AN: So sorry for the delay!

There was a hand in hers, and for a moment she was confused. The skin was too smooth, the hand too small to be Phil's. No trigger calluses, no warm gold wrapped around one finger.

And then she remembered, and opened her eyes.

"Jemma." Anne Weaver stood, hovering over her with a worried expression. "You're all right, now," she said soothingly as Jemma allowed herself to show the panic she felt. It wasn't difficult, and it certainly wasn't feigned- it had been building for hours.

You didn't know she would be here, Jemma reminded herself, and her voice, when she spoke, trembled with uncertainty. "Professor Weaver?"

"I've been so worried about you." Anne's hand passed over her forehead, cool and gentle. "You've been through some trauma, but you're going to be just fine."

"Where's Phil?" She struggled against Anne's hands, trying to sit up. "Where am I?"

"You're with SHIELD, dear." Anne gave her a calm smile, pushing her back down to the mattress. "We've dealt with Agent Rumlow. He won't be coming near you again."

Jemma stared up at her, hoping that her horror would be misinterpreted. They hadn't killed him, had they? Locked him up? "Where is he?"

"In his quarters. There was a- a misunderstanding." She patted Jemma's hand gently. "He wasn't supposed to use so much force with you."

"What do you mean?" The confusion came easily, the trembling even easier. "You sent him after me?"

"Not exactly, but I'm so happy to have you safe. You were meant to be here, Jemma."

She was so calm, so gentle, that Jemma barely felt the prick of the needle. "Phil?" she asked again as her sight began to blur at the edges.

"Don't worry, Jemma," Anne told her. "We'll fetch him, too."

Phil had been given the task of making sure every set of agents made their way to their designated safe-house, which was a tactic designed to distract if ever he had seen one. He wasn't required to escort each group personally, but he was in charge of overseeing his own select team- Skye, May, and Trip- as they carefully combed through every bit of equipment and cargo loaded onto each plane and into each car, no matter how personal.

They had already taken the precaution of doing an initial sweep before Rumlow had ever set foot on the property, just in case, and had replaced every phone, tablet, and laptop with Stark-issue equipment. A determined mole would only be slowed down by such measures, but there was only so much they could do and still keep operations running. Phil could only hope that any remaining traitors had already been farmed out to other locations.

They found nothing damning during either sweep. Group after group of seemingly loyal agents were sent back out into the world, leaving Phil with less and less to do until, twelve hours after Jemma's departure, he was left with empty hands.

Empty, that is, other than a small group of intensely irritating people who thought he should do things like eat and sleep before leaving to catch up with Jemma's backup.

"I'm not even flying the damn plane," he attempted to argue, only to have May give him a meaningful stare.

"You're right," she said. "I am."

And then she left to lock herself into her own bedroom, leaving the way clear for Skye and Audrey, of all people, to bully him into eating a sandwich before shepherding him toward his room for a few hours sleep. They had not actually gotten physical with him, but he had been wise enough not to give them actual reason. He rather regretted that once he was alone, when he found the shirt Jemma had been wearing the night before laid out neatly at the foot of the bed. The housekeeping staff, most likely, because the sheets had been changed. In any case, the last place he remembered seeing that shirt had been draped over the footboard.

He took it to bed with him like the sap that he was, pressing his face to the weave of the fabric to catch what bit of his wife remained. A whiff of bergamot, a bit of that intriguing scent that always read as 'Jemma' to him. Not nearly as good as curling up behind her and burying his face in her hair.

His entirely too brave wife. She would be the death of him.

When he finally arrived at the safe-house, Jemma's backup were milling through the rooms like frustrated herding dogs. "Weaver sedated her, I think," Natasha told him bluntly. "All the audio picks up are normal breathing patterns. She's been sleeping for hours."

Not excellent news, but hardly the worst thing that could have happened. "Did she say anything?"

"Asked after you, asked what Rumlow had been up to. That's about it." Natasha glanced over at Bucky, who was playing a very intense game of solitaire. "Nobody's tampered with her jewelry, Phil. We would know."

"I believe you." He ran a hand through his hair in irritation, wanting more than just an assurance that his wife was probably okay. "You have a lock on her location?"

"To the square foot." Natasha tapped on a nearby keyboard, calling up a map of the area. A red dot blinked steadily in one portion of the map, looking to be almost under a pine tree. "Thanks to Rumlow, we know where the hangar is, and Clint and Bucky scouted out a few back entrances after the sun went down. We'll be able to make our way in."

She tapped a few more keys, and the image changed to a rough kind of map. "Not the best of schematics, but this was the route they used to take her to wherever she's being held."

A series of lines and turns almost like a spiral, surrounding by an empty mass that might be rooms or corridors or who knows what. Better than nothing, yes, but it would be terribly confusing if they had to use it to actually navigate the place. "Is Rumlow still alive?"

Natasha nodded, calling up another frequency. This dot, in green, flashed nearly an eighth of a mile south of Jemma. "He's staying mostly in the same place- or is being kept there- but he moves often enough that I doubt he's dead."

"Good enough."

Phil slumped back in his chair, releasing a sigh. "I can't believe I said yes."

Natasha's expression turned faintly pitying. "As if she would have let you say no."

Her second attempt at waking went much more smoothly. Alone this time, Jemma noted with woozy relief. Alone, and dressed in soft pajamas the color of a stormy sky. When she found out who had undressed her, she would be adding them to her mental list of people she could not and would never like.

At least she felt whole. Untampered with, other than the slight fogginess of mind. A thorough search revealed only the one puncture site, at least that she could see, and she still wore her earrings and wedding band, much to her relief.

She was in a comfortable enough room, though one that was possessed of a camera in one corner and a door which held both a window and a slot for the delivery of meals. A cell, in other words, no matter that she had soft blankets and a pile of interesting looking books on a nearby desk. There was even a screen between rest of the room and the toilet, one just large enough to shield any private matters from the camera and door.

She tried the door first, both because they would expect her to, and also because she felt a foolish kind of hope that maybe, maybe it would be unlocked.

It wasn't. So she banged on the door, and called for someone, anyone to open it, and didn't bother to conceal her actual panic over the start to this mission that she probably never should have volunteered for in the first place. "Please, please. Anne, let me out!"

Someone had been waiting on the other side of the door, and when they stepped in front of the window the move was so abrupt that she jolted backward, half-falling onto her bed. The blonde woman from the briefing, she realized immediately, and realized with equal immediacy that Jemma Simmons had no reason to know Bobbi Morse, no reason to recognize Bobbi Morse.

So she faked unrecognition, allowing panic to conceal the truth. "I want my husband," she snapped as soon as the door opened, not fighting back tears when she felt them threatening. If they thought she was emotional and helpless, she'd give them emotional and helpless. "Who are you?"

"Hey, no worries." Bobbi raised her hands, showing that they were empty. "We were worried you might be injured, so we wanted to keep you under observation for a while. I'm Bobbi."

"And I'm where, exactly?"

"Another SHIELD base. Are you hungry?"

Her words came out so smoothly that Jemma fell silent, not bothering to brush away the tears slipping down her cheeks. "You're with SHIELD?"

"Just like you."

What a joke. "Have you contacted Phil?"

"Of course." Bobbi turned slightly away, casually but carefully angling herself so that she wasn't leaving her back to Jemma. Jemma appreciated the thought, in an odd way. Here was one person who didn't automatically underestimate her. She rummaged through a drawer, coming up with an armful of clothing. "The shower's just down the hall. We'll find you something to eat, afterward, and then Agent Weaver will want to speak with you."

The base- what little she could see- certainly shared a number of similarities to the Playground. Constructed almost entirely out of concrete and stone, for one, which she was very aware of as she followed Bobbi down a hall on bare feet. They passed a few agents, all of whom gave her brief, curious glances.

The shower was camera-free, so far as she could tell. The water had a faint metallic smell to it as it sluiced over her skin, the temperature never reaching much higher than lukewarm. She wished for a mirror- she would have liked to inspect the bruising she was sure lay around her neck- but as she suspected from a bathroom that locked from the outside, there wasn't a pane of glass to be seen.

Bobbi gave her a bright smile when she re-emerged, hair damp around her shoulders and dressed in clothing that fit well enough. "Do you know where my shoes are?" Jemma asked, staring pointedly down at her sock-clad feet.

"Don't you remember? Completely ruined." Bobbi patted her back, and it took effort not to jerk herself away. "Rumlow said he found you in bad circumstances."

What the hell kind of story had Rumlow spun for them? "I remember being snatched by a dead man while inspecting a deserted Hydra cell," she replied tartly. "And since when does Rumlow work for us?"

"Oh, he's been undercover for a long time, in one agency or another," Bobbi said with exasperating vagueness. "I bet that was a surprise."

"But I was with my team. If Rumlow is an agent of SHIELD, he had no reason to grab me."

"Agent Weaver will explain everything to you," Bobbi promised, taking Jemma's arm in a way that should have been companionable and was distinctly not. "Come on, you must be starving. You've almost slept the clock around."

No wonder she felt so tired. If Phil had been listening to the comms- and he had, of course- he must be worried frantic. "Was the sedative really necessary?"

Bobbi tipped her head in what was almost a shrug. "You seemed to be in distress."

Jemma resisted the urge to grump audibly. She might have issues with Fury, but at least he had never had her sedated against her will.

She was served a meal that had obviously had its origin as an MRE, which did make her wonder how strapped for cash the organization was. Was this standard? Were Gonzales and his board also eating reconstituted freeze-dried food, or was this a delight saved for the lower ranks? Bobbi tucked into her portion with an expression of resignation that made Jemma suspect the latter.

After dessert- one Oreo apiece, which almost felt like an insult- Bobbi marched Jemma to an interrogation room masquerading as a conference room, and left her with the promise that Agent Weaver would appear shortly.

Ten minutes later, she did.

"I'm sorry that I made you wait," Anne said warmly, taking Jemma's hands. "There was a minor emergency, but it's been taken care of."

"Professor Weaver- Anne." Jemma clasped the other woman's hands tightly, keeping her cover story in mind. She was still very aware of the fact that she had no shoes, which did not seem to be a good sign at all. "Bobbi said you contacted Phil. Will he be here soon?"

"Of course he will, Jemma," Anne responded with a warm smile. "He's mopping up a spot of troubles in the Maldives, but he sounded very worried about you."

Jemma had half-expected them to dive straight into talk of the one true SHIELD and what a prat Fury was, and was a little bit surprised to find her former mentor taking this tactic. "The Maldives?" she asked in a confused tone. "What in the world is so important in the Maldives?"

"Another Hydra cell." Anne settled into a chair, somehow managing to manipulate Jemma's grasp so that now she was the one who held Jemma's hands, rather than the other way around. "He's fine; no need to fret."

Jemma hoped that whoever was on the other end of the comms had taken note of that reference. It could be a red herring, but for all they knew a thriving nest of Hydra operatives was indeed based in the Maldives. "Anne, I don't understand why I'm here. Is Rumlow really working for SHIELD? I was with SHIELD when he grabbed me."

And why Anne thought that Phil would swan off to the Maldives while Jemma was missing- even to take care of an emergency- was a mystery. Phil was an excellent delegator, after all. Less excellent about taking care of business when a loved one was in some kind of trouble.

"Jemma, sit down."

Jemma did not want to sit down, because Anne's tone could only mean trouble. Jemma, however, had been well-trained by two excellent operatives. She sat.

"Jemma…"

Anne sighed, and shrugged. "Is it so surprising that Fury kept you in the dark about Rumlow's true allegiances?" she asked, and smiled when Jemma gave her a startled look. "He's always played the long game, and you were- what? Level five when SHIELD fell? He might not have even told your husband."

Perhaps that was how Gonzales still ran his version of SHIELD, but the one Jemma was accustomed to was no longer so strictly regimented. Admittedly, that had been largely Phil's influence. "But why take me?"

"You were exposed to something." Anne patted her hand sympathetically. "You're fine now, but we couldn't have you infecting the rest of the team."

As stories went, Jemma thought that was rather shoddy. "A contagion? What kind? Was it developed by Hydra?"

"I'll make sure you're given a copy of our doctor's notes."

They had even prepared a file? Hell. "Anne, if I had been exposed to something I would have remembered," she pointed out. There were too many holes in this story for her to accept it at face value, even in her own peculiar little play. The Jemma Anne had known would never have gone for it. "And if Phil knew that I have been exposed to something, he definitely would not be clearing up a 'spot of trouble' anywhere. What is going on?"

Anne released her hands, her expression shifting from warm and concerned to a kind of reserved consideration. "I'm afraid the situation is very complicated."

"Obviously. Is it-"

Jemma faltered, the hesitation purposeful. "Did Fury tell Rumlow to take me?" she asked in a quiet voice, noting the brief flare of interest in Anne's eyes. "Is that why I'm here?"

"And why would he do that?" Anne asked in reply, offering neither confirmation nor denial. She was obviously trying to feel out the situation, see what angle would serve their purposes better.

"Because I'm… because Phil would get so much more done, if he weren't bonded." Jemma ran a hand through her hair, averting her gaze. The statement was truthful enough. "Phil prefers not to go on missions anymore, at least not without me, and…"

"You're much more of an asset than a middle-aged bureaucrat," Anne said calmly, raising a hand when Jemma turned an angry glare on her. "No, I'm sorry. I wasn't intending to insult your husband. He's an excellent agent."

"I just wish Fury wouldn't think of me as a distraction," Jemma admitted. Not that he made the mistake of thinking (or saying) so these days. "It's not like I demand Phil's attention every hour of the day."

"Of course not." Anne leaned back in her chair, relaxing slightly. "Though a certain amount of attention is your due. As to your question, if Fury made such a request of Rumlow, I wasn't informed."

There was an odd note to her voice, as if she were trying to imply that yes, Fury had had something to do with it after all. She was laying careful groundwork to create doubt in Jemma's mind, just as Jemma had expected.

"Just to be clear, I was never exposed to anything, correct?" Jemma asked, meeting her gaze.

"It's complicated, Jemma."

"Either I was or I wasn't." Jemma stood and began to pace, not bothering to conceal her frustration. "Rumlow either works for us or he doesn't. This doesn't add up, Anne. You're running me around in a circle for no good reason."

Surprisingly, Anne smiled, and then shifted her gaze toward the mirror on one wall. "I told you," she said patiently. "She's not easy to fool."

Jemma felt her jaw drop, though the automatic expression of surprise came with a kind of smug inner smile. Of course someone had been on the other side of the mirror.

"He said we had to try," Anne told her with a shrug. "A waste of time, in my opinion, but you saw through it easily enough."

"Well, a kidnapping and being sedated does raise some questions," Jemma replied tartly, backing away from the door when it opened to reveal the older gentleman she vaguely remembered from her arrival. "You were the last person I would have expected to be Hydra, Anne."

"We're not Hydra, Agent Simmons." The man sat in the chair at the head of the table, folding his hands carefully in front of him. "We're the last remaining vestige of SHIELD."

Jemma gave him a long stare. "Not that long ago I was sitting at the same table as Nicholas Fury. You're hardly the last hope for humanity."

"SHIELD as it should be, Jemma," Anne said quietly, and patted a hand on the chair she had abandoned. "Please, sit down."

"Are you knowingly seceding from SHIELD?" Jemma hung back, pressing against the wall. "I'm not sure that makes you any different from Hydra."

"Fury's tenure as director is what led us to this catastrophe."

Hard, Jemma thought. Gonzales was a hard man, and one who didn't appear to like her very much. "As far as I can tell, Hydra has been lying in wait since the day SHIELD became an organization. I don't believe you can lay that entirely at Fury's door."

"Perhaps not. But Project Insight was carried out under his supervision."

And that of Alexander Pierce, but before Jemma could make that point Gonzales flipped open the cover on a small tablet. Even before he angled the screen toward her she knew exactly what she would see. Just skin, she reminded herself as she skittered down the wall, away from the image. This was her ace.

"I don't want to see those," she said, outwardly panicked even as she felt cold fury settle inside. Confusion hadn't worked for them, and so they went directly to blackmail via shame? Anne did not even have the grace to look embarrassed. "How did you get those?"

"We have our sources." Gonzales was giving her a grimly assessing look, turning the screen so that it faced her as she made her way along the wall. "This is the kind of weapon Fury employs, Agent Simmons. You would follow a man like this?"

What a hypocrite, asking her that question while shoving those pictures in her face. "Please delete those."

He settled back in his chair instead, leaving the image for her to see. "He could have fought the fight honorably, but he took down Hydra withpornography. Did he even give you a choice?"

She froze in her corner.

"Did he give you a choice?"

She flinched. It wasn't so hard to pull off this act, not with an angry man glaring at her in a small room. "I asked him not to," she whispered in response. "I begged him."

Anne reached out and flipped the cover over the screen, not even looking toward it as she did so. "He should not have disregarded your feelings on the matter." She left her hand casually atop the tablet, and whether it was to keep Gonzales from opening it again, or was a reminder that she could open it at any time was unclear. "Did your husband agree with him?"

Looking for another weak point. Jemma had no intention of giving them that one- or, at least, not in the way that would please them best. "He was very angry," she murmured, wrapping her arms protectively around herself. "He was short with Fury for days."

"No man wants to share his wife like that," Gonzales said in a sharp tone, and did not look particularly apologetic when Anne cast him a warning glance. "Not angry at you, was he?"

"Why would he be?" she snapped back. "It was hardly my fault, after all."

"Doesn't matter." He tapped one finger on the corner of the tablet, barely an inch from Anne's hand. "I'll be plain with you, Agent Simmons. You have information we need to know, and we have precious little time to sway you to our side in any gentle manner."

"I'm not-"

She broke off, eyes darting toward the door. "I really don't know that much. Phil follows protocol to the letter."

She was willing to bet that, if Natasha or Clint were listening on the other end of the comms, they were suddenly snickering.

Gonzales tapped his finger against the tablet again, exchanging a look with Anne. "Prove your worth, and I'll make these disappear," he said after a long moment. "I'm willing to make many concessions if you cooperate, Agent Simmons. A woman with your talent could go far, in this organization."

"You could be a member of the board." Anne nodded slightly, and Jemma couldn't help but wonder if Anne saw her not only as a former student, but as a potential yes-man. Anne might find having a grateful colleague useful, when votes were called. "Imagine it, Jemma. No need to worry about being exploited, not again."

Whatever Gonzales saw on her face must have been the right expression, because he stood abruptly. "Perhaps you should give her a tour of the labs," he told Anne in a gruff voice. "Something to sweeten the pot."

This, Jemma reflected as he left the room, feeling her shoulders relax from their former position around her ears, this was not the carrot and stick dynamic she had been expecting.

Anne scooped up his deserted tablet and beckoned her toward the door. "I think you'll be impressed, Jemma."

Jemma followed her hesitantly, pausing only once they were out in the hallway. She was trembling, which was not an act, but suited her purposes well enough. "Anne," she said quietly, "it's against lab safety protocol to enter without shoes."

Anne looked down at her feet, some unknown emotion flickering across her face. "I think you'll be safe enough, this once," she said finally.

Well, bugger. And the labs would be what felt like nearly a mile of cold concrete away. If she hadn't been doing her best to play meek she would have been snarling. Politely.

"What do you think?" Anne asked her as soon as they stepped through the doors, and Jemma stopped in her tracks. No wonder they couldn't provide decent meals or shoes for prisoners. They had obviously been splashing out all of their cash on the best set-up Jemma had ever seen, at least outside of the Sandbox.

She went with her first impression, which was a barely audible "Wow."

Anne looked pleased. "Let me show you everything."

And she did, from storage to engineering to a biochem lab that inspired Jemma to feel a very particular kind of professional lust. "Even the academy, with its grants and funding, was never as well-supplied as this," Anne said as they made their way back toward the main entrance. "You could do anything with this equipment, Jemma. Cure cancer, create vaccines against the worst diseases… manufacture a drug that would bring the dead back to life."

Jemma nearly tripped over her own feet. "Absurd."

"We're not ignorant of your husband's circumstances, Jemma." Anne curled her hand around the handle to the main door, but did not open it. "He wasn't dead for thirty seconds- not even three minutes."

"It isn't something he likes to talk about," Jemma said truthfully, resisting the urge to scrub her damp palms against her trousers. "I don't like to press him."

Sudden sympathy. "Fate hasn't treated you very well, has it?" Anne asked softly, taking Jemma's arm with care. "You would tell me if he mistreated you?"

"Phil would never mistreat me," Jemma whispered in reply, horrified.

"Still, these May-December matches…" Anne began meaningfully.

Jemma allowed her annoyance to show. "More June-September, really."

"As you say, dear." Anne drew her through the door and down the hall, obviously heading back toward her room. "Let's gather your things and find more private quarters. I don't think you need monitoring twenty-four/seven, do you?"

"Good cop/bad cop," Clint said succinctly as the patter of conversation across the wire turned to more neutral topics. "Though Weaver could play bad cop well enough, if she wanted to."

"She's ruthless under that calm facade," Phil said, his voice taut. "Field-certified. Excellent interrogator."

"Remember the year she mentored the science kids for the inter-academy game of Capture the Flag?"

"You mean the year half the op and communications students ended up in the infirmary, snoozing off an aerosol-based sedative?" Natasha replied, quirking a slight smile. "Or perhaps you were thinking of how many POWs the engineering students caught in their traps."

"Both, actually."

"Hard to forget."

Bucky bumped Phil on the shoulder with a gentle fist. "Don't worry, September," he said, ignoring Clint's amused huff of laughter. "They're playing a long game."

He sighed. Hard enough to sit here today, knowing how seeing those images again had likely affected Jemma. "That's what I'm afraid of."

After the rather harrowing meeting that had defined her first day, Jemma was surprised to find that the next week was really quite ordinary. She had her own little room, now, that locked only from the inside, and if there were cameras, she hadn't yet spotted them. Bobbi had arrived the evening of her first day awake with more clothing and a pair of trainers (hallelujah), and helped her tuck everything away before escorting her to the mess hall.

The food did not improve, on that day or on any other. Seeing as Jemma never saw Anne or any of the mysterious board members during meals, she had a sneaking suspicion that the only fresh(ish) food on base was finding its way to a private dining room. Bobbi never answered her questions on their food-store outright, but Jemma was becoming skilled at picking up tiny little facial clues. Natasha had spent an almost inordinate part of her training focusing on just that skill. Bobbi's minute facial expressions, when questioned, seemed to indicate that what Jemma suspected was true.

Despite Anne's hints they did not set her to work recovering the GH325 formula, though Jemma guessed it was only a matter of time. They instead asked for her formula for the ICER dendrotoxin, which she was pleased to provide… in a slightly less concentrated version than the real SHIELD was equipped with. A simple little thing, she knew, and to her concern they continued to ask her to work on similar projects. All were complex in their own way, but all well-within her capabilities.

After a week of busywork, she broached the topic hesitantly with Anne.

"I thought you would get bored, eventually," was all Anne said, gesturing for Jemma to follow. "We didn't want to overwhelm you."

She knew better than most that Jemma's current workload was far from overwhelming, but Jemma had been careful to nurture a kind of faintly despondent air. Soulmates divided, and so on. There had been a great deal of toying meaningfully with her wedding ring.

It wasn't that difficult an act. She certainly wasn't sleeping half as well as she used to, and though she knew that Phil was, in all likelihood, safe with her backup, she still worried.

Worried excessively, perhaps.

Anne led her to an as yet unexplored lab, Jemma's unease growing as they suited up in full containment gear in the airlock. "Do you need a vaccine?" she asked, trying to ignore the faint nausea she felt.

"I believe you already made one," Anne replied calmly, her voice distant and dull through the gear. "Or an anti-serum, to be more specific."

Jemma's hand clamped down on the doorframe as she followed Anne into the lab, and it took real effort to tear herself away from that solid bit of support. That damn Chitauri helmet was resting oh-so-casually in a clear case, not six feet from her. "Oh," she said weakly, feeling as if the very floor had dropped out from beneath her.

"You've already made the anti-serum." Anne began to circle the case slowly, stopping when she was on the other side. "I know it's a great deal to ask, Jemma, but we need you to make something else."

"You want me to weaponize it," Jemma said in a brittle voice, her tone smoothed by the layers surrounding her. "It hardly needs help in that arena, Anne."

"But its current method of transmission is less than optimal."

To Jemma's surprise, Anne's expression was clearly unhappy. This was not the face of a woman who was eager to mass-produce an alien virus. "Gonzales has a plan for it?" she asked quietly, stepping toward the case with reluctance. "Anne, this virus…"

"Is your proving ground." Displeased she might be, but her voice held steady as she caught Jemma's gaze. "He was adamant on that point, Jemma."

"And if I refuse?"

Anne's gaze slid suddenly to the side, as if the blank wall had become very interesting. "He doesn't see the point in keeping prisoners, really. He's said more than once that the expense of housing and feeding the unwilling is hardly worth the potential gain."

Jemma tried to swallow, her mouth dry. "He favors a more permanent solution?"

"Not the one you think."

Compliance, in other words. "And what method does he employ to create more amenable employees?"

"A hybrid of Whitehall's method and some well-chosen drugs." Anne looked back toward her, appearing regretful. "I don't want that for you, Jemma."

Clearly, she had no choice. "I suppose I should get started, then."

"I was hoping you would say that," Anne said with a sigh of relief. "Your assistant will be in shortly."

"Assistant?" Jemma repeated, perplexed. "I really don't think I need one, Anne."

"Just a precaution. You can make him sit in a corner, if you prefer."

Ah. Less an assistant than a spy, Jemma suspected. Left to her own devices she might have found a way to skew her research, but this would force her to stay honest. Bugger. "I hope he's sensible, at least," she said tartly, beginning to inspect the equipment available. "And quiet."

"Both, as well as highly intelligent and easy on the eyes." Anne smiled faintly at Jemma's startled look. "I speak only the truth."

Bizarre. "I really don't care what he looks like."

Anne shrugged. "Fitz would be your ideal partner, obviously, but…"

"If you would let me make a call, I might be able to discuss this with Fitz, or Phil, or any number of people," Jemma said with a good dose of irritation, gesturing at the room at large. "I might not be a prisoner in name, but that's really all I am, Anne."

"You're too valuable to lose." Anne flicked a barely detectable glance toward a nearby camera. "And I suggest you watch your tongue."

The inevitable reminder that someone else was watching, and though Anne might not know it, a good reminder to stay in character. "I miss him, Anne," she said, willing her expression to soften. "Please let me call him."

"Jemma…"

Anne rounded the table, approaching her with gloved hands held out. "I think you know that Phil Coulson is a liability," she said, and while the words were not unexpected, they hurt. "He's loyal to Fury, not SHIELD."

A laughable concept. "I don't think that's true."

"After everything Fury has done to him, and to you? Only the truest of loyalists would stay by his side at this point." Anne's hand settled heavy on Jemma's shoulder, solid even through layers of protective gear. "You have choices to make, Jemma. You don't need to be someone who throws everything away because of some random soulmark."

That stung, both for the obvious reason as well as for the fact that Jemma detested being made to feel guilty because being marked made her happy. Phil was no saint, but he was hers, and she loved the relationship they had built, even with all the missteps along the way. "I don't think I've thrown myself away, Anne."

"You could have better."

Dimly she could hear the air cycling through the airlock as someone prepared to enter. Her assistant, she guessed, though she had trouble focusing on that fact as she tried to force her breathing to steady. Soulmarks couldn't be erased, she reminded herself. Ignored, yes, and disregarded, but not erased. There was only so far she was willing to go.

She took a risk. "There are some things I can't do for you, Anne."

"Perhaps not yet," was Anne's calm reply. "Good luck with your research."

"Beat that punching bag any harder and you'll injure yourself," Natasha said from behind him, one hand snagging in his sweat-dampened t-shirt and hauling him back. "Have you had breakfast yet?"

"Not yet." He let weary arms hang at his sides, a part of him very glad that Natasha had interrupted his morning workout. "Any news?"

"She's still sleeping." She released him, moving to stand where he could see her. "Are you sure you want to make this trip?"

"I seem to recall someone telling me to get off my ass and do something useful."

"Something useful here, where you won't get arrested." She rolled her eyes. "Though getting you away from the audio feed will do you a lot of good, I'm thinking."

"It's difficult to listen to." He rubbed a hand across his face, feeling the day's worth of growth he hadn't bothered to shave off yet. "Asking her to even go near that virus again- that's crueler than I expected them to be, Nat."

"I'm only surprised that it took them so long to bring it up." Natasha settled gracefully on a nearby stack of mats, crossing her legs in tailor's pose. "After the fuss Gonzales made at their first meeting, I half-expected them to toss her into whatever memory modification machine they had handy."

He had gotten that distinct impression as well, and he had certainly had a number of nightmares on the same subject over the past week. "I hate this uncertainty, Nat."

"So do I. I guess we should have chosen different careers," she said with a bitter smile. "Go, get ready. We'll be listening closely."

"You know this is a long-shot, right? Steve can be a little…"

"Aggravating? Preachy? So annoying you want to drop-kick him off a building?"

"Yes."

They exchanged a look. "How the fanboy has grown," she said dryly. "Honestly, Phil, with the grudge Talbot has against you- not to mention the way Senator Ward keeps lambasting the remnants of SHIELD- this kind of daredevil move is your only choice."

"Just because the President has been very clear about his own admiration for Steve-"

"Phil, you aren't kidnapping the man. You aren't causing any bodily harm. You're just… hijacking his schedule."

"Yet another item to add to my extensive rap sheet."

"Jemma likes her men bad, obviously." She smirked. "Have fun, Phil."

Phil did not think that this would be fun, not at all. "If I'm arrested, please rescue my wife and tell her that I love her."

"If you're arrested, it will be because Steve and President Bartlet have started a riot at some kind of academic conference."

"That's not funny, Nat."

Jemma tried to concentrate exclusively on the good points: her cozy bed, the complexity of the Chitauri virus that- now that she was no longer in danger of imminent explosive death- really was quite fascinating, and the comforting presence of her wedding ring and earrings on her person.

She couldn't dwell exclusively on the good, try as she might- the food continued to be terrible, she suspected that her comfy trainers contained some kind of tracking device, and even if the virus was fascinating in an intellectual way, she was having terrible nightmares on a nightly basis.

And- and there was her menses.

For the best, or so she tried to think as she flushed away the evidence. And it was just on time, too, so it wasn't as if she were miscarrying. She would continue her work here, free of any need to cover up a pregnancy, and then after her extraction they could try again.

For the best, really.

Not that the loss of might-have-been didn't hurt, just a little bit.

AN: This will not be turning into a full-fledged The West Wing crossover, but Steve Rogers and President Bartlet? A hilarious combination.