingers. "I'm afraid of what you'll think."
A pang crosses her face. "You already know what I think."
He shakes his head. "You haven't seen…"
His sentence fades, evaporating into the dark letter by letter as Jemma lifts his knuckles to her lips. And kisses them one by one.
"I don't need to." Warm breath spells out her promise. "Not to know you're everything I'll ever need."
Vic's eyes drift closed. Her words expand to fill his skull with intoxicating, blissfully numbing warmth. They seep into his bloodstream, infiltrating his entire body until every inch aches for Jemma's presence. Her touch.
He opens his eyes. "Lead the way."
Another door. Another click. Another dark room, this one with curtains drawn. Here, the only light to be found comes from their eyes. Locked on each other.
The bed hits the back of Vic's thighs sooner than he expects. His heart rate leaps, his grip on Jemma's waist tightening.
With a small, deceptively strong hand against his sternum, she guides him to the mattress.
He sits. Now he's staring up at her, head tilted back. Vulnerable. Laid bare.
Scared witless.
Jemma offers him a reassuring smile. "Your move," she whispers.
The fear isn't going anywhere until Vic meets it head on.
Catching the hem of his shirt, he tugs it over his head and tosses it to the floor. Chest naked, rising and falling. Half deep, earthy tones, half harsh metallics. All him. All there for her to see.
Vic twists to lie back on the bed, sinking into the pillows and letting them prop his shaking body. "Your move," he rumbles.
Gutted. Cut open and spread out for her to examine.
Jemma's gaze flicks from his face, to the exposed skin, and back. She lowers herself to the bed, taking a seat beside him.
Everything they've been through, and stinging panic still steals down his spine as she shifts closer. Vic trusts Jemma. With his life, with everything. But this? He's never trusted anyone with this. His last girlfriend left him because of that, because he couldn't let her see what the accident had done to him.
How can Vic possibly expect someone else to accept the part of him he still wrestles with every night?
Jemma reaches across his chest to set her palm squarely on the metal. A gentle pressure that marks him to his core.
Vic closes his eyes and swallows, pressing his head back into the pillows.
She glides her hand up, fingers arching slightly. They stop over the seam between skin and steel alloy. Hovering over the fine metal cords composing the left half of his neck, and the tensed muscles of the right they mimic.
Mock.
Closer again, moving until her knee brushes his thigh. Leaning forward, Jemma draws her fingers down his neck. Down his chest, his stomach, taking a loop just below his lowest ribs. Tracing the great divide, the line between who he was and who he is, the bridge between warm, dark flesh and cool, gleaming metal. The former marred by tiny white scars. The latter with iron-gray solder marks.
It itches. Burns sometimes, like a fire bubbling in his gut and threatening to split him down the middle. Vic's lucky when the seam's not on fire, best off when he briefly forgets it exists.
Not a chance of that now, when it tingles beneath Jemma's hand. When her touch sends rippling shudders down his spine, waves of aching, electric want through water-thin blood.
"Jemma," he gasps, and she stops.
"Victor."
He freezes, at the sound of his full name and the way it rolls off her lips. The strange tone seeping into the rise and fall of her voice as she lifts shining eyes to him. He identifies it with her next sentence.
Reverence.
"Do you realize how lovely you are?"
The fan fades to half speed. Sound falls to a half-muted state. His heart slips into bradycardia, distant alarms flashing red through his brain.
Not everything slows or shuts down. Vic still feels. In vivid, shattering detail as Jemma starts at his left hip. No hickeys this time. Nothing but soft lips tracking the line, dutifully following its straight and detours. Knitting his two halves together, kiss by kiss. Stitch by stitch.
"'Captivating,'" she whispers between touches. "'Wonderful. Beautiful to the mind and eye.'"
"Are you reading me the definition?" he asks, voice wavering.
"Yes." She gives as much attention to the section covering Vic's face as the rest of the seam. Long, lingering kisses from his chin to the top of his head. "'More than deserving of love,'" she finishes, barely above a breath.
A catching, strangled noise leaving his throat before he can stop it. Jemma pausing and pulling back to examine him. This time, the gaze that finds him is soaked in sorrow.
"Vic…"
He doesn't notice the tears until she sweeps them away.
Settling next to him, head falling to his shoulder, Jemma wraps an arm around Vic's waist. "I just want you to know how beautiful you are."
"Because of what? Because I'm a piece of state-of-the-art technology?" His voice cracks. "Because I'm a freakin' science experiment?"
All the time, people misunderstand. It's his fault, the way he talks, the way he stands and clenches his fists. Makes them think he's mad at them.
No one makes Vic angrier than he does
"No." Jemma shakes her head, arm tightening around him. "Because you're Vic."
Another kiss, this one to the edge of his jaw closest to her. It lands on skin instead of metal. But Vic's starting to get the feeling it wouldn't matter either way.
'I want all of you.'
"There's something about you," she muses. Lacing their fingers, she lifts them for examination. After a moment, she touches his knuckles to her lips. "I still haven't figured out what, precisely."
"You said I was a puzzle."
"Then. At the beginning. And you asked what I thought you were now. How I thought of you, really."
"The answer?" Vic curves an arm around her back.
She laughs, softly. "You're you. You defy explanation. And you are infinitely lovely."
That word again.
Vic swallows. Tries to keep his mind and ears open. "Why?"
"Shall I count the ways?" Jemma murmurs, half to herself. "'Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?' I'm not sure words are enough."
Vic brushes her bangs from her forehead, watching gravity send them whispering back into place. "Didn't tell me you were a romantic."
"I'm not. Just for you."
Jemma releases his hand only to reclaim it once on her side, propped with an elbow. Her lips purse in thought for a moment.
"But if we're counting… If you'd like a speech… I can think of three of my favorite reasons."
She leans forward to kiss his forehead.
"Like your mind. I love the way you think. You're a literal genius, but you always check the other angles, considering the points of view other people hold. Neither do you think at surface level. There's so much beyond what most people perceive, and you understand that. You take the time to understand that."
Jemma lets her head fall to a pillow, reaching for Vic's other hand too.
"Of course, it would be all too easy with a mind like yours to get stuck in your own thoughts. But you're a man of action. And these hands have done more good than even you probably know." Another kiss, to the knuckles. Like she just can't help herself. "If there's help to be offered, you're right there offering it."
She slips her hands from Vic's. He sets his palm at her back as she flips onto her stomach, lying partially atop him.
"And that's because of your heart." Jemma sets her hand on the left side of his chest, just below the collarbone. "I have to admit, I've always thought all the talk about hearts was a bit overwrought. Ridiculous, even." She kisses him there, too, on the spot revealed when she shifts her palm away. Directly over the steel organ beating like clockwork. "You prove me wrong."
She rests her folded arms atop his chest, and her head atop them. Her smile graces him. Not the teasing, mysterious variety, the wild one he loves. The soft kind. The kind that takes him to pieces and builds him back up without the aching hollows.
"So there's three. Your mind, your hands, your heart. All lovely. All so very loved."
Vic's chest seizes, his breath shallow. Every system in him wondering at Jemma's words of poetry. At her eyes glowing with gentle affection, casting him in hazy, rose-hued lovelight. For the first time, an inkling of what she might see filters into the edges of his mind, nudged there by her careful words.
Jemma's brow furrows as she eyes him with rare uncertainty.
"Vic, am I making any sense?" Her voice drops to a whisper. "Do you understand what I mean when I say I love you? There are… There are all these pieces to you. More layers than you allow anyone to guess. But when they fit together, it doesn't explain away the mystery. It doesn't solve you. All the pieces are magnificent in their own right. And you're far more than their sum, more than anything I could ever express." She looks away, pink lashes hiding her eyes. "But those are the best words I have."
"Jemma." Vic breathes her name like a lifehouse in a storm, an oasis in the desert. And somehow, she looks back at him like he's hers.
Vic nods, threading his fingers through impossibly soft hair. "You make perfect sense. And I love you, too. But more than that…" He slips her ponytail free, watching the smooth strands cascade over her shoulders. With a smile, he cups her face. "...I treasure you."
Jemma glances down, the corners of her mouth turning up shyly. And Vic thrills to know he did the same for her, speaking the words she needed all along.
His hand on her waist tightening, Vic lifts onto an elbow to kiss her mouth. Jemma meets him halfway, bracing her palms against the mattress.
They meet and they fall, the steady, real weight of her body on his anchoring him here, to this moment, even as his head spins into the clouds. Her hair falling in curtains around his face, tickling his cheek and making him laugh against her mouth. She laughs, too, when he answers her teasing love bites with a growl and flips her onto her back.
Then they're both quiet as everything slows down. As layer by layer, new strips of forbidden skin and silver are opened to gentle, curious hands.
They're unlikely lovers. A hesitant, paper bond composed of desperate, longing alliance. A bond now forged to stone in a million little moments over almost a dozen months. By reckless honesty and the aching hope that maybe, beneath the armor and scars, this is the soul meant to fill the sore, hidden gaps.
Divine intervention, Vic's mother would say. Plan old blind luck, his father would claim.
Vic's thinking divine.
Either way, he's not afraid anymore. Not of Jemma, not of how much he loves her. Not of himself. Not of the darkness beyond this room's four walls and whispered words. He can face the world when he needs to, escape to her steady reassurance when he can't. He can do anything with her arms wrapped around him and her laugh ringing in his ears.
There's nothing left to fear when they mean the world to each other.