Pavlov circled his ankles as Phil flipped pancakes at the stove, meowing insistently despite the fact that his own breakfast was still waiting on a plate against the wall.
A plate, for goodness sake. Jemma was right; he was going soft over the cats.
"I realize the portion is small," he said patiently to the beast, resigning himself to the insanity. "We are moving this afternoon. You might have noticed the boxes in the living room."
Pavlov gave him a look of utter condescension.
"Jemma will be upset if you throw up on the way there."
The cats probably would, anyway, or worse. Maybe he could bribe Skye to drive them?
Jemma herself had come into the room to hear the last part, and she pressed herself against his back, sliding her arms around his waist. "Now I'm not the only one who talks to the cats," she said, sounding almost pleased, and he felt her press a kiss between his shoulder blades. "I knew you would give in eventually."
He scooped the pancake from the hot griddle, moving it to the safety of a nearby plate before turning in her embrace. He had something pithy on the tip of his tongue, but he reconsidered it when he saw the redness of her eyes. "Sweetheart?"
She gave him a weak smile. "Like clockwork."
"Oh, Jem." He pulled her close, resting his chin on the top of her head as she snuffled quietly into his collar. "Please don't fret. Eight months… a lot of people try for longer than that before conceiving."
"I know." She sighed, her tears wetting his skin. "I know. I'm just impatient. And maybe…"
She paused, before continuing in a cracked, almost inaudible voice. "It might be me? Natural, or maybe the virus."
"It could very well be me," he said firmly. "You know the statistics about weakened sperm count at my age- and for all we know, the GH325 made me infertile." He stroked her hair for a moment, considering for the millionth time their options. "I'll get tested," he said finally. "And if I'm the problem, we could always use an anonymous donor."
She made a quiet, wheezing sort of sound. "I want your baby."
"Any baby you have would be ours. If we adopt, any child we adopt would be ours."
"I know." She hiccuped, obviously more than a little overwrought. "I'm just hormonal."
That was not a safe matter for him to make any kind of agreement on. "It probably is me, sweetheart," he murmured against her hair, the idea more troubling than he would admit aloud. "Don't blame yourself. We'll make it work somehow."
He pulled away only when it became clear that the burner under the griddle absolutely had to be turned down. He ignored the spattered bits of butter now adorning one sleeve.
She ate her pancakes quietly, Pavlov draped over her lap as she did so. Phil tried to keep his expression nonchalant, but it was difficult. He worried about her- about them- as each month slipped past without a positive pregnancy test. Not because he feared she would leave him, because stalwart Jemma would never do such a thing, but because…
Well.
Would sex become a chore? It was almost hard for him to conceive of such a notion, but a part of him worried that one day Jemma would come to bed with the expression of someone girding themselves for battle. Could he refuse her, at such a time? Plead the time-honored excuse of a headache? Sex was absolutely essential for procreation, yes, but Phil wasn't at all comfortable with the idea of it being entirely for procreation. If Jemma wasn't having an excellent time, he'd rather go without.
It struck him that the last time sex had been this complicated and fraught with meaning was when he had been a virgin. It was an odd realization.
"Jem?"
She looked up from her plate, her expression startled. "Yes?"
Phil leaned against the island across from her, and reached out to take one hand. "What are your feelings on jazz, sweetheart?"
A hint of humor surfaced, darting across her face. "I'm becoming surprisingly fond of it."
"My patient wife."
It was time to shake things up a bit, he decided. New home, new work, a new start. When was the last time he had seduced his wife? Seduction that was longer than a few hours, anyway: there had been a number of candlelit dinners that had ended happily on both sides. They had two weeks before the students arrived, after all. Phil had time to play a long kind of game.
He began by pressing a kiss to her palm, watching as her eyes dilated slightly at the flick of his tongue against her skin. "Finish your breakfast." He kissed the tips of her fingers next, hiding his smile as her breath caught. "We have a lot of work to do."
The one blessing was they didn't have to move furniture. "And professionals are moving the boxes," she muttered to herself, pushing back a sweat-dampened lock of hair. They just had the cats to contend with (who were very unhappy, and not afraid to vocally express their displeasure from the carriers), and the items that were either too personal or too confidential to leave in the hands of others.
She finished buckling the last carrier into the backseat of the SUV, wincing as Pavlov gave a particularly mournful cry. "I feel like we're actively torturing them," she admitted when Phil appeared, the last suitcases in his hands. "I'm almost afraid they won't forgive us."
"They'll sulk for a while, but they'll be fine soon enough." He stowed the luggage away before slipping his arms around her. "They'll appreciate the move once they discover the porch. And the hearth rug in front of the fireplace."
Hermia hissed in a way that suggested death and dismemberment. "If we live that long," she said gloomily. "They might smother us in our sleep, like Fitz suggested."
"Nah. They depend on us for food, after all."
Phil had always been a very tactile husband, but Jemma couldn't help but feel that he was being more demonstrative than usual, even if all he was doing was rubbing her back. Whatever the difference, she liked it. "Are you ready to face the drive?"
He brushed a kiss against her lips, and then pulled away with a smile. "Yes."
Jemma sighed with relief once the cats were safely shut into their temporary quarters: the laundry room, equipped with a large litter box and all the food and water they might wish.
"I actually thought we might die at one point," she admitted in a serious tone to Phil, who smirked as he approached with a box of kitchen gear in his hands.
"I'd suggest using irritated cats as a means of persuasion in interrogations, but I think it would be cruel to the cats." He glanced at the shut door, lingering by her side. "We'll have to mop the floor."
"I know."
"Maybe even dispose of the carriers for good."
"I know."
She felt vaguely ill. Who knew that cats could output so much… effluvia?
"Thank goodness we borrowed that car from Stark."
She found herself giggling in near hysteria as he continued past her. A blessing, indeed.
The hassle of moving aside, she loved her new home. The hardwood floors, the bookshelves, the promise of how incredibly fun it would be to seduce Phil against the multitude of these new surfaces… Jemma sighed, regretting slightly the timing of her menses with the move. And not regretting it, in a way, because she was finding that her inability to conceive was more of a heartbreak than she could have imagined.
Not unusual, she reminded herself. Especially considering the fact that she had been on birth control less than a year ago. And her encounter with alien virology, and the stress…
And it had only been eight months. Eight months of creative, passionate sex, yes, but eight months.
The very emotional portion of her brain wasn't quite buying the myriad of excuses. It wanted a baby to cuddle, and didn't particularly care about the logic involved. Or the fact that having a child during the first year of the new academies was probably a terrible idea.
She straightened, taking in a deep breath as she shook off her worries. She had things to do.
The furniture had been delivered ahead of time, and paid for by them despite Tony's protests. It certainly would have been cheaper to forward him the bill, but Jemma and Phil had both agreed that they would be paying to outfit their new home. They intended to spend years there, after all, and Jemma for one was eager to put her mark on the place. Some pieces were new- the couch, the comfortable chairs- and others were new only to them. They had spent several weekends sleeping in B&Bs and searching the aisles of small-town antique shops for useful pieces. Another weekend had been spent arranging the furniture in the house and refinishing the top of a sturdy kitchen table.
Jemma grinned to herself as she made up their bed with new sheets, remembering how they had camped out in the living room on an air mattress. That had been a fun weekend.
Phil came and found her hours later, when the bookshelves were half-filled and nearly a dozen more boxes awaited her attention. "Come have dinner," he said, offering her a hand up. She took it, grunting slightly when her knees protested her time spent on the floor. "It's nearly nine in the evening; we both need to stop for night."
"The house still looks like a disaster," she said, though not in protest. "How did we end up with so many books?"
"My wife is a genius, and I like mystery novels," he answered easily, rubbing his thumb against her temple and pulling his hand back to show the smear of dust. "You have cobwebs in your hair."
"I swept out the attic."
She shrugged at his questioning look. "I wanted to see it. And it's completely empty, but filled with dust… or it was."
"Very brave of you. Meet up with any of Natasha's kin?" he asked, guiding her gently toward the kitchen. Hermia- now clean and in a much better mood- streaked past them with Pavlov chasing after her.
"Nothing poisonous, thankfully."
She stopped, blinking in surprise at the kitchen. It wasn't entirely unpacked, but very close, and the surfaces had been given a good scrubbing. A bottle of wine sat open on the counter, and something that smelled delicious was simmering on the stove. "You have performed a miracle," she said after a moment, feeling her shoulders relax even as her stomach, reminded of the existence of food, rumbled. "Let me wash off this dust, and then I will be all yours."
With damp strands of hair curling around her face, she sat down at the table five minutes later, glancing toward the dark windows. "We should hang curtains in here. Or put up blinds."
"On the list." He placed a bowl of hearty soup in front of her, nudging the basket of bread closer. "I did hang the curtains in the bedroom. I'm sure the cats will shred them before we know it."
She didn't answer, too busy spreading butter on her bread and taking a first bite. Heaven. Had he baked the bread? She didn't remember bringing any. "When did you find time to do this?" she asked finally, after taking a bite of the soup. It had not come from a can, of that she was certain.
"I planned ahead of time." He looked quite pleased with himself, and she couldn't blame him for that. "It's amazing what you can do with a pressure cooker and some sourdough starter."
It was amazing what he could do, period. She took a sip of the rich red wine and gave a sigh of satisfaction. "You are a miracle worker, Phil."
"First night in our new home. Ordering pizza was out of the question, even if a local pizzeria had security clearance for the campus." He buttered a slice of bread for himself, smiling. "I scrubbed the tub upstairs, too, in case you wanted a bath."
"It's settled. You've won husband of the year; apply for your prize in four days or so."
"Just wait until you taste dessert."
Dessert was cake from her favorite bakery, which he had somehow managed to sneak past her during the tumult of moving. "You are a godsend," she informed him, circling the table to sit on his lap with her dessert plate in hand. "I needed cake like I needed air."
She didn't find that too much of an exaggeration. The taste of chocolate and cream on her tongue was practically spilling new life into her veins.
"I'm considering how to duplicate the recipe." He reached out and dragged a finger through the ganache on his plate, bringing it to his lips. "Be my guinea pig?"
"Any day." She placed her plate on the table, shifting slightly in his lap to face him. "I do love scientific endeavor," she said before kissing him, licking a trace of ganache from his lips. "Perhaps you could just make a pot of this and let me lick it off your chest."
"That sounds unsanitary," he replied in a low voice, his lips still within an inch of hers.
"Sex is unsanitary, Phil. I haven't heard you complaining about that before."
"Fair point."
She kissed him again, finding herself almost unbearably aroused by his sheer thoughtfulness and the promise of their new surroundings. A pity she had always been uncomfortable with period sex.
"Why don't you go take a bath?" he suggested, kissing the tip of her nose. "I'll clean the kitchen and join you."
"You cooked, I should clean the kitchen."
"Nope." He pushed her up, swatting her arse lightly with one hand and giving her a teasing grin. "Take your wine. Don't unpack anything else on your way."
Jemma hesitated beside him, committing his grin to memory. "You're sure?"
"Yes." He pointed toward the doorway with an expression that was almost Agent Coulson at his most serious. "Move along."
Jemma left the kitchen with glass of wine in hand, and almost as an afterthought she paused at the door, considering the box at her feet. With a smirk she pulled out one of Phil's cookbooks and slotted it neatly onto the shelf next to the door, and decided to leave her defiance at that.
She climbed the stairs, hearing him chuckle behind her and loving it.
Jemma was five minutes into her bath when he swaggered in- and it was a swagger, she realized. One hundred percent swagger. "Satisfied with yourself, are you?" she asked, arching one brow. "You have done a magnificent job as a husband tonight, I must admit. You've made me feel like I'm lacking as a wife."
He gave her a disappointed look as he stripped. "Not my intention, Jemma. Can't a man pamper his wife without reprisal?"
"I suppose so." She relaxed back into the hot water as he settled across from her, adroitly angling himself so that he avoided the faucet spout. "I'm going to have to seriously consider how to make it up to- oh, that feels good."
He pressed his thumb more firmly into the arch of one of her feet. "Keep thinking on that, Jemma. Despite what you might think, I enjoy doing nice things for you, without expecting anything in return."
"The same here." She was tempted to simply lay back and accept his kindness, but instead grabbed one of his feet and began returning the favor. "This is a nice house, don't you think? I think we'll be happy here."
The look he gave her was warm and adoring. "I think we will."
By the time he bundled her into bed, clean and pleasantly tipsy, she had formulated a plan. "An orgasm," she said matter-of-factly, pulling back the covers he had just tucked over her. "A new house demands an orgasm, Phil. Lie back and think of England."
He gave her a befuddled look. "Jem-"
"If you don't want one, that's fine. I'm just offering, dear," she interjected, her tone earnest. "I know you'll make it up to me later, and quite frankly after that dinner you deserve one."
"It isn't required."
"Of course not," she replied, a tad bit offended. "I would never give you required orgasms. Deserved ones, on the other hand, are quite a different category."
"They are?"
"Indeed." She pulled his boxers down, grinning as his obvious interest was revealed to her. "The wifely scale of deserved orgasms has everything to do with merit and desire and nothing to do with contractual obligation. Do I have your consent?"
"Yes, but you don't need to-"
She had her mouth around him before he could finish, and the groan he made was a reward in and of itself.
"Not my plan," he muttered afterward, when she had snuggled against his side and pulled the covers up over them. "I was supposed to do the seducing, not you."
"You can continue with your plan," she replied, satisfied. "I'm happy to be seduced."
"Not a surprise, now."
"But still delightful."
He was loose and relaxed under the arm she had slung over his chest, and as he slipped further and further into sleep (nuzzling against her hair, curving toward her, heavy and warm), Jemma lay wakeful. Maybe it was the creak of the house as it settled, or the wind outside, or the sound of the cats romping across the living room floor, but something kept her on cautious edge.
She lay still, not at all tempted to slip away to wander the halls, to make a cup of tea and read while the cats fought for possession of her lap. Jemma felt safe in that bed, behind locked doors and tucked against her warm husband.
That didn't help her sleep, or at least not for several hours. It did, however, help.
Phil did not need all of his husbandly intuition to know, when he woke the next morning, that Jemma should not be disturbed. She slept with the weight of someone who had resisted- or been unable to find- sleep, only to succumb mere hours till dawn. She didn't shift as he left the bed and drew the covers up around her shoulders, nor did she so much as twitch when he opened the door and both cats sauntered past him to jump onto the bed, arranging themselves around Jemma for an early morning nap.
He made his way past unpacked boxes and a few scattered catnip mice, walking into the kitchen with an unhurried stride. The dawn light was just beginning to filter through the trees when he took his first cup of coffee onto the porch.
The hour was early enough that the air was still cool and crisp, the faint breeze ruffling the leaves blending with the beginnings of birdsong. It was a world away from every other place he had lived over the past few years- planes, bunkers, hotel rooms- and he was content to sit there, quiet and still, absorbing the peace.
Skye, sleepy and clutching an empty mug, appeared at the screen door while he was enjoying his second cup. "AC, please save me," she said, a tad pitiful. "I can't find my coffee machine. All I have is a sea of boxes. I don't even know what's in the boxes, because I don't have this much stuff. I think they're breeding."
"Probably a 084," he agreed, unlatching the door for her. "Coffee is ready in the kitchen. Cream is in the fridge."
"Do you have any food?" She pushed a lock of hair away from her face, looking very small in her pajamas and flipflops. "I have some, but. Boxes."
Phil raised a brow, but followed her into the kitchen and checked on the breakfast casserole he had baking in the oven. "Start with this," he said, pulling an apple from the bowl on the table. "Breakfast will be done in about thirty minutes."
"You are killing me, AC."
"Says the woman who has essentially invited herself over for breakfast."
"Fair."
She moved back to the porch with a brimming mug and apple in hand and curled up in one of the chairs. "It's so quiet out here."
"Kind of the point." He considered her over the rim of his own mug. "How do you feel about this move?"
"I feel like an imposter." She gave him a crooked grin. "I don't even have a college degree, AC. Living off the grid kind of got in the way."
She had seemed so excited even the day before, but now he saw the doubt she had been hiding from them all. "Skye, you are one of the most brilliant people I know. If anyone here thinks the less of you for not having a degree, we should probably chuck them out."
"Ugh." She took a bite of her apple, shaking her head slightly. "It doesn't really matter, I guess, since I'm not teaching."
"Yet. But if you get bored out here, you could always go back to the city. Stark would love having you around." He waited a beat, assessing her. "Or you could go back into the field, either with SHIELD or the Avengers."
She chuckled, looking more amused than she had seconds before. "Being able to destroy buildings with my mind doesn't necessarily mean I'm Avengers material."
"I don't see why not. You have options, basically. We won't make you stay here."
She took a slow sip of her coffee and sighed. "I guess I just allowed myself to get caught up in the flow of things, you know? The last time I had the luxury of deciding what I wanted to do with myself I was living in a van. Now I'm some kind of SHIELD/Avengers communications liaison and I have a house." Skye looked equal parts affronted and confused by that. "I thought I'd end up in the dorms, like some kind of chaperone, and instead I get handed the keys to an actual building. It has a basement, AC. It has a permanent foundation, and I don't have to share it with anyone."
"We could still move you to the dorms," he offered. Phil wasn't sure if Skye was awed or inconvenienced by the idea of a permanent foundation, but he was fairly certain that she wasn't sure either. "But you would have to actually chaperone. If they want to party and come to class hungover, they'll have to sneak around like the rest of us did."
"It could be fun to terrify the newbies," she admitted. "And I know how to live in confined spaces. I don't know what I'll do with half the space in that house. Or the second bedroom. All of my friends and family live here."
"You could take up a hobby. Something that requires a lot of space, like art or weaving."
"Great idea. I'll run right out and get a loom," she replied dryly. "Maybe I'll start building model planes."
"Also a possibility."
They both glanced toward the open kitchen door at the faint sound of Jemma's voice, followed by the thunder of two cats charging across wood floors. "I'll stay out here for a while," Skye said quietly. "Maybe I'll turn out to be a house person after all."
"And if you're not, we'll find what works for you," he assured her. "Teaching, or field work, or leaving to get a degree. Hell, if you want to live in a van, we can work that out, too."
"Ehh." She grimaced. "You know, I think I'll pass on that. I've grown attached to indoor plumbing; better to think on that period fondly."
Jemma appeared in the doorway, one of his sweaters pulled on over her pajamas. "Good morning," she said with a tired smile, Pavlov batting at her ankles. "Skye, did you sleep well?"
"The house creaks. I think I heard raccoons on the front porch." Skye's face was utterly straight. "It was terrifying."
"Also, her boxes are breeding," Phil said with a sly smile, holding out his hand to Jemma. She took it, seating herself in his lap without a qualm. "Maybe we should go over there later and make sure nothing sinister is lurking in her home."
"I think it's more likely that Tony snuck half a department store into her moving van." Jemma yawned. "Who knows what you'll find in there. Anything from dishes to a candelabra to an actual Picasso."
"Well," Skye said consideringly, setting her apple core to the side. "That wouldn't be too bad. I do need plates. Some forks would be nice, too."
"I'll come and help you unpack, later." Jemma pressed a kiss to his cheek, smiling. "Did you sleep well?"
"Better than you." He smoothed down her rumpled hair, recognizing Pavlov's handiwork. "Was he grooming you again?"
"Combing my hair with his claws. It isn't very conducive to sleep."
Skye was giving Pavlov an askance look at that very moment as he kneaded her lap, claws extended. "He does know how to withdraw them, right?"
"He does when playing with Hermia." Jemma reached down to scratch the small black cat between the ears. "So, yes."
Skye looked away from Pavlov, her mouth quirking into a small smile at the sight of them. "Maybe I should leave," she said, stroking Pavlov from his head to the tip of his tail. "I kind of doubt that I'll find my foul-mouthed soulmate at a school."
"A SHIELD school," Phil replied mildly, giving Jemma his mug when she held out a hand. Coffee was not her preferred caffeinated beverage, but apparently she wasn't picky this morning. "This isn't some ivy-decked prep school."
"Several students were quite foul-mouthed during my time at the academy," Jemma said. "Including Fitz. Trust me, demerits for inappropriate language were things we rarely worried about." She paused, taking a beat. "Except for in class, of course."
"Right." Skye shook her head. "Patience isn't exactly my strong suit."
Jemma met his eyes, a slight smile on her face. "The work doesn't exactly stop at first meeting," he said, reading her train of thought. "He- or she- might be an idiot, like me."
"Anyone watching your relationship would know that it's not always rainbows and kittens," Skye said dryly. "I've been around for most of it, you might recall."
He and Jemma continued to share a glance, and finally she turned away to meet Skye's gaze. "It's worth the work," she said simply, her hands curled around his coffee cup and her hair tumbling around her shoulders. He felt the weight of those words, heard the satisfaction underlying them, and hid his face against her hair for several seconds as relief filled him.
"AC's all overcome," he heard Skye say teasingly. "That's adorable."
Phil kissed the curve of Jemma's ear, taking in a deep breath to steady himself. "I'm just caffeine-deprived," he said once he could trust his voice again. "So, Skye. Tell me about your plans to decorate."
"Well, I could always center the color scheme around my hula girl."
The next two weeks did not go smoothly, but Jemma hadn't expected them to. Between scheduled faculty meetings, last-minute revisions of syllabi, and attempting to get the house in order Jemma could scarcely breathe.
And then, of course, there was the slight incident with Steve and the grill he had purchased, an incident that very nearly set his porch ablaze and did not result in any kind of edible meal. Grilling, it turned out, was not at all Steve's forte.
"I turn my back for one minute and he nearly burns the damn house down," Bucky groused, busying himself with unpacking the boxes of books in her office. She had been so busy with other things the task had been left until the eleventh hour. He slammed a volume onto the shelves with more force than was necessary, causing her to wince. "And he ruined those steaks."
"Surely it must be a learnable skill," Jemma replied, reaching out to rescue a first edition from Bucky's hands. "I doubt he purchased a grill just to torture you."
"Not so sure." He shelved more books, this time with more care than before. "I think he thought, 'Huh, playing with fire, that sounds dangerous'. Next thing I know he'll be swallowing knives or walking over coals in the backyard."
"No, Bucky, he'll just wait until you're in the field again and then throw himself out of an airplane without a parachute." She grinned at his growl. "I think it is far more likely that he purchased the grill hoping to make you dinner."
"Only that punk could make dinner dangerous." He grimaced, and then reached out to tap her on the nose. "What about you, doll. Done anything dangerous lately?"
"Other than standing on wobbly footstools to hang curtains, no."
"Don't believe you. You probably juggle grenades in your spare time."
"Only when Phil isn't around to comment," she replied pertly. "Now stop manhandling my books; you're damaging their spines. They aren't Hydra spies, you know."
She pulled him out of her office and towards their respective homes, having come to the conclusion that she was done putting her office to rights for the day. She had one more day before students began arriving, after all. Perhaps tomorrow she would lock the door and refuse to come out until she was finished, though if she did that someone would doubtlessly pick the lock to check on her.
Being friends with spies and superheroes had its disadvantages, at times.
"Is that smoke?" Bucky asked suspiciously as they approached the line of houses. "Excuse me; I have to strangle him."
"Please don't. It would make Phil so sad." She glanced at the windows of her own home at that, and saw that they were dark. He had gotten caught up in his own work, then, and had forgotten the time. She sighed at Bucky's obvious impatience. "Go, save us from Captain America, Grillmaster."
The cats greeted her at the door, winding around her ankles in the dim light of the foyer. "Yes, yes," she said with a chuckle. "I'll feed you in a minute, but I won't be able to do that if you trip me and I break my neck."
The kitchen was likewise dark, which ended any suspicion she might have had that Phil had been planning some kind of surprise. She shrugged, pulling cans of cat food from the cabinet and preparing portions for the expectant felines sitting at her feet.
After appeasing the cats she turned her attention to the contents of the fridge and pantry, considering what was available. A salad, a few baked potatoes, some chicken in wine sauce- all doable and fairly quick. She set to work, pleased to have dinner ready for Phil when the opposite was so often the case.
It was perhaps thirty minutes later when she heard a key in the lock on the front door, followed quickly by the sound of the cats stampeding to meet their favorite food provider.
"Don't believe their pitiful looks," Jemma told Phil with a grin when he entered the kitchen. "They have been fed, and recently, at that."
Her grin disappeared as she took in the look on his face: weariness and disappointment, two very distressing emotions. "Phil?"
He brushed a kiss against her lips, his expression still solemn. "We need to talk, Jemma."
She felt a mild surge of nausea, at that, and reached out to turn down the heat under the pan of chicken. "Was there an attack?" she asked anxiously, considering the multitude of terrors that their various enemies might unleash. "Is it… is it the virus?"
"No, no," he said quickly, pulling her into a hug. "No, I'm sorry, it isn't anything SHIELD related. It's me, Jem." He pulled back enough to meet her gaze, giving her a faint, sheepish smile. "I told you I would get tested, and I did."
She remembered, then, the morning of their move and how distressed she had been by the evidence of yet another month without a pregnancy. "Oh." She hesitated, considering the look on his face. "Please tell me, Phil."
"It's me, sweetheart," he said gently, his hands still at her waist. "I'm sterile."
"Ah," she said in a whisper, mind whirring. "Well," she said after a long silence, "there is adoption, or a donor."
Jemma wouldn't- she couldn't- show disappointment now, not when Phil's own disappointment was so obvious. "It's all right, Phil," she said, pulling him closer. "Don't fret, please. We'll be fine."
He wrapped her in a tight embrace, his lips against her hair. "Luckily, there is a third option," he said, an odd note of something that might have been humor in his voice. "I'd forgotten until today, when the doctor looked through my file and brought it to my attention."
Phil released her, stepping back and taking her hands in his. "Several years before New York," he began, "I began to think about my advancing age-"
She frowned at him. "Really, Phil."
"-my advancing age, and you." He shrugged. "I knew you would be younger than me, Jemma. So I made a few deposits."
Jemma's mouth dropped open. After a few seconds of stunned silence she said, "Are you telling me that SHIELD runs a sperm bank?"
"It is an option for male agents." He squeezed her hands, a slight smile still on his face. "Don't ask me why no one has ever asked to store your eggs, Jemma. You'll have to take that up with Fury."
"I most certainly will," she replied indignantly. "Mine might not even be good after the whole Chitauri incident." She took in a deep breath, feeling a strange mix of anger and sudden excitement. The latter emotion was better to dwell on, she decided. She could take hope in this. "It's viable?" she asked tentatively.
"Very much so."
He looked so hopeful at that, and so uncertain, that she gave in to the impulse to throw herself into his arms. "Your younger self was brilliant," she told him firmly, and then kissed him soundly. "I think your current self is quite brilliant as well," she added once they had parted, equally breathless. "Take me to bed."
"Before dinner?" he asked, relief clear on his face.
"We'll work up an appetite," she promised, untucking his shirt and running her hands up and over his chest. "We have a plan, now. Let's celebrate."
Hurriedly he switched off the stove and oven, placing the lid on the pan before picking her up in his arms. "I'm sorry we can't do this the fun way," he told her as he carried her toward the bedroom. "So sorry, Jemma."
She kissed his neck, relief and sorrow warring within her. "We still get our fun," she pointed out, undoing his tie and buttons haphazardly. "A lot of fun."
He placed her carefully on the bed. "I really am sorry, Jemma."
"For what?" she asked. "For being brought back to life with a serum that apparently sterilized you? I'm not pleased by the way Fury went about it, Phil, but I that means I have you." She stroked his face, fighting back tears. "I need you, Phil. Children are a bonus."
"Okay." He was obviously just as emotional as she was over the entire situation; a tear dropped from his face to splash against her cheek. "I need you, too, Jemma. I love you so much."
"I love you, too." She tugged him down to her, clenching her hands in the fabric of his shirt. "Let me show you how much."
They ate dinner late, sitting close at the kitchen table with his arm around her shoulders and her hand on his thigh. Jemma wore only a pair of his boxers and a t-shirt, and she kept her legs against his, her bare toes brushing against one of his calves.
She seemed settled, in a sense, which didn't surprise him. She had been given an answer to a question, and had formulated a plan, and would continue on with that indomitable spirit he loved so much.
Phil was glad of it. She deserved whatever hope he could give her in this situation, and he was only glad that he had had the sense to take precautions years beforehand. It stung, though- to know that he couldn't give her a child without scientific intervention, and perhaps not even then.
"Are we all right?" he asked her, his own emotions bittersweet.
She looked up, a tinge of the same bittersweetness in her eyes. "Better than," she said in a tone that could only be truthful. "So much better than all right."
"Good." He pressed a kiss against her temple, breathing in the scent of her hair. "I'm so glad."
"This is a mistake, and a catastrophe," Fitz said firmly, running his hands through his already disordered hair. "Jem, we should run and never look back."
"Really, Fitz," Jemma sighed, feeling affectionate nonetheless. That was as much as she could muster, at least at that point. She was too emotionally weary to pick the teasing kind of fight that would help him. "You should feel honored to be educating the next generation of scientists."
"You remember what we got up to at the academy, Jem. I seem to remember a few really inadvisable late nights fueled by alcohol and unsound hypotheses."
Jemma shrugged, patting the line of her skirt. "And yet here we are, about to usher in a new school year. There will probably be at least one party in the dorms, but there you go."
"What if we can't spot the bad seeds?" He turned and began to pace the length of the room, straightening the hem of his cardigan absently. "A bunch of geniuses with near-unlimited resources? The world might end."
"We didn't destroy the world." She resisted rolling her eyes. "Nor did any class before us. Calm down, Fitz."
"Calm down. Calm down!"
Her beloved husband entered the room at that, looking like an oasis of calm in comparison to Fitz's anxiety- but then, he usually did. "Ready?" he asked, laying a hand gently on her lower back. "They're growing restless."
She spared one glance at Fitz, watching as he straightened and began to breathe regularly, despite his disastrous portents of only moments before. He met her gaze and gave her a sudden grin, straightening his tie nervously. "Ready," she told Phil, confident that Fitz had attained some kind of equilibrium. "The others…?"
Phil leaned in and kissed her lightly, hand steady against her back. There was a new gravity to him that pained her. "Ready as well. This is your show, Jemma."
Fitz chuckled behind her. "Your speech, he means."
Well, it had been her bloody idea. She smoothed her skirt for the dozenth time, feeling a slight clutch in her chest. She should have fobbed it off on May- though May wouldn't have accepted the honor, most likely. "I'm almost afraid I'll forget English," she admitted sheepishly, reaching out to adjust the already perfect line of Phil's collar. "I should have recorded this ahead of time and lip-synched."
"No. You'll be fantastic." Phil lifted his other hand to her cheek. "Everything will be fine."
"We can always start that coffee shop, right?" she joked, half-serious.
"That is always an option. First, though, you need to welcome your students." Phil smiled down at her, pulling her gently but firmly toward the door. "Then we can talk about a menu."
She took in a breath, and then another and another as they left the room and walked down the short hall, Fitz tailing behind. Her sudden nerves seemed to be calming him, which didn't surprise her. They stopped at the door. She could hear, beyond the walls, the murmur of hundreds of people attempting to be quiet.
In an odd way, that steady thrum of noise gave her courage. Those were her students- and Fitz's students, and May's students, and Yates' students- all waiting for the school year to begin. She remembered the nervous thrill that she had always felt as a student at that moment, and felt something similar course through her now.
"Let's begin, shall we?" she said quietly, glancing at Phil and Fitz in turn. Fitz nodded, rocking back on his heels as he shoved his hands into his pockets. Phil kissed her cheek, and then reached for the doorknob.
The room quieted as she walked toward the podium with them behind her, the occasional sibilant whisper breaking above the general hum. She didn't need to wear her academic togs to garner attention- and Jemma wasn't sure which cap and gown she would have worn, even if that had been an option. The majority knew her on sight, and as she approached the microphone the hubbub settled to near-silence.
She took a moment to survey the students before her. The schools hadn't been segregated: all three academies had been sorted into one strict alphabetical order, blending science and operations and communications into a kind of whole. By the end of their training, hopefully they would be a unified team.
Jemma clasped her hands, settling them onto the podium, and smiled. "Good afternoon," she said, her words coming out with nary a pause. "Welcome to the Academy."
AN: This is the end of part two. Part three is forthcoming!