A/N: This chapter features one of my favorite scenes from the movie. I'd love to hear your guesses as to which scene that is! The song featured is "I Can Let Go Now" by Nathan East feat. Sara Bareilles. I recommend listening to it at some point as it sets the mood of the party, plus it's just a pretty song anyway. Special thanks to Stargazerdaisy/Daisy for her editing skills, like always! If you're into Skyeward as well (like I am), check out her fic "All I Think About Is You" on AO3. Thanks for reading and please review!

Chapter 4: The Sharp Flute

It was everything she imagined it would be. There was the tinkling sound of fine stemware being passed between hands, the din of conversation, murmurs that blended into indecipherable syllables against the sound of music. The Jazz ensemble was playing a soft, mid-tempo melody. The women were elegantly dressed, draped in designers she recognized from her time in Paris. She spotted three Elie Saab gowns in the first five minutes. The dress code alternated every year between black tie and white tie and this year most of the men wore black tuxes with black ties. Fitz was the only one in a white jacket, and she spotted him at once.

He was standing near an ice sculpture of the Venus (Melinda's party taste bordered on gaudy but never reached tacky). He was engaged with several gentleman around his age when he noticed her. Instantly, he broke into a smile and excused himself, closing the space between them with deliberate steps.

"Hello," she said first.

His reply was less composed. "Wow," Fitz breathed, following it with, "You look beautiful."

"So do you. Look good, I mean."

He extended his arm to her then, "Shall we?"

She looped her arm through his. "We shall."

"Wonderful party, Melinda," Cal said as he snagged a glass of champagne off a passing waiter's tray. "You've outdone yourself in every aspect." He and Grant had been discussing business when Melinda approached, so it was good sense on Cal's part to change the subject. Melinda despised business talk at parties, though she was wise to the fact that half of her attendees used the gathering as an excuse to network.

She smiled her thanks. "Fitz tells me the wedding planning is coming along nicely."

"I assume so," Cal agreed. "If the bills rolling my way are any indication, it will be quite the affair."

"I believe I overheard Skye describe it as, 'lavish but tasteful'," Grant said.

"Personally, I'd call it 'expensive'." Cal joked, then took a sip of his champagne. As he lowered his glass, his demeanor changed, eyes narrowed as he gazed toward some offense he'd not yet shared with the other two. "Who is that," he asked and motioned toward the dance floor. There at the center, swaying arm in arm and standing conspicuously close to one another, were Fitz and Jemma.

"Why, that's... oh my." Melinda stammered. "That's Jemma! Oh, she's known Fitz since she was a child."

"She didn't have that dress when she was a child," Grant groused.

Melinda shot him a look as Cal began to go red. "They're practically siblings, those two," she said.

"I have siblings, and we didn't dance like that," Cal retorted, threw back the rest of his champagne, and excused himself from the Wards.

The moment he was out of earshot, Melinda grabbed Grant by the wrist. "We have to fix this," she whispered. He agreed, and they quickly stalked to the middle of the dance floor where the pair were still swaying gently.

"Jemma! How nice to see you home!" Melinda exclaimed, breaking their embrace to hug her enthusiastically. While she engaged Jemma in quick conversation, wanting to hear all about France, how she liked working at Marie Claire, and so on Grant pulled Fitz aside.

"What are you doing?" he asked sternly.

Fitz appeared confused. "I'm just dancing with a friend."

The older Ward didn't buy it. "Your 'dancing with a friend' has attracted the attention of your future father in law. I suggest you put a stop to it before he calls your fiancée."

"Don't be ridiculous," Fitz said with a roll of his eyes. "I've known Jemma for years."

"And she's carried a torch for you through all of them. If you think what you're doing is innocent, let me assure you: it isn't." Then, he patted Fitz's shoulder and pasted on a smile for the benefit of the other partygoers. "You're a grown man so I can't tell you what to do, but for once please care about the appearance of things, would you?"

Melinda was wrapping up her conversation with Jemma when Grant approached them. "That's quite a dress, Jemma. You are truly the belle of the ball."

She appeared bashful and he caught a glimpse of the girl he'd encountered in Fitz's room. Had it really only been one year? "Thank you," she said softly.

Melinda laughed. "Grant, I think you've embarrassed our girl."

"Oh, no. Not at all," Jemma tried to say.

"I meant no offense," Grant said, hoping to put her at ease. Then, as a means of breaking up Fitz and Jemma for at least a few minutes more, he asked her to dance. Before she could answer, Fitz interrupted.

"I believe she is with me," he said, and she smiled gratefully when he once more took her by the hand. He led her to the opposite side of the dance floor, looking back at his family only once to shoot Grant a defiant glare.

They had been dancing for hours, stopping only for sips of champagne or to nibble on any number of the appetizers being carried around by waiters. She expected to feel tired, but Jemma wasn't. She felt rejuvenated, both by Fitz's company and by the party itself; a modern-day Cinderella.

Guests had slowly begun to leave, but the two of them danced on. "This night has been magical," she confided to Fitz as they swayed.

"You're telling me," he said, holding her hand a little tighter. "I can't believe it. I've known you for years and yet it feels like I'm only now finally seeing you." She blushed and he grinned. "And then I get a glimpse of the Jemma I first met, like just then when you blushed. Perhaps I know you better than I thought." He looked away for a second, catching a few stares from the other partygoers when he did. "I just wish there was somewhere we could go to be alone."

She swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. "The solarium? And you can bring champagne? Sneak two glasses in your pocket?"

"You have been paying attention, haven't you?"

She smiled shyly. "And the band can play 'I Can Let Go Now'."

"I wouldn't have them play anything else." Then, he kissed her hand and excused himself, no doubt to go make the arrangements they discussed.

This couldn't be real. Surely she was dreaming because in what universe would Leopold Fitz Ward agree to meet her in the solarium? "And then I'll wake up," Jemma said to no one.

Fitz was standing at one of the bars. Even if he hadn't seen him sneak two glasses into his pants pockets, Grant knew what that meant.

At this point in the evening, Melinda had already retired to her suite, but she would still be awake for another hour or two. Plenty of time to handle a family emergency.

"Come on," Grant said as he approached his younger brother just as Fitz picked up a bottle of champagne. "We're going to see Melinda."

"Not me, man. I'm meeting someone."

"You're damn right you are." Grant took him firmly by the shoulder and steered him towards the house. "You're going to see our stepmother."

As expected, Melinda was still up and had not yet changed out of her evening gown. She took one look at her sons when they entered and her eyes narrowed at the first glimpse of Fitz holding a champagne bottle. She too knew what he had planned.

"Leopold Fitz Ward." She knew just how to use his full name in a way that, even as an adult, still struck an icy shoot of fear through his heart. "What on earth do you think you're doing?" Before he could answer, she continued to accuse. "You are hustling the chauffeur's niece in front of your future father-in-law!"

"I wouldn't call it hustling," he finally got to say. "I would say it's two old friends having a drink and dancing."

Melinda looked to Grant. "Do I look stupid? I've never thought of myself as stupid, but maybe I am."

"Melinda-"

"- Don't, Fitz. Now listen, I couldn't love you more if you were my own child, but if you screw up what you have with Skye by resuming your former antics, I swear I'll kill you." Neither of them doubted she could do it and her tone left no room for argument.

"Look, I know you're angry," he said to Melinda, then looked at Grant, "and I can never quite tell what you are, but I didn't plan this. Jemma's so... so... God, she's something else."

"Oh, for heaven's sake." With a shake of her head, Melinda lowered herself into a chair and put one hand on her forehead.

"The last time you found 'something else' it cost the family half a mil." Grant said. "Jemma has watched you from a tree all of her life. She knows what's coming if you meet her in the solarium. Trips to Martha's Vineyard, couture, jewelry, dinners in the city, tickets to Broadway shows. A week of that and she'd fall for Donald Trump."

"All I said was I'm feeling things. I never said I'd act on my feelings."

"When have you never acted on your feelings?"

"That's not fair," Fitz said, glaring at his brother as he made to push past him to leave the room.

Grant stopped him. "Fitz. Sit down. We aren't finished." He made a second attempt but was no match for Grant, who had towered over his younger brother his entire life. "Sit."

Seeing he would get nowhere, Fitz finally complied.

There was a crunching, shattering sound as he plopped down into a chair, followed by him crying out loudly.

"What happened?" Melinda cried, quickly rising to her feet and running to him.

"I sat on the glasses!"

In the heat of their argument, both Grant and Fitz had forgotten the glasses in his back pocket. Grant had been trying all night to get him to see how his choices would bite him in the ass, but not even he had anticipated events taking such a literal turn.

"Well, I can't say it doesn't serve you right." she scolded.

"I'm bleeding!" Fitz said with an agonized whimper. "Can't we talk about this later?"

"Can you stand?" He could not.

Once it became clear Fitz's injuries were substantial, the elder Ward sprang to control the situation. "Just stay calm," he ordered Fitz. "Melinda, Dr. Robbins should still be here. He's been frequenting the shrimp bar all night. Go get him. Call 911 if you have to." She left at once. When she was gone, Fitz spoke, his voice strained.

"Jemma. She's waiting for me."

He could just leave her, Grant dared to consider. He could just let her wait alone in the solarium until she realized no one was coming, but he knew Jemma deserved better than being left with no answers. That, and she had inadvertently created a problem for his family and his business, a problem he trusted no one else to rectify.

"Don't worry," he assured Fitz. "I'll handle it."

Fitz had not yet arrived, but Jemma refused to dwell on it. The evening had been something straight out of a dream; her dreams, to be exact. It was no hardship to wait a little longer for Fitz to join her.

While she waited, she strolled quietly through the solarium, looking over the blooms and foliage. She was studying an orchid when she heard the glass door open. Turning, she felt her heart sink when she saw it was not Fitz, but Grant.

"I get that a lot," he said drily, seeing her expression had changed.

"Sorry," she replied, "I was just expecting someone else."

Grant nodded. "I know. I'm here with a message from Fitz. He's not coming."

She felt her demeanor change, going from hopeful to sad at once. "He's not?"

"He's had a bit of an accident; sat on a champagne flute."

"Will he be all right?"

"He's probably headed to the emergency room. It was a sharp flute." Jemma jumped a little when Grant uncorked a bottle of champagne. She hadn't noticed he'd been carrying it. He smirked. "That's a little pun. 'Sharp flute'."

"Oh."

He poured the champagne, handing her a glass first, and then raised his glass to her in a silent toast. Jemma took a tentative sip, then asked, "They've sent you to deal with me, haven't they?"

"Who's 'they', I wonder?"

"Like the family lawyer in a romance gets sent to the love interest well below her beloved's station. The waitress, or the showgirl." She smiled sadly. "Or the chauffeur's niece."

"Well, I'm no lawyer." he said.

"But you are here to make sure I stay out of the way, aren't you?" Another sip of her champagne. "At this point the lawyer would offer her a hundred thousand dollars. 'No' she'd say. 'One hundred-fifty thousand dollars'."

"Two hundred thousand," Grant offered.

Jemma stopped. "No."

"A million." Now he had her attention. "No self-respecting 'lawyer' would offer less."

She set her glass aside, placing it on the rim of a potted fern. "No self-respecting 'waitress' would take it."

He nodded in approval. "Good girl."

"I've loved him all my life."

"I know."

"I thought I was over him."

"I'm sure you did."

"And because of my lot in life, you disapprove?" she challenged.

"It's 2016, Jemma." he said frankly. "We don't exactly have a caste system any longer, and I am not so blind as to not see that you are exquisite. It's my brother I'm taking issue with. My imbecilic, very engaged brother."

Just then, familiar music reached them, though hard to make out the words from inside the solarium. It was 'I Can Let Go Now'. "They played this song the night before I left for Paris," Jemma said, her voice wistful.

"They often do." Grant extended a hand towards her. "Shall we?"

After a pause, she took his hand with reluctance and he gently pulled her toward him with surprising grace.

"I never figured you for a dancer," she noted.

"I can't get enough of it. They call me 'Bojangles' at the office," he was teasing her, but his voice and face remained stoic. "Why not?"

She shrugged as the began to revolve in a slow, small circle. "Dancing doesn't fit the Grant Ward perception most people have. Two left feet easily matches the 'tin man with no heart' image."

"Ouch." He smiled at her, and she noted for the first time that when he smiled, even sardonically as he was now, his face was much more pleasant. True, she'd always found him to be handsome, but in an inaccessible, standoffish way. He seemed to possess none of the ease or openness of his younger brother

"Is it impossible that I'd want to dance with the prettiest girl at the party?" He asked, unaware of her thoughts.

"Thank you," Jemma replied. "And yes, it is impossible."

"I see," he said with a nod, and a moment of silence passed between them. During it, Grant seemed to watch her closely. She felt her cheeks grow warm under his wordless appraisal, but she met his stare, defying every instinct of hers that said to look away. If this was a test, she would pass it. She would not cow to him.

Then, at a second glance, she noticed his eyes held none of the swagger or determination he'd harbored when he walked into the room. There was something else, but before she could label it, he looked away, dropped her hand and removed his other from her waist, then spoke.

"You can see Fitz tomorrow." He decided, then hastily picked up his glass, drained its contents, and excused himself.

Jemma was once again alone in the solarium, the familiar song still filling the room as her emotions roiled within her tumultuously. She felt so many things for Fitz in that moment, love and worry chief among them. And then, to her surprise, she felt something for Grant. Concern, maybe. Confusion? Definitely curiosity.

She was still trying to catalogue her feelings when she returned home and slipped out of her gown, like Cinderella returning from the ball. As she lay in bed and closed her eyes, she saw two faces in her mind: Fitz, perhaps more handsome in her mind's eye than the real thing; and the new addition of Grant, which came to her unbidden but not entirely unwanted.

Fitz would be fine in a few days time, though in a considerable amount of pain for the first two days. The wounds were mostly superficial, easily remedied by stitches and sleeping ass-up for the next few weeks. Grant was pleased to hear his brother was both okay and bedridden. Jemma was not wrong when she accused Grant of trying to "deal" with her, but as she dismissed his offers of money, he would have to get more creative. Fitz being confined to bed allowed him room to maneuver.

Once Fitz was home and in bed, Grant placed a call to Dr. Robbins. He explained how his brother could not handle pain and wondered what could be given to keep him most comfortable. Basically, he was willing to tell any lie he had to to make sure his brother would be doped up so much he couldn't woo Jemma. Grant was not so naive to think a few lacerations would stop his brother's charm. He needed to be incapacitated. Fortunately, Dr. Robbins was happy to accommodate and promised to hand deliver the drugs himself the next morning.

"Have they figured out what happened yet?" Dr. Robbins asked.

He was loathe to share that with Robbins, knowing the follow up question would undoubtedly ask why Fitz had glasses in his pocket, So he just said, "No clue. Melinda thinks one of the help left glasses on the chair."

"Jeesh. Think he'll sue?"

"He's not going to sue his own stepmother, Robbins."

"Why not? You would."

Tin man with no heart. Jemma's words echoed in his mind. "Well, he's not me," he replied, then followed it by brusquely bidding Dr. Robbins goodnight.

Grant retired to his old bedroom and poured himself a glass of whiskey. After taking a sip, he stepped onto the private balcony. Though it was the middle of the night, the weather was still warm. A gentle breeze greeted him when he opened the balcony doors. The sky above was clear and starry. If he looked to his right, he could see the caterers cleaning up the remains of the merriment. If he looked to his left, he could see the garage. Instinctively, his gaze travelled to the apartment above it. The curtains were drawn and no light appeared in any window. For the first time, he noticed the apartment seemed quite small from the outside, hardly big enough for one person let alone two. He wondered which window belonged to Jemma.

She had stunned them all that evening. He had meant it when he called her the belle of the ball. Grant had always thought she was pretty, though he never noticed it in anything more than a passing way. But what little about her that could've been plain had fallen away while in France. She seemed to possess a confidence that she had not before known. It explained why she could look him in the eye when she spoke to him now, when he distinctly remembered her avoiding his direct gaze from the day she first came to Dusoris Lane. Now, she had not just met his eyes, but every word from her was pointed. Not mean, not in the slightest, but she made it clear she was no pushover.

This would not be as easy as he hoped, he thought, as he began to plan.

After scheduling an around the clock nurse for his brother -at one in the morning, no less; sometimes it surprised even him what money could buy- Grant put in a call to his assistant.

"Kara Palamas," she answered, her words slurred.

"God, Palamas, are you drunk?"

"I'm asleep, sir."

"Oh." Sometimes he forgot that not everyone kept his odd hours. He was both a night owl and an early bird. "Listen, I need to be in Long Island for the next few days. Clear my entire schedule and have the plane on standby for 9 am tomorrow." Then he added, "Set up the cottage in Martha's Vineyard. Flowers, cheese plates, the works. Or whatever 'the works are'. Ask Fitz's assistant." It was all that woman ever did.

Trips to Martha's Vineyard, couture, jewelry, dinners in the city, tickets to Broadway shows. A week of that and she'd fall for Donald Trump.

It was Fitz's own proven method of making a woman head-over-heels in love, and it had not yet failed his younger brother. Grant could only hope to have the same luck.