sometimes (i find it hard to believe)

by shineyma

Grant Ward's soulmate is a beautiful, brilliant scientist whom he has absolutely no hope of turning to HYDRA. The fact that this is not his biggest problem really says a lot. [Part three of the "before you fall" series]

15. Yes Men

A/N: First of all, thanks for all of the comments and kudos. They mean a lot. :)

Second, I'm sure you all are aware of the very questionable events of this episode. I don't want to put spoilers in the beginning author's note, but if you need, for your own mental health, to know how I've chosen to handle things, I've written about it in the end note. I hope that's a solution that works for everyone.

Third, as the season premiere is tonight, I want to reiterate that developments in season two will not affect this story. As far as the plot and characters and background for this story are concerned, the show was canceled after one season, okay?

Okay, I think that's everything. Thanks for reading and, as always, please be gentle if you review!

---

He really should have expected it. In fact, he's a little embarrassed that he didn't. Of course, in his defense, there was a lot going on at the time, but still.

Of course Jemma becomes obsessed with the GH-325. Of course she does. Her entire reason for joining SHIELD was to save lives, and she's just been handed a drug that can bring someone back from the dead.

Unfortunately, she was only handed one vial of the drug, and she had to use it to save Skye's life. All of the rest of the existing samples of the drug are currently buried under a mountain—at least as far as the rest of the team knows—and there's no way she can just call up SHIELD and ask for details. She only has two sources of information on the drug: Coulson's medical file, which is full of acronyms and codes for which she has no reference, and Skye herself.

Hence the habit she's developed of drawing blood from Skye on a near-hourly basis. He has no idea what kind of tests she's running, or what she hopes to do with the results, but she's spending all of her time on it. It's a good thing he can do his work just as easily from the lab as from the lounge, or else he'd never see her at all.

Fitz, of course, is with her every step of the way. He, however, is motivated less by the need to save lives (not to say that he isn't invested in that possibility—he is, just not to the same degree as Jemma) and more by his lingering guilt over Skye's injury. Jemma has been trying to convince him it's not his fault, but she's not having much success. It's only been ten days, and they've already gone six rounds about it.

"If I had just gone with her—"

Make that seven.

"No, Fitz," Jemma interrupts firmly. "The only person at fault for Skye's condition is the man who shot her: Quinn." She pauses, then sighs. "Admittedly, Skye's actions were rather on the foolish side of brave, but…"

Her words, intended to calm him, have the opposite effect. Fitz spins around to face her, glaring.

"Oh, like you have any room to talk," he snaps.

Jemma's eyes go wide. "Don't be silly, Fitz. I have no idea what you're on about."

Grant straightens, his eyes narrowing. He recognizes that awkward tone. She's lying. She knows exactly what Fitz is talking about and, judging by the nervous glance she just gave him, she doesn't want Grant to hear it.

"You know exactly what I'm on about," Fitz disagrees, apparently missing—or just not caring about—her cue.

"No, I don't," Jemma claims unconvincingly. She starts fussing with her tablet and heads for the door back to the storage area. "But I need to check on Skye, so we can talk about this later."

"Or we can talk about it now," Grant suggests mildly. Jemma stops in her tracks. "Fitz? You have something to say?"

"Oh," Fitz says. "Oh, so you didn't tell him, did you, Simmons?"

She sighs and turns back around, laying her tablet on the holotable. "Fitz—"

"No, of course you didn't," Fitz continues. "Because you know exactly how he'd react—how any sensible person would react!"

"There was no need to dwell on it, Fitz," Jemma says, a little pleadingly. "It happened, and it's over, and there were much more important things to worry about!"

"Well, there's nothing to worry about now," Fitz says. "So do you want to tell him, or shall I?"

"Fitz—"

"Tell me what?" Grant asks. He's starting to get a very, very bad feeling about this, and he's not in the mood to wait through ten rounds of the FitzSimmons show to get answers. "Jemma?"

Jemma looks at him, and then away, towards the door. She might actually be considering making a run for it, and now he's really concerned.

"Did you never wonder, Agent Ward," Fitz says. "How it was that, of the three of us, Simmons was the only one to be affected by the stasis grenade?"

Actually, no. He didn't. He was so relieved to find her alive and well, and then so focused on finding Skye and Fitz, that it never even occurred to him to wonder. But now that Fitz mentions it, it is a little surprising. Those things have a pretty wide range on them—the one that caught him and Coulson did so from nearly ten feet away. If one of them went off in the luggage car, it should've caught all three of them.

So how didn't it?

"No," he says slowly. "I didn't. Should I have?"

"No, you shouldn't," Jemma says. "It's all in the past, and completely—"

"You should have," Fitz says over her. "Because the reason Simmons was the only one affected is because she threw herself on it."

There's a long moment of silence. The beeping of the monitor near the door suddenly seems very loud.

"She what?" Grant asks, very calmly and very quietly.

"She threw herself on it," Fitz repeats. "Like she was Captain bloody America."

Grant takes a deep breath.

He's spent his fair share of time in war-zones. He's seen grenades—real grenades—in action, seen exactly the damage they can do. He's seen a man throw himself on top of one, too, and he saw exactly what was—and wasn't—left of the guy.

He's completely helpless to stop himself from imagining Jemma in that man's place.

The image sends his rage spiking way out of control, and he's honestly not sure that he'll be able to keep from letting it loose at Jemma if he stays here another minute. So he pushes away from the table he's been leaning against and walks out of the lab without a word.

He doesn't stop in the cargo bay; he walks right off the Bus and into the hangar they're parked in, then cuts across it and enters the main base. Once inside, he heads straight for the gym. May's techniques aren't going to cut it right now—he'll need to work off some of this rage before he can put the rest of it away. Luckily, this is a fairly large base; he's sure he can find someone stupid enough to take him on.

x

When Jemma comes to find him three hours later, he's taken down half of the base's field agents. Some of them got in some lucky hits in the process, so he's bruised and bleeding, but he's beaten every single one of them. It hasn't put a dent in his rage.

Every time he lets his focus waver from the pattern of sparring—hit, dodge, hit, hit, weave, kick, dodge, hit—his mind goes straight to the image of Jemma throwing herself on a grenade. He pictures walking into that luggage car and finding pieces of his soulmate splattered on the walls. He pictures a closed casket funeral. He pictures the rest of his life, alone.

So, yeah. He's still burning with fury when Jemma walks into the training room.

He sees her enter from the corner of his eye, but he's still way too angry to deal with her. He's not going to talk to her until he's got himself back under control. He won't risk it. So he keeps his back to her, helps up the man he's just beaten down, and walks out of the sparring ring and into the men's locker room.

In a move he really should have predicted, Jemma follows.

There are three men in the locker room already, and they all snap to attention as Jemma enters. They look between Grant's thunderous face and whatever expression Jemma's wearing, then clear out hastily, without a word of complaint.

As the door swings shut behind them, he crosses the room to the stack of towels in the corner. After sparring non-stop for three hours, he's dripping with sweat. He needs a shower, but that'll have to wait until he's back on the Bus. For the moment, he contents himself with rubbing a towel over his face and the back of his neck.

"The silent treatment, Grant?" Jemma asks. "Really? That's a little childish, don't you think?"

He tosses the towel into a hamper, taking a deep breath. He really can't do this now.

"You can't ignore me forever," she persists. She's followed him across the room; she's right behind him now.

He turns without looking at her and walks around her, towards the door. He's barely made it three steps, however, before she latches on to his wrist.

"Grant," she says. "We have to talk about this."

His frayed control snaps entirely, and he whirls to face her.

"You wanna talk about this?" he demands. "Okay. Let's talk. Where should we start? Should we start with your death wish?"

Jemma gasps, offended. "I do not have a death wish!"

"No?" he asks. "You threw yourself on a grenade, Jemma."

"It wasn't a real grenade," she protests.

"And did you know that when you threw yourself on it?"

She opens her mouth, closes it, and then takes a deep breath.

"Well, no, but—"

"But nothing," he interrupts. "You threw yourself onto what you had every reason to believe was a dangerous explosive device, and you can't tell me you didn't know exactly what it would do to you. That's a fucking death wish."

"It was the only reasonable course of action," she says. "And, furthermore, one isolated incident does not constitute a death wish!"

"It's not one incident," he snaps. "You threw yourself out of a plane at forty thousand feet, without a parachute—"

"That was to save the rest of you," she protests. "I was dying already!"

"Then how about the fact that you're here at all? You have no training, no way of defending yourself—"

"Isn't that your job?" she interrupts.

"I can't protect you from yourself, Jemma!" he shouts.

She starts a little at his raised voice, and he closes his eyes. Shit. This is why he didn't want to do this now.

Opening his eyes, he takes a deep breath and makes a concerted effort to lower his voice.

"I can protect you from insurgents," he says. "I can protect you from guns…and explosives…and Coulson's half-assed plans. What I can't do is protect you from your own recklessness."

"I'm not—"

"You are," he interrupts. "Mancini pulled one of those things on Coulson and me, and neither of us jumped on it. We ran, which is the only smart thing to do when someone comes at you with a grenade."

"I couldn't—"

"You think it didn't kill me to do that?" he demands over her. "Jumping off the train, knowing you three were in the luggage car, vulnerable and defenseless? I did it anyway. Because I knew that I couldn't protect you if I was dead."

Jemma sighs. "Grant, I know you're angry, but—"

"Oh, I'm more than angry," he says. "I'm furious. But I'm also terrified."

"What?" she asks, pulling back slightly. He can tell she wasn't expecting that. Honestly, he wasn't expecting to admit it. But he can see that his current course is only putting her back up, and this one might get through to her. So he keeps going.

"I'm terrified," he repeats. "That one of these days your luck is gonna run out, and you're gonna pull another stunt like this, only the grenade will be real—or I won't make it with the parachute in time. One of these days, you're gonna get yourself killed doing something reckless and brave."

Jemma opens her mouth, then closes it, her eyes flickering away.

"Now you tell me something, Jemma," he says. "You sacrifice your life to save someone else, and where does that leave me?"

"I don't…" She breaks off, shaking her head.

"I spent my whole life waiting for you," he tells her, entirely honestly. "Ten years as a specialist? I nearly died a thousand times. But I kept going. I kept fighting—for you. Because I wanted to live, to meet you. And since I finally did, I've been sent into a war-zone with no extraction. I've been shot—twice. I've been exposed to an ancient artifact that entirely destroyed my control. But I fought through it, and I survived. For you."

Her eyes are filled with tears, but he's not done.

"So let me ask you something," he says quietly. Most of his anger is gone, replaced with exhaustion. "Don't I deserve the same?"

"Grant," she says, choked.

"Maybe not," he says. He pulls his wrist out of her grasp, then turns away and walks out, leaving her standing alone in the locker room.

It's a secure base. She'll be fine.

x

After he returns to the Bus and showers, he searches out Coulson. He's calmed down enough now to regret what just happened in the locker room. He shouldn't have unloaded on Jemma like that, shouldn't have yelled at her. She's too brave for her own good, he's known that since the day he met her—since before he met her, really. He read her psych evals long before he set foot on this plane; he knew exactly what he was getting into.

He really should have adjusted to it by now, but he hasn't, as evidenced by the fact that he's still furious. He knows that it'll be a while before he's able to look at her without picturing her dead, blown to pieces by a grenade, which means it'll be a while before he's able to look at her without being overtaken by blinding fury.

What he needs is some time away from her, and luckily, he knows exactly how to get it.

The Bus is, for the moment, grounded. They're not on downtime like they were after Coulson's torture—Skye's not even an agent, let alone their team leader—but they are on standby, and since they're grounded at a SHIELD base, that's essentially the same thing.

Standby means that they're not being assigned any routine missions. They'll only be called out if an incident deemed Priority Level Three or higher occurs—and even then, it'll only fall to them if they're the closest team. Since they're currently at a base full of response teams—all of which are in full working order, unlike them—this means that they are, effectively, off the clock.

As such, Grant has once again been extended the offer to temporarily return to the specialist rotation. For all that it's the second time he's been given the option, it's far out of character for SHIELD. Generally speaking, SHIELD just sends its specialists wherever it wants them, with no regard for the specialist in question's feelings on the topic. It's a mark of the wide-spread respect Coulson commands that SHIELD isn't just pulling Grant right off the team—and a mark of his skill that it still extends the offer, despite that respect for Coulson.

Grant appreciates the offer, but he turned it down as soon as he got it, reluctant to leave Jemma while she's still healing. Now, however, leaving Jemma is exactly what he wants to do—needs to do, really—so he corners Coulson in his office.

"Sir," he says. "Do you have a moment?"

"Of course," Coulson says, setting aside his paperwork. "What's on your mind, Ward?"

"I wanted to let you know that I intend to return to the specialist rotation," he says.

Coulson sits back. "Really."

"Just while the team's on standby," Grant assures him.

"We need you here, Ward."

"Respectfully, sir," he says. "You really don't. I think I'll do more good on the rotation."

"Mike Peterson is still at large," Coulson points out.

True.

One of the first things Skye told them, once she regained consciousness, was that Mike Peterson is still alive. Apparently the hyperbaric chamber Jemma used to save Skye's life wasn't just Quinn's idea of interesting décor; Skye told them that Peterson had been sleeping inside it. Quinn woke him up and gave him the package from the train, which turned out to be a high-tech prosthetic leg. Quinn also apparently made reference to other technology within him and said that Peterson was getting orders from the Clairvoyant, so the team is assuming that Peterson is in possession of one of the high-tech eyes, as well.

Grant, with that information, has concluded that Peterson's been inducted into the Deathlok project. The rest of the team doesn't know anything about it, of course, aside from the name—and even that was given to them by Garrett. For lack of other leads, Coulson has decided to concentrate their efforts on finding Peterson. Garrett's taking the lead, but the team is assisting in the search.

Which is all well and good, except it's going nowhere.

"He is," Grant agrees. "But we're no closer to finding him than we were when Skye first told us about him, sir. Combing through half the CCTV footage in Italy is a long shot, and it's not something you need me for."

"Maybe not," Coulson admits. He leans forward and laces his fingers together, giving Grant a searching look. For a moment, Grant thinks he's going to ask the obvious question—which is to say, why he's suddenly changed his mind—but, thankfully, he doesn't. "Okay, fair enough. When are you leaving?"

"I'm not sure," he says, making sure to keep his relief out of his voice. "I wanted to let you know before I called in."

"I appreciate that," Coulson says. "Keep me informed, please."

It's a request and a dismissal in one, so Grant agrees and excuses himself. Now all that's left is to call in to HQ—and hope that it's got something that needs immediate action.

x

Luckily, it does. Grant's ordered to report to the base hangar for transport in half an hour, to be immediately deployed to Muscat. He accepts the assignment with relief, informs Coulson (who shakes his hand and wishes him luck, though not without a disapproving frown), and returns to his bunk to grab his go-bag.

He double checks that it has everything he'll need, tosses in an extra magazine for good measure, and is just zipping it up when the door to his bunk slides open.

"You're leaving?" Jemma demands.

Great. Thanks, Coulson.

"Yeah," he says. He unzips the duffle bag and begins to rifle through it, mostly as an excuse to avoid looking at her. "Gotta report to the hangar in a few minutes."

"You're leaving," she repeats. She sounds angry. "Really? We have one minor disagreement and you're running away?"

He takes a deep breath and zips his duffle back up. "I need some time."

"Time," she says flatly. "Time away from me? Because of one decision I made in the heat of the moment—"

"Do you regret it?" he interrupts, turning to face her.

"What?" she asks, derailed.

"Do you regret jumping on the grenade?" he clarifies.

She lifts her chin. "No. It was the right thing to do. And if I hadn't done, it would have caught all three of us, and Quinn would've got away."

"And Skye wouldn't have been shot."

Jemma looks like she's been struck. She inhales sharply, taking a step back, and he instantly regrets his words.

He knows for a fact that they aren't true—the entire escapade on the train was a trap orchestrated for the sole purpose of critically wounding a member of the team. He knows that. The words were said purely to wound her, and they did their job well.

Fuck.

This isn't who he is. He doesn't say things just to hurt Jemma. He doesn't deliberately cause his soulmate pain. That's his father. That's Maynard. It's not him.

This is why he needs to get away.

"I'm sorry," he says. He scrubs his hands over his face. "I'm sorry, that wasn't—"

"No," Jemma interrupts. She's blinking rapidly, obviously trying to hold back tears, and something in his gut twists at the sight. "No, you're right. It's true."

"No, it isn't," he says, frustrated. "You've seen the transcript from Quinn's interrogation. The Clairvoyant told him to shoot Skye to force Coulson to find the GH-325. If the grenade had caught all three of you, Cybertek's man would've just shot her then and there. The only thing that would've changed is there wouldn't have been a hyperbaric chamber to put Skye in and she probably would have died for real."

She looks away.

"It's not true," he reiterates. "Jumping on that grenade didn't get Skye shot, Jemma. It's not true."

She looks back up at him, hurt written all over her face. "Then why did you say it?"

To hurt you, he doesn't say, even though it's the truth. Admitting it to himself is hard enough; he can't possibly admit it to Jemma. She'd never look at him the same and he couldn't bear that, no matter how much he deserves it.

"Because I'm angry," he says instead. "Because you're careless with your life and it pisses me off."

"I'm not," she starts to protest. Then she stops, shaking her head. "Actually, let's not start that again."

"Probably a good idea," he agrees dryly.

She heaves a sigh. "What do you need? How can I fix this?"

"I need some time," he says again. He leans down to press a kiss to her forehead, then picks up his duffle and slings it over his shoulder. "And you can't."

He cups her shoulders and gently moves her aside, then walks out of the bunk. Jemma follows closely.

"So that's it, then?" she asks. She sounds subdued, all of the fight gone from her, and, perversely, that pisses him off even more. "You're just going to leave?"

"Yeah," he says. "I am."

He watches from the corner of his eye as she wrings her hands. Regardless of his anger, he can't bear to leave her like this, clearly already worrying over him in spite of how much of an asshole he's been to her today. So he stops in the middle of the lounge and turns to face her.

"It's a short op," he tells her. "In and out, three days at the most. I'll be back before you know it."

"Now that I don't believe," she says, but she looks a little less tense. He doesn't know what she was thinking—maybe that he wasn't coming back?—but apparently he's eased her worries. "You'll be careful?"

There's plenty he could say to that, but, as angry as he is, he still doesn't want to leave on bad terms (well, worse terms). So all he does is nod.

"I'll be back before you know it," he repeats. He tucks some of her hair behind her ear, lets his hand linger on her face for a moment, and then drops it. "Take it easy on your ribs while I'm gone."

She's doing better—she's back to her regular hours, so that's something—but she's still not fully healed.

"I will," she promises.

There's a long silence and, for what must be the first time ever, it's awkward between them.

"Well," he says eventually. "Bye."

"Goodbye, Grant," she says. She looks sad, and it tears at him, but it's not enough to ease his anger any. "Good luck."

"Thanks," he says.

He leaves her standing there in the lounge, and every step feels like a mistake. But he knows it's not.

He needs time, that's all.

x

It does the trick. By the time he finishes the post-op debrief, three days later, he's got full control over his anger again. It's much easier now, since the bulk of it has faded, replaced by a resigned acceptance.

Jemma wants to save lives. It's what motivates the vast majority of her actions. It's the reason she's been endlessly studying Skye's blood in hopes of discovering more about the GH-325, even against Coulson's express orders. It's the reason she studied biochemistry. It's the reason she joined SHIELD in the first place, for crying out loud.

Of course, when faced with a grenade, she couldn't just run away. Not if she wasn't completely positive that Skye and Fitz would make it away in time, which she obviously wasn't. Of course she would throw herself on the grenade, just like she threw herself out of the Bus. Of course she would think it was the right thing to do, despite the very real potential it had to kill her.

Of course she wouldn't understand why he disagreed.

He can't say he's happy about it, but, with the benefit of time and distance, he can admit that he wouldn't change it, even if he could. Her dedication, her desire to do good and save lives—the way she cares, about everyone, friends and strangers both—is a major part of what he loves about her. Without it, she'd be an entirely different person, and he doesn't want a different person.

Just one that's a little more careful.

Still, there's nothing he can do about it. All he can do, as he's told himself again and again, is protect her. Of course, that's always been his main goal. This whole incident has just served as a reminder that he needs to protect her from herself, as much as from everything else.

One thing's for sure, though. He won't be leaving her side in the field ever again, Coulson and his plans be damned.

The point is, most of his anger is gone by the time he makes it back to the Bus, and what isn't gone is firmly under control. So when he walks into the cargo bay and lays eyes on Jemma for the first time in three days, he's able to greet her with a smile.

"Hey."

Jemma jumps a little, nearly knocking a stack of papers off the corner of her workstation, and whirls around.

"Grant!" she exclaims, beaming. "You're back!"

She hesitates, obviously unsure of whether or not to hug him. That stings, but it's not unexpected, considering how much of an ass he was the last time he saw her. He didn't even kiss her goodbye, and that is something he's spent the past two days regretting. (It only took one day away from her to cool down. The next two were spent brooding. And crossing off SHIELD's enemies, but that goes without saying.)

So he saves her the trouble of deciding. He drops his duffle and tugs her forward, into his arms. She hugs him tightly, giving a little sigh, like a great weight has been lifted from her shoulders. Once again, he regrets the way he left, even though he knows it was entirely necessary.

"I'm sorry," she says.

He leans back a little to look at her. "For what?"

"Not for jumping on the grenade," she clarifies. "That was entirely necessary and I stand by my actions. But I suppose I could have been a little more understanding of your reaction. After all, I'm sure I'd feel the same if you did anything so foolish."

"Fair enough," he says. "And I'm sorry for being such an asshole to you about it. And for shouting at you."

"You were a bit of a prat," she agrees. "But you're forgiven. Just this once."

"Thank you," he murmurs, and leans down to kiss her.

She surges up to meet him, and it's just starting to get heated—not surprisingly, after three days of nothing—when there's an offended squawk from the door leading to the storage area.

"Simmons!"

Jemma smiles against his mouth and pulls away. "Yes, Fitz?"

"Don't yes me," Fitz snaps. "You know the rules!"

"My soulmate has just returned from three days in what was doubtless a very dangerous location, after a fight which you caused," she points out, although her tone is much cheerier than her words would suggest. "I believe that we can let the rules slide, just this once."

"No, no we can't," Fitz disagrees. "And I did not cause that fight, thanks very much. You and your blatant disregard for—"

"Yes, thank you, Fitz," Jemma interrupts loudly. "You've made your point." She looks up at Grant. "Are you injured?"

"Just a little," he says. "It's already been treated."

She just looks at him.

"But you want to see it anyway, right?" he asks, amused.

"Yes, please," she says pleasantly.

He shrugs off his jacket, drapes it on the back of a nearby stool, and tugs up his sleeve to show her the cut on his left arm. It's not particularly long, but it is deep, and she tuts over the stitches.

"These look in order," she admits grudgingly. "I don't suppose you'd be willing to tell me what caused this?"

Fortunately for him, the whole op is classified.

"Sorry," he says. "That's above your clearance level. How are your ribs?"

Jemma rolls her eyes, but allows the deflection. "Fine. I believe they'll be fully healed by the end of the week, in fact."

The end of the week will make five weeks since she was first injured. It sounds about right.

"Good to hear," he says, relieved. He glances at her workstation, taking in what he's pretty sure is a copy of Coulson's medical file. "How about your research into the GH-325? How's that going?"

Her smile fades, replaced by annoyance.

"Slowly," she grouses. "It would be faster if—oh, not again!"

Her eyes have wandered to the monitor, still displaying the security feed from the med-pod, where Skye appears to be preparing to leave her bed.

"I'm sorry," she says. "I have to—"

"Go," he tells her. "It's fine."

She pats his uninjured arm with a distracted smile, then hurries back into the storage area. Grant wants to check in with Skye, himself, but first he should drop his duffle in his bunk. The last thing he wants is another lecture about leaving tripping hazards in the middle of the lab.

He glances at Fitz, but the engineer is obviously fully involved in his work, bent over his computer and muttering to himself, so Grant leaves him be.

He grabs his duffle and heads upstairs. As he crosses the lounge, he finds himself wondering about Coulson. Lola was missing from the cargo bay, which means Coulson's gone somewhere. Again. He's been disappearing a lot lately, even more than he did after he was kidnapped by Centipede, and Grant wonders if it has anything to do with what happened in the Guest House.

Well, whatever. It's not really his problem, not anymore.

He drops his duffle in his bunk—noting that the bed is made slightly unevenly; Jemma's been sleeping in it, even with him gone, and that warms him even more than her concern over his incredibly minor injury did—then heads back downstairs.

He cuts through the storage area to the med-pod, and finds Jemma in the process of criticizing Skye's vocabulary.

"That's…not even a word," she's saying. She sounds more amused than anything, so he feels safe interrupting.

"Hey," he says, knocking on the doorframe. "This a bad time?"

Skye pushes herself up a little, wincing as she does. "It is if you're here to bust me out. The warden has extended house arrest."

She says the second sentence in a truly terrible attempt at an English accent, and Jemma rolls her eyes.

"Ugh," she scoffs. "Awful accent."

She leaves the med-pod, squeezing Grant's arm as she passes him, and heads back to the lab.

"I saw that," Skye says, prompting him to tear his eyes away from Jemma's retreating form.

"What?" he asks.

"That smile you gave Simmons," she says. "Did you two make up?"

"We did," he confirms. Then he changes the subject, because the last thing he wants is to talk about his relationship with his soulmate with Skye, of all people. "It's good to see you looking better."

They talk for a while, about Peterson and the Deathlok program (what very, very little they know about it) and Quinn, and he leaves the med-pod feeling strangely unsettled. He doesn't know why, he just…does.

Whatever. He's just off a three-day op. He probably just needs some sleep—not to mention some time with Jemma.

With that in mind, he heads back to the lab, intending to tempt her away from her work. Unfortunately, he's barely entered the room when May comes on the intercom and summons them for a briefing. Jemma and Fitz exchange confused looks, then turn to him.

"We're on standby," Jemma says. "We shouldn't be getting any missions, should we?"

"Unless it's Priority Level Three or above," Fitz points out. "And even then…"

"No rest for the wicked, I guess," he sighs. "There's one way to find out. Let's go."

The three of them troop upstairs to the briefing room to find May waiting for them. There's no sign of Coulson—unsurprising, since Lola is still missing from the cargo bay—and when Grant asks after his whereabouts, all May says is that he's taking personal time.

Helpful.

Jemma's more concerned with the readings SHIELD is picking up above the California-Nevada border.

"These are the same readings Dr. Selvig and Dr. Foster picked up in New Mexico and in London," she says, studying the information on the holocom. "They herald the arrival of an Asgardian."

Fitz gapes. "Thor."

"Not sure," May says. "Either way, SHIELD wants us to be the welcome wagon."

"O-okay," Fitz says. "Fine. No cause for concern. Right?" He points at Grant. "Asgardians are allies."

Grant hates to burst his bubble, but…

"Loki wasn't," he reminds him. And considering their luck, he thinks Loki, or someone like him, is a lot more likely.

After that, there's nothing more to really say, so he leaves the briefing room. May falls into step with him as he crosses the lounge.

"Why are we getting called in for this?" he asks. "Why not one of the other teams on base?"

She shakes her head. "The other teams are getting called in. We're just taking the lead."

"HQ is sending everyone?" he asks, surprised.

"Just about," May says.

Huh. SHIELD is really taking this threat seriously. Well, after New Mexico, New York, and London, it's about time.

They head down to the cargo bay, Jemma and Fitz on their heels. There are several SHIELD vehicles parked at the bottom of the ramp, obviously waiting on them already.

"Do you have what you need to track the signal?" Grant asks Fitz.

He exchanges a look with Jemma.

"I'll get the—" Fitz starts.

"Yes, do," Jemma agrees over him. As he hurries into the lab, she turns to face Grant and May. "I believe I'll remain on the Bus, if it's all right with you."

Of course it's all right with him, but it's a little out of character for Jemma.

"Sure," he says, careful not to sound too eager. "But why?"

"Well, if our visitor is friendly, you won't need me," she says reasonably. "And, if they're not, I won't be much use against an Asgardian, anyway. I think I would do better to remain here and monitor Skye."

"Good idea," May says.

"You gonna be okay alone?" Grant asks, because he can't not.

"Oh, I think so," Jemma says, obviously amused. "Skye hasn't reached the point of violent rebellion quite yet, I don't think."

"Right," he says. "We'll be back as soon as possible."

"Do be careful," she urges. "And keep me updated, please."

"Will do," he agrees.

Since May is present, he contents himself with squeezing Jemma's shoulder, rather than kissing her goodbye. She squeezes his arm in return before heading through the lab and back into the storage area. Grant watches her go, then glances at May.

"So," he says. "What are the chances this doesn't end in disaster?"

She smiles, just a little. "Not great."

x

The base is mercifully close to the border, and ten minutes later, they're on final approach to the location. Well, final-ish. According to Fitz, it's kind of a crapshoot. And isn't that comforting.

"This is still science we don't completely understand," Fitz says.

"Seems to be a lot of that going around lately," Grant muses. He looks at May. "So, Coulson hasn't talked to you? About why he changed his mind on giving Skye that injection?"

May looks at him, then back at the road. "No. He's keeping it to himself."

She sounds uneasy about it—understandable, since she's undoubtedly Coulson's closest confidant. Before he can question her any further, however, Fitz's tablet begins beeping.

"Whoa," he says. "I'm getting a massive energy surge. Three times the level of the one before."

"How close?" May asks.

In answer, a portal opens in the sky above them, sending a beam of multi-colored light shining down on the road directly in front of the SUV. Of course, it's obviously a little more solid than most light, seeing as how it kicks up a cloud of dust.

May swerves and slams on the breaks, and she and Grant hurry to get out of the car as the dust clears to reveal a well-armed woman in armor standing in the middle of the street.

"Yep," Grant says. "Definitely Asgardian."

"Running facial recognition," Fitz says. He, thankfully, has the good sense to remain in the car. "Okay, got it. I don't have a name, but I can confirm that she was in New Mexico fighting with Thor and his mates. She's on our side."

The Asgardian starts walking forward before Fitz finishes, and May warns the other SHIELD agents to stand down. Accordingly, Grant keeps his gun down as he moves away from the car to meet her—although, naturally, he doesn't holster it. Just because she was friendly in New Mexico doesn't mean she'll be friendly today.

"You are of SHIELD?" the woman asks.

Grant's read the reports of SHIELD's actions in New Mexico: stealing Dr. Foster's research, holding Thor captive, and standing around uselessly when the Destroyer touched down, basically. This particular Asgardian might not have a very good opinion of them.

Still, it's not like all of their vehicles don't have the logo in plain sight, so…

"Yeah," he says slowly.

"I am Lady Sif of Asgard," she says. "Your world is in grave danger."

Great.

He exchanges a glance with May, then clears his throat.

"Agent Grant Ward," he says. "This is Agent Melinda May. Would you be willing to accompany us back to our base? Give us some more detail on the way?"

Sif gives the SUV a doubtful look, then nods. "Time is of the essence. Let us go."

May takes a moment to order the rest of the agents to return to base and await further instruction, then gets in the car. Grant and Sif follow suit, Sif a little more hesitantly.

"So," he says as they approach the base. "What can SHIELD do to help you avert the grave danger we're in?"

"I have need of your aid in finding someone," Sif answers. She's surprisingly composed for someone who, as far as he knows, has never been in a car before. Although he does note that she keeps one hand on the hilt of her sword.

Grant looks at May. She keeps her eyes on the road, but she's frowning.

"Anyone we'd know?" he asks, voice carefully casual. They haven't had great luck with Asgard, and he has a feeling this is going to turn into yet another instance of wishing they were alone in the universe.

"No," Sif says definitively. "It has been many centuries since last she came to Midgard. For that, however, she is no less dangerous. Can you help me find her?"

"Oh, yeah," Fitz says. "Absolutely."

May pulls up the ramp into the cargo bay, and Grant's a little relieved to see that Lola is in her—its—space.

"I'll fill him in," May says.

"Right," Grant agrees. "I'm gonna raise the ramp. We might have to leave in a hurry."

She gives him a nod, and they get out of the car. Fitz leads the way into the lab as Grant pauses to raise the ramp, then follows them. Coulson and May aren't far behind.

After a brief discussion about Coulson's current not-dead status, and Thor's awareness, or lack thereof, Sif gets down to business. The missing person she's looking for is an escaped sorceress named Lorelei, who apparently has the power to ensnare men by her voice—and, if a man is particularly strong-willed, her voice combined with her touch—and make them do her bidding.

Sif has a collar that will stop Lorelei's powers from working, but in order to use it, they have to find her first. The Bifrost apparently delivered Sif to Lorelei's last known location, so they decide to run a search for unusual activity within a hundred-mile radius of that spot. Unusual activity here meaning burglary and theft since, as Coulson points out, Lorelei—who's used to ruling over empires—will probably be hard to please.

Fitz gets the search started in the briefing room while Coulson asks for further details on Lorelei's powers.

"How do they work, exactly?" he asks. "Are the men brainwashed, or—?"

"No," Sif says. "Those who are ensnared by Lorelei remain the same in all respects except one: she becomes the embodiment of their desires. They will want nothing and no one more than she."

That sounds like Grant's worst nightmare, to be honest. He makes a mental note to stay as far away from Lorelei as possible.

"Not even their soulmates?" Coulson asks.

Sif tilts her head, considering. "For those who have found their second halves, Lorelei's enchantment is…different, though no less effective. Lorelei uses her sorcery to manipulate the bond between souls."

Fitz looks fascinated at the idea, but Grant and Coulson exchange troubled looks.

The soulbond isn't something Grant thinks about often. It's not something he has to think about. It's a part of him, ever present, like his instincts or his training or another sense. It's just there, warmth and strength and completion, binding him inexorably to Jemma. The idea of anything being able to change it is…wrong. That's the only word for it. Wrong.

"Manipulate how, exactly?" he asks.

"There is a natural instinct in men to protect those to whom they are bound, no matter how capable their other halves are of protecting themselves," Sif says. She looks a little annoyed, and Grant has a feeling that she's speaking from experience. "Lorelei can…harness that instinct, and apply it to herself. The men under her enchantment believe that the only way to protect their…soulmates, as you call them, is to protect Lorelei. She convinces them that only through serving her can they bring their soulmates joy."

"Right," Coulson says uneasily. "We'll keep that in mind."

"I have the results from the search, sir," Fitz says.

"Great," Coulson says. "We'll look through them. Ward, May, get ready to move."

"Once you're ready, meet me in the lab," Fitz adds. "I've got something for you."

Grant nods in acknowledgement, then heads to his bunk to change into his tac gear. And to grab another weapon or seven. He's already had one bad experience with Asgardian magic, and the after effects of the berserker staff are still lingering, all these months later. He doesn't intend to be caught off guard again.

He's pretty sure his tac vest is still in the cargo bay, where he left it after the Guest House op nearly two weeks ago, but he changes into the rest of his gear. The plane takes off as he's kicking off his shoes, but it's a very short flight—it lands before he has his cargo pants buttoned. Once he's fully dressed, he steps out of his bunk to find Coulson leaving the briefing room.

"We've got a location," Coulson says. "Rosie's Desert Oasis, a biker bar. I've called in a SHIELD convoy; they'll meet us there in ten."

"Right," Grant says. "I'll go see what Fitz wants."

"I'll be down in a sec," Coulson nods. "Fill May in if you see her."

"Yes, sir."

He runs into May on the catwalk, and fills her in on what very little he knows as they go down the stairs and enter the lab.

What Fitz has for them is immediately obvious: an array of weapons is displayed on the holotable. Some of them are the standard pistols, some are pistol carbines, some are assault rifles, and some are actually shotguns. All of them are night-night guns.

"We're not calling them that anymore," Fitz informs him.

"'Bout time," he says, picking up a pistol and loading the accompanying magazine.

"They're called ICERs," Fitz says, clearly delighted by his own genius. "Incapacitating Cartridge Emitting—"

"They're great," Grant interrupts, not particularly caring about the technical details. He tests the one he's holding and makes a very nice discovery. "And you lost the extra ounce." He claps Fitz on the shoulder.

"And I tripled the stopping power," Fitz says, slapping his back. "But I did realize after our run-ins with Mike and Centipede—"

"Whoa," May says, gently redirecting the barrel of the ICER he's holding away from herself.

"Sorry," Fitz says. "Um, that we needed something stronger."

He hands it to Grant, who weighs it in his hands, considering.

"Better," Fitz adds.

May, surprisingly, grabs one of the ICERs as well. Then again, as she says, it's sometimes hard to tell friend from foe when you're up against people who are being controlled. Maybe it's not so surprising that she'd be sympathetic to that.

Also, the ICERs are pretty cool.

Coulson helps himself to a few ICERs as well, while Sif refuses. Apparently, she's happy with her sword.

"I've filled Simmons in," Fitz tells Grant as Sif, May, and Coulson head for the SUV. "She says to be careful, and to make sure you avoid getting any sand in your wound."

"Of course she does," Grant says, amused. He glances over his shoulder; the cargo ramp is lowering, and the others are already in the SUV. It's time to go. "We'll be back soon."

"Good luck," Fitz says.

"We'll be fine," Grant promises. "Back before you know it."

x

Sif expresses disbelief at the sight of Rosie's Desert Oasis, which is far from a palace. Grant, however, notes the numerous motorcycles and trucks present—not to mention the trailer—and can guess the appeal: manpower.

There are state troopers waiting for them. SHIELD would have put out the order for them to hang back, maintain the perimeter, and wait for the team, but apparently they didn't obey, because when Coulson asks if they've seen Lorelei, their answer is very telling.

"Yes we have," one of the troopers says. He brings up his shotgun and cocks it. "And she's beautiful."

They all dive for cover as the troopers open fire. Well, except for Sif, who stands her ground, using only her tiny shield as defense.

Grant notes more state troopers approaching from around the side of the bar and fires on them.

"They're on us from both sides," he informs Coulson, who's focusing on the troopers out front. "Be hard to get off a clean shot."

Coulson calls out to Sif, asking for some cover, and she more than provides. She takes two steps over to the trailer parked nearby, plants a foot on the bumper, and shoves it—sending it skidding out twenty feet in front of them and effectively blocking the state troopers.

Grant's not a fan of Asgardians in general, but he has to admit: Lady Sif is pretty badass.

"A very literal interpretation," Coulson comments, standing. He thanks Sif, then shoots the trooper coming around the side of the trailer.

With his attention no longer needing to be split between two fields of fire, Grant easily takes out the two troopers around the side of the bar. Takes out here meaning knocks out, of course, since he's using the ICER. It's a good weapon—better than the night-night gun, and not just because the name is less ridiculous—and he makes a mental note to congratulate Fitz on it when they get back.

"All clear," he says.

Coulson tells the men to hang back so that Sif can handle Lorelei, then orders Grant to go around the back while the rest of the convoy surrounds the building.

Grant circles around the back, ignoring the shouting behind him as the other agents arrange a perimeter around the building. Well, not ignoring, precisely—he absorbs it, notes where the agents are ordered, and mentally calculates the weak spots in their defense—but it's all automatic, just his training kicking in, and it doesn't take much of his concentration.

He can hear the sounds of a fight—shouting, thudding, breaking glass—from inside the bar, but the outside is quiet. At least it is until he reaches the back door, at which point a biker comes at him with a chain.

To his great embarrassment, he's distracted enough by the sounds of the fight inside that he doesn't see the guy coming in time, and the ICER is ripped from his hands. Silently swearing to leave that part out of his post-mission report, he takes a step back.

"Look," he says. "I'm sure you're, uh, a reasonable guy." He dodges the biker's wild swing and punches him in the nose, snapping his head back. He takes the opportunity to check the guy's name tag. "Rooster."

Using his name, engaging on a personal level, is a tactic for forming a connection with a hostile. It's Dealing with Brainwashed Masses 101, and Grant's had plenty of experience with that. He knows he should keep going, because it's worth a shot even if it's probably useless, but…

"Rooster?" he can't help but ask. "Really?"

Rooster (what a ridiculous name) takes another wild swing at him, which Grant dodges. He strikes back, much more effectively, and Rooster stumbles away, grabbing the chain again. This time, though, Grant's ready for it, and when Rooster swings it at him, he grabs it and uses it to yank him forward, catching him with a hard punch to the nose.

This one does the trick, and Rooster collapses, unconscious.

That was easy. Grant crouches to pick up the ICER, but he's barely touched it when he hears movement behind him. He snatches it up and turns, planting one knee on the ground for balance and bringing up the ICER, ready to shoot.

Shit. There's no question that the woman he's currently aiming at is Lorelei. He gets carefully to his feet, and she follows suit.

"You're a fine warrior," she says.

"I am," he agrees, because it's true. "Put your hands behind your back and get on your knees."

She smiles and steps closer. "Men kneel before me. I do not bow to them."

One of the agents maintaining the perimeter comes into view, and Grant calls out to him.

"Gonna need some back-up over here."

The man nods and runs off. Lorelei tilts her head at him.

"You are bonded," she observes. "Soul to soul."

He nods, wary.

"I'm sure she's beautiful," Lorelei says. Her voice is soft and compelling, but he's not buying it.

"Yes," he says flatly. "She is."

"Beautiful," she repeats. "But fragile."

What?

"You have a warrior's spirit," she says, stepping closer. "I can sense it in you. You know how dangerous Midgard can be, do you not? How many threats it offers. Your soulmate is beautiful, I am sure, but she is weak. Vulnerable. I can make her strong." She lays a hand on his arm. "I can bring her one of the golden apples of Iðunn. One bite and you need never fear her death. She will be young and beautiful and strong—forever."

Yes. Yes, of course. It's perfect. He's heard of the apples—heard Skye bring them up, teasing Jemma and challenging her to find a scientific explanation for apples that grant immortality. If Jemma eats one of the apples, he won't need to worry about her any longer. She can be as brave and reckless and self-sacrificial as she likes, with no permanent consequences.

He won't lose her. Ever.

"Yes," Lorelei says. "That is the way, is it not? You will have forever with her, as well you should. All you have to do is protect me and serve me, and I will grant your soulmate this boon."

Of course. Why didn't he see it before? Why has he been wasting his time trying to capture her when the obvious thing to do is serve her? He can protect Jemma by serving Lorelei, so why on earth would he do anything else?

He holsters the ICER and pulls out his comm, tossing it to the ground.

"What are your orders?" he asks.

Lorelei smiles and looks at the motorcycle waiting nearby.

"Know you how to harness this beast?" she asks.

"Of course," he says.

He crouches down next to Rooster and pats him down until he finds his keys, then climbs on to the motorcycle and starts it up. Lorelei hesitates only briefly before climbing on behind him.

"This is uncomfortable," she says. "Remove your armor."

He obediently unclips his vest and drops it to the ground. Lorelei slides closer.

"Much better," she praises. "Now. Take me somewhere grand, deserving of a ruler—a queen."

A queen deserves a palace, and those are in short supply in this country. Luckily, they're not far from Las Vegas—which also happens to be the location of his nearest drop box.

"I know just the place," he says.

He makes good use of the weaknesses in the perimeter he noted earlier, and they get away from the bar without coming across a single agent. Sloppy, but what else can one expect? If their back-up was specialists instead of field agents, they might have been in trouble. Luckily, they're only field agents, and it's easy enough to slip past their notice.

He's never driven in this part of the country before, but Vegas isn't a hard place to find. All he has to do is get back to the highway and follow the signs. His storage locker is at the Greyhound station fifteen minutes away from Caesars Palace, and as he pulls to a stop at a light, he looks over his shoulder at Lorelei.

"We need to make a quick stop first," he says.

"For what?" she asks. There's a warning in her tone, but he thinks she'll be pleased when she sees what he's got waiting.

"Supplies," he says. "I have a storage locker not far from our destination. It's got cash, weapons, and the documentation we'll need to pass under the radar."

"Very well," Lorelei agrees. "A stop we shall make, then."

Lorelei is very unimpressed by the Greyhound station, but she follows him in anyway. He leads her straight to the lockers and asks, politely, for her to stand in a spot that will block his hands from view of the security desk.

He doesn't have the key to this locker on him—currently, it's in a box in his bunk on the Bus—but the lock is simple, easy enough to pick. Of course, it's booby trapped, so anyone else who tried would suffer some severe consequences, but as he's the one who trapped it in the first place, it's no trouble for him to disarm.

He pulls the duffle out of the locker, then relocks it and rearms the trap, just to be safe. No need to advertise that he's cleared it out, after all, even if no one actually knows this drop exists. Lorelei is looking impatient so, with a glance at the security guard, he partially unzips the bag, letting her glimpse the money inside.

Her eyes go wide. "A worthwhile stop, indeed. Well done."

"Thank you," he says. "Now, let's get you to your palace."

She smiles as she follows him back out to the parking lot. Lorelei starts to head for the bike, but he stops her.

"We're going to take one of these," he says, indicating the cars in long-term parking. "Vehicles can be traced, and switching to a new one can help throw off anyone who's on our trail."

"If we must," she agrees, looking at the cars with disgust. "Are we very far from our destination?"

"Not far at all," he says. He leads her to the long-term parking, stopping next to a nondescript sedan. "This'll do."

Lorelei watches with interest as he jimmies the lock on the door and hotwires the car.

"You have many skills," she comments, pleased.

"I do," he agrees. He leans over and unlocks the passenger side door. "You ready?"

She walks around the car and gets in, making a slight face as she closes the door.

"It won't be long," he promises, seeing her distaste.

"You know," she muses as he pulls out of the parking lot. "You have not introduced yourself to me."

"Right," he says. "Apologies. Grant Ward."

"Ward," she echoes. "It's a strong name."

"If you say so."

It's a short drive to Caesars Palace, and Grant parks in the parking lot of the restaurant next door. Valet parking's out of the question, obviously—hard to stay under the radar when you turn a hotwired car over to the valet.

Lorelei takes in the hotel with wide eyes as they walk up to and into it. She's obviously satisfied by it, giving him a pleased look at the sight of the statue in the lobby.

Vegas is one of the few places in this country where paying from a duffle full of cash won't get you suspicious looks. The woman at the desk in the lobby assumes he's won big at a casino, and he goes along with the lie, slipping into a 'gaping tourist' persona. He makes quick work of renting them a nice room, accepts the key from the receptionist, and returns to Lorelei, who's still examining the lobby's décor.

"I'm fortunate to have found you," she says as they cut through the casino. He takes care to keep them in the various security cameras' blind spots, where they exist, and hidden in the crowd where they don't. "You're quite…resourceful."

"Just well trained," he corrects.

She chuckles. "No. You are worlds apart," she stops walking and turns to face him. "From those men in the desert."

He appreciates the praise. It warms him from inside, the way few things have ever managed. Still, he's a little annoyed by the way she's looking up at him, all smiles and sincere eyes. He's a lot of things, but he's not an idiot, and he tells her so.

"I know you value me no more than those bikers back there," he says. "The truth is, I don't care."

"Because you feel nothing for me," she guesses. "I am means to the end you desire, and nothing more."

"Don't take it personally," he says. He doesn't want to offend her. "There aren't many people I feel much of anything for."

"Except your bonded," she concludes.

"Don't worry," he says. He can't read her tone, and that concerns him. "I don't need to feel for you to do my job. I would die for you. Any man would."

"But I don't want them," she says. She moves closer. "I want you. You're stronger. A real man, with the rage of a berserker inside."

He's a little discomfited that she knows that. He has the rage under control—mostly—but the idea that she can see it or sense it or whatever, despite the fact that it's not active at the moment, is…worrying.

She slides her hand across his shoulder and up his neck, cupping his jaw in her hand.

"You will present me with an army," she says. He nods. "And I will give you a gift in return."

"An apple," he says. "That will make Jemma immortal."

"But that is a gift for your second half, not for you," she points out. She leans even closer to him. "Is there nothing you desire?"

"Making Jemma immortal is all the gift I need," he says honestly. Well, he'd also like to be rid of the berserker rage, but she obviously sees it as an asset, so there's no point in asking.

Lorelei lets go of him with a sigh. "She must be quite something, this love of yours."

"She is," he agrees.

"I am weary," she says. She starts walking again, and he falls into step beside her.

"Our room isn't far," he assures her.

"This room," Lorelei says, turning her head to watch a large group of tourists pass. "It will have a bed?"

"Of course."

"It has been centuries since I have taken a lover," she says. She flicks a glance at him. "But you do not desire me, do you?"

"No," he agrees. "I don't."

"So many men," she muses, returning her attention to the crowds surrounding them. "I have not the energy to test them one by one until I find one who is not bonded."

He can't help her with the sex thing, but he can help her there.

"You see the bars on their wrists?" he asks, indicating a woman standing nearby, whose timer is on full display. "If it's green, they've met their soulmate. If it's blue or grey, they haven't. If it's red, it means their soulmate is dead, whether they've met or not."

Lorelei's eyes go wide as she listens. "This is so for all of them?"

"Everyone who has a timer," he says.

"You were a good choice," she says. "I am well pleased."

"Thank you," he says, warmed by her approval.

It doesn't take Lorelei long to find a man with a blue timer who pleases her. He readily agrees to follow them up to their room, seemingly unconcerned by Grant's presence. Which is fair enough; he hangs back, playing bodyguard to Lorelei and her conquest, the whole way to the room. Once they reach it, he unlocks the door, drops the duffle in the entryway, and then leaves to wait in the hall.

They're on the tenth floor; any threats will be coming from out here, not the windows, so it's safe to leave Lorelei to her business and guard the room from outside. He does keep part of his attention on the sounds coming from the room, of course—he doesn't think Lorelei's conquest is going to hurt her, but he won't take it for granted.

He'll stay ready to protect her, if she needs it.

x

It's nearly four hours later that Lorelei's choice of lover stumbles out of the room, half of his clothes missing and his expression dazed.

"She's amazing," he sighs, grinning to himself. Then it fades. "But she sent me away. Why would she send me away?"

"You can come back tomorrow afternoon," Grant promises, mostly to get the guy to leave. They'll be long gone by then, so there's no harm in the promise.

"Right," the man says. "Right. I'll go wait."

He sets off down the hall, expression determined, and Grant watches until he gets on the elevator. Then he turns and enters the room, the door of which has been left open. He closes and locks it behind him, then picks up the duffle bag and follows the trail of clothes on the ground to the bedroom.

Lorelei is standing at the window, wrapped in a sheet.

"When I first arrived here," she says as he enters the room. "I thought Earth left…much to be desired. But from here it's…quite beautiful."

He can tell by her tone that she wants company, so he drops the duffle on the bed and joins her by the window.

"I've spent the last six hundred years locked away in a dark, cold cell," she says. "My throat shackled. My voice silenced. Torture."

"You never have to go back there," he swears. He resolves to do anything he can to prevent it, and he can do a lot. He'll die defending Lorelei's freedom. It's a worthy cause.

"But Sif is on the hunt," she protests. "And she will not rest, she will not stop. I will not know peace."

"So we take her out of the equation," he says. It's what he's trained to do—what he's best at. "Eliminate the threat."

"The graves of Asgard's enemies are littered with men who underestimated Sif," she says. "Do not make the same mistake. You do not know her."

"No," he agrees. "I don't." He walks away from the window, to the bed, and unzips the duffle. The semi-automatic is right where he left it, on top of the cash, and he picks it up. "But, the people she's working with now? I know them."

"They are threats, as well?" Lorelei asks.

"Yeah," he says, weighing the gun in his hand. It's not his usual, or his preferred, brand, but it will do. "Some of them."

"Not all?"

"Jemma's not," he says. Not to him. Not ever. "Skye's wounded at the moment, but I've been training her for months—best not to underestimate her. Fitz could be an asset, if you can convince him to see things our way."

"That will not be a problem," she says.

"Coulson could be a threat, but he's not my main concern," he tells her. "May is. She's one of SHIELD's best."

"SHIELD," Lorelei says. "This is the name of the army that trained you?"

Not precisely an army, but close enough. He nods.

"You will kill this May," she orders. "Eliminate the threat, as you say."

"Of course," he says. "And then we can get your army."

"How?" she asks, sitting on the edge of the bed. "You have something in mind already, do you not?"

"I do," he agrees. "All we have to do is get to the Bus and take it to the Triskelion—that's SHIELD's main base. You convince Fury, the Director of SHIELD, to see things our way, and you'll have thousands of well-trained men and women at your command."

She gives him another smile. "Again, you prove your worth. How are we to get to this…Bus?"

"First, you should get some sleep," he says. "In the morning, we'll let ourselves get caught on camera. That will bring Coulson, May, and Sif running, leaving the Bus undefended. By the time they realize this is a dead end and return to the Bus, it'll be under our control."

"Camera?" Lorelei asks.

"Trust me," he says. If he gets started explaining modern technology, they'll be here all week. "It'll work."

"Of course it will," she agrees. "I shall sleep now, then."

He nods. "I'll be right outside. Let me know if you need anything."

"I will," she says.

He makes himself comfortable on the couch in the living room. He can't sleep, not when there's the possibility that Lorelei might need something, but there's no harm in sitting down for a while.

x

In the morning, Grant deliberately leads Lorelei past three cameras in the casino. If Skye's on their trail—and he's sure she is—that will be enough to get the team here soon.

Once that's taken care of, he makes sure to stick to the blind spots as they continue out of the casino, out of the hotel, and to the parking lot of the restaurant next door—the one on the other side of the building, not the one they left the sedan in last night.

He jacks another car—this one a mid-range pick-up truck—and heads out of the city towards the airfield they were parked at yesterday. The bar Lorelei was using as a base before is close enough to the city that Grant thinks Coulson and May will choose to drive, rather than dealing with the mess that comes with moving the Bus.

Sure enough, the Bus is right where he last saw it. The SUV is gone, and there are no other SHIELD vehicles in sight. They ditch the truck in the airfield's parking lot, then cross the tarmac on foot.

"This is a bus?" Lorelei asks, studying it with wide eyes as they approach. "Truly, it is an impressive creation."

"Actually, this is an airplane," he corrects. "We call it the Bus. It's…kind of a joke."

She gives him a blank look.

"Not important," he decides. He pauses at the bottom of the cargo ramp. "Are you ready?"

"Yes," she breathes. "I tire of waiting for my army."

He glances up the ramp. The only person in sight is Fitz, who's working in the lab with his back to the cargo bay. He hesitates. He hates to leave Lorelei alone, but…

She's a sorceress. She'll be fine.

"If any of them see me, they'll know right away what's going on, and they might sound the alarm before I can stop them," he tells her quietly. "But an unfamiliar face will give them pause. We need to be ready to leave as soon as the others return. Can I leave Fitz to you while I get the Bus ready to go? Then you can send him to deal with Jemma and Skye."

Since Jemma's not in the lab, she's probably in the med-pod. It will easy enough to lock them in, especially since they'll have no reason to suspect Fitz.

"Of course," she says. "It will be no hardship."

He motions for her to lead the way up the ramp, which she does with a smile. Then, they part ways in the cargo bay: Lorelei goes into the lab, while he heads upstairs. He settles himself in the co-pilot's seat and starts running the pre-flight checks, keeping one eye on the airfield for Coulson, May, and Sif's return.

It's not long before Lorelei joins him, guided cheerfully by Fitz.

"Simmons and Skye are locked in the med-pod," Fitz reports. "They didn't notice a thing."

"Good work," Grant says, as Lorelei sits in the pilot's seat.

"But what are we going to do about Sif?" Fitz asks. "You have a plan, don't you, Ward?"

"I do," he agrees. "You're going to need to figure out some way to lure her into the Cage, though."

"Oh, that won't be a problem," Fitz says. "Then what?"

"Then you close and lock the door," he says. "And I open the airlock."

"The airlock?" Lorelei asks.

"It'll suck her right out of the plane," he tells her. "Even an Asgardian can't survive a fall from forty thousand feet."

She smiles. "No, we cannot."

"Once we get rid of her, we can focus on May," he says. "She's our other main threat."

"Then we will proceed to the base you mentioned," she concludes. "And I shall finally get my army."

"Absolutely," he agrees.

Movement on the tarmac catches his attention, and he watches as the Bus' SUV drives up.

"You're on, Fitz," he says. "Get Sif into the Cage as quickly as possible."

"Not a problem," Fitz insists. "Excuse me."

He walks out, and Grant brings up the last of the controls. Then he waits.

"Your bonded," Lorelei says suddenly. "She will be displeased by our actions?"

He glances at her. "What makes you say that?"

"You have given no thought to persuading her to join us," she points out. "Instead, you asked that the scholar imprison her, without even speaking to her first."

"I did," he agrees. "And yeah, she won't be happy."

"You serve me on her behalf," she says. "That I might reward her with immortality. And she will not be grateful?"

"No, she won't," he says. He knows it's the truth, knows that Jemma could never approve of a plan that ends with Sif and May dead. And even more will die at the Triskelion, he's sure. Jemma will be very unhappy about all of this. In fact, she may never speak to him again.

That's all right.

"Her safety is what's most important," he says. "It's my job to protect Jemma, just like I protect you. The only difference is, half the time I have to protect Jemma from herself."

"Do you?" Lorelei asks.

"Oh, yeah," he says. "Remind me to tell you about the time she jumped out of the Bus later. Anyway, the point is—Jemma's in just as much danger from her own actions as she is from external threats, and I can't always be there to protect her from them. Once you give her that apple, I won't have to. She can be as angry as she likes at me. She won't be in danger anymore, and that's what's important."

Lorelei gives him a very thoughtful look, but before she can speak, a loud thudding noise begins to echo through the plane. Sif, trying to escape the Cage. It's the signal he's been waiting for.

"That's our cue," he says. "Brace yourself. This can be kind of disorienting, the first time."

She nods, and he begins the takeoff process.

Lorelei watches in wide-eyed wonder for a few minutes, but eventually shakes it off.

"When will you release Sif into the air?" she asks.

"Once we reach cruising altitude," he says. "I want to be as high up as possible, just in case."

She nods. "A wise decision. And will you be able to reach this altitude before the other woman, the warrior you have deemed a threat, comes to stop you?"

"We'll have to hope so," he says. He's got plenty of practice at close-quarter fighting, but the cockpit is May's domain. She'll have the advantage here.

"I shall delay her," Lorelei decides. She stands. "Once you have released Sif, you will come eliminate the threat of the other warrior."

"Understood," he agrees. As she leaves the cockpit, he returns his focus to the flight controls.

It makes him uneasy to let Lorelei go face down May, but…she's Asgardian. She'll be fine.

Once he gets the Bus leveled out at forty thousand feet, he turns his attention to the other controls in the cockpit—the ones that gives him access to all of the Bus' internal systems. It only takes a few seconds to access the Cage and open the airlock.

He pulls up the security feed and watches as Sif struggles. She manages to stay in the Cage for a while—Asgardian advantage—but she can't win against physics, and eventually, she gets sucked out of the airlock.

One down, one to go.

He shuts the airlock, puts the Bus on auto-pilot, and stands and leaves the cockpit. His orders are to eliminate May, so that's exactly what he's going to do.

He enters the cabin area and finds May just getting to her feet. It's a slow movement, with obvious pain behind it, and Grant gives Lorelei an impressed nod. She dented the Cavalry, and that's not nothing.

"I will retrieve Sif's sword," she says. "It will look better in my hand."

"Ward," May says to him. "You don't wanna do this."

"This was the plan," he tells her. "Cross off Sif, take the plane, eliminate anyone in our way." He lifts his gun and points it at her. "Get out of her way."

"That's her plan," May says. "Not yours. Fight it. I know you, you're a fighter."

"What would he gain by fighting me?" Lorelei asks. "Should he turn against me, he would lose much. More, I think, than he is willing to risk."

May flicks a dismissive glare at her, then returns her eyes to Grant. Lorelei runs her hand along his shoulder and walks away, past May and toward the Cage. He keeps a careful eye on May, but she makes no move towards Lorelei.

"What about Simmons, Ward?" she asks instead. "You think she's going to forgive you for attacking the team?"

"I'm doing this for her," he says. "It's the only way to protect her."

"I understand—" she starts.

"You don't," he interrupts. "Your soulmate is a schoolteacher. Mine is a SHIELD agent. You've never had to worry about your soulmate jumping on a grenade—but I have. I need to protect Jemma, and this is the best way."

May blinks a little at the mention of the grenade—apparently he wasn't the only one left out of the loop on that—and then hits him with one of her 'you're a dumbass' looks.

"And what happens if she gets in your way?" she asks. "You gonna cross her off, too?"

Of course not. That's ridiculous.

"She won't get in our way," he says.

"Really?" she asks. "Simmons threw herself out of the plane. And on a grenade, apparently. You think she's not going to throw herself between you and your next target?"

He pauses, but shakes it off. She's just trying to confuse him, that's all—trying to distract him, to gain the advantage. He's wasting time; he needs to cross her off and keep moving. He readjusts his grip on his gun and aims it straight at her forehead.

"Ward!" Fitz hollers. "I think we have a big problem!"

A problem? A threat to Lorelei? He only glances away from May for a moment, but it's all she needs. She grabs the gun right out of his hand and punches him, hard, in the stomach.

So. A fight it is, then.

He's fought May before, of course, but that was sparring. They were both holding back, neither wanting to cause real damage. May always had the advantage there, but this time, it's his—because it's his job to cross her off, while she's hesitating because he's a teammate.

For some reason, it's difficult to focus on the fight. His movements are automatic, ingrained after a decade of training, but it's all instinct and reflex, with no planning. His aim is to get his hands on the gun and shoot May or, failing that, kill her with his bare hands. He wants to cross off the Cavalry, which means he needs a plan, but every time he tries to form one, his mind goes to Lorelei, to worrying about her.

She should be back now. Fitz was yelling about a problem. What if she's in danger? What if there's someone else on the Bus, someone he didn't plan for?

He can't devote all of his attention to May, no matter how hard he tries, and that's dangerous.

Eventually, though, he gets an opening to go for the gun again. It's on the ground a few feet away, and he dives for it, rolling to his knees to aim it at May. She responds by tackling him through the glass screen in the middle of the lounge.

They land on the coffee table, breaking it, but he still has his grip on the gun, and as May falls beside him, he aims it directly at her temple.

"Sorry about this," he says, and pulls the trigger.

Fuck.

His mind returns to him a second too late, but luckily, nothing actually happened when he pulled the trigger. May holds up the magazine (how did he not notice that was missing? Oh, right, mind control), then rolls to her feet, ready to resume the fight.

"Whoa," he says, standing. "Whoa, whoa, whoa. Wait." He drops the gun. "Sorry. It's me, okay. I'm back."

He hears footsteps behind him, but doesn't take his eyes away from May. She hasn't relaxed at all—not surprising, as he just lost the advantage and could very easily be faking his return to sense—and she's a very real threat.

"He speaks the truth," Sif (Sif? What the hell?) says behind him. He glances over his shoulder at her. She's got Lorelei handcuffed and muzzled, and it's a very satisfying sight. He's smiling when he turns back to look at May.

"Good to know," she says flatly, then turns away. "I'm going to get us on the ground."

She's a little angry, obviously, and he decides to let her be. The last thing he wants is to piss her off even more.

Coulson appears from the hallway that leads to the catwalk, and he takes in the situation with a glance.

"Ward?" he asks. "You back with us?"

"Yes, sir," he says. "Sorry."

"Not your fault," Coulson dismisses. He looks around the lounge with a little sigh, but doesn't comment on the damage. "Where's May?"

"Cockpit," he says. "Getting us out of the air."

Coulson nods. "Good." He looks Grant over briefly. "Simmons is in the lab. You should get her to take a look at you."

Correction: that is the last thing he wants to do. He doesn't know that he can face her right now.

But Coulson raises an expectant eyebrow at him, so he nods and heads downstairs. At least it gets him away from Sif and Lorelei. Between the berserker staff and what's just happened, it's safe to say that Asgardians are his absolute least favorite aliens. Ever.

Jemma is indeed in the lab, fussing over Fitz. He's got what looks like the beginnings of a pretty horrible shiner going, and he's bearing her fussing with unusual patience. Looks like things didn't go too smoothly down here, either.

Fitz spots him first, and his eyes go wide.

"I'm gonna—you know, I should," he stammers for a moment. Then he brightens. "I should check on Skye! Yep, that's what I should do. So I'm going to."

He slips past Jemma and heads back into the storage area at a fast clip. That's….probably not a good sign.

Jemma takes a deep breath and turns around. Her eyes widen as soon as she lays eyes on him, whatever she was feeling before instantly replaced with worry.

"Grant," she says. "You look awful. Are you all right?"

He just led a hostile alien in a takeover of their plane, with the intention of helping her take over their entire organization, encouraged said alien to use her mind control powers on Jemma's best friend, and did his level best to cross off a member of their team. And the first thing she asks him is if he's all right.

She's just…ridiculous.

"Yeah," he says. "Yeah, I'm fine. Are you okay? Did…anyone hurt you?"

"I'm fine," she says. "All of the action was well away from me. However, I do not believe you can say the same. Come here, let me take a look at you."

"That's not—"

"Come here," she repeats firmly. "And let me take a look at you."

He smiles, just a little, at her insistence, and crosses the lab to stand in front of her.

"On the table," she directs, stepping aside. "And take off your shirt."

He wants to make a joke, but he doesn't have it in him right now. So he just does as she says. Removing his shirt is painful; he's pretty sure the durable fabric protected him from the broken glass, but he did land pretty hard on the coffee table—his back is going to be a mess of bruises tomorrow, for sure.

Jemma makes a hurt little noise, staring at the quickly forming bruising on his torso.

"Grant," she says quietly. "What happened?"

"I threw down with May," he says, flexing his shoulders carefully. Yeah, he's going to be in a world of pain tomorrow. "I don't recommend it. It's not a fun time."

"No, I imagine not," she agrees. She takes another glance at his torso, then walks away, crossing the lab to the cabinets on the far wall. She returns a moment later with a scanner. "All right. Let's take a look, shall we?"

She keeps things entirely professional as she looks him over. Not that she's ever unprofessional, but usually his post-mission check-ups are accompanied by some fussing over his various injuries, and the occasional bit of scolding for not taking his well-being seriously enough.

Not so this time. She barely speaks at all, except to ask him to move in a certain way or checking whether something hurts.

He never thought he would miss her fussing, but the longer the check-up goes without it, the more his chest tightens—in a way that has absolutely nothing to do with the fight against May.

Eventually she steps back, pronouncing him 'mostly bruised.'

"You should ice—well, everything," she advises. "And I'll take this opportunity to remind you that I have a wide supply of pain medication, both over-the-counter and narcotic. You may wish to make use of it."

"I'll take some Tylenol," he promises. "Later."

He starts to slide off the table, but Jemma holds up a hand.

"Not so fast," she says. "There's still the matter of your other check-up."

"What?" He has no idea what she's talking about.

"You've had prolonged contact with an alien," she says, as if he needs the reminder. "You need to be scanned for, um, infection. It's standard procedure. Recent standard procedure."

He winces at the reference to the Chitauri virus. "Right. Okay. What do I need to do?"

"Just sit still, please," she requests. She grabs a different scanner off the table behind her and holds it up. A red light passes over Grant a few times, and Jemma nods. "Good."

"I'm clean?" he asks.

"You are," she says. She sets the scanner aside, then pauses. "Although, there is…"

"What?" he asks. "Don't tell me you actually have more scans to run."

"Well, that depends," she says. She looks down at the first aid kit, fussing with the arrangement of bandages. Not a good sign.

"On?"

"Was the contact, um," she hesitates. Her eyes flick away, then return to his, determinedly. "Was the contact sexual in nature?"

"No," he says firmly. Then he winces, because he didn't quite manage to keep the hurt out of his voice. "How could you think I would—?"

"It wouldn't be your fault," she rushes to assure him. "If you had. It wouldn't be—she was controlling you, so it wouldn't—it would be…"

"It doesn't matter," he says when she falters. "Because no, nothing happened."

She blows out a slow breath. "Good. That's…that's good."

She looks much lighter now, like a weight has been lifted from her shoulders, and it makes him a little angry. He doesn't have the right to be angry, he knows that—not after what he did today—but…he is anyway.

"That's why you've been like that?" he asks, thinking of how distant she held herself during the check-up. "Because you thought I'd cheated on you?"

"No," she says, horrified. "Grant, that's not—your fidelity was never in question. Even if you and she had…that wouldn't be cheating, Grant. It would be…"

She breaks off, looking a little sick, and shakes her head.

"No, Grant," she says. "I just—I thought you might like a little space, that you wouldn't appreciate my hovering, after being…violated."

"So…you're not angry?" he checks. He'll think about the rest of her sentence…later. Next week, maybe.

"Oh, I'm furious," she says. "But not at you. Of course not."

"Oh," he says. "Well. Good."

"So," she says, closing the first aid kit. "You fought Agent May, did you? That was very unwise, Grant."

"No kidding," he agrees, rolling his shoulders again. "I'm gonna be feeling this for a while."

"And I suppose my chances of convincing you to take anything stronger than Tylenol…?"

"Slim to none," he says. "Sorry."

She sighs. "Well, having experienced my own difficulties with narcotic painkillers recently, I can't say I don't understand. Still….at least keep them in mind."

"I will," he promises. Then he looks around the lab. "So, you know what I spent the past two days doing. What about you? Jump on any grenades while I was gone?"

It's really not funny that she did that, but at the moment he's feeling too light to be angry. She's not angry at him. It's a relief.

"No," she says, pinning him with what is probably supposed to be an annoyed look. It's spoiled by the slightly sheepish smile. "However, I did attempt to hit Agent Coulson with a fire extinguisher."

"Eh," he shrugs. "I'm sure he deserved it."

Jemma laughs. "Well, he did take my very male soulmate as back-up to attempt to capture a sorceress capable of controlling men, so…"

"Yeah," he muses. "We really didn't think that one through, did we?"

"No," she says. "You didn't."

He doesn't want to dwell on that, though. And, since Jemma isn't angry at him and he isn't angry at her, there's no reason for her to be standing so far away. He leans forward a little, ignoring the accompanying pain, and grabs her hand, tugging her closer.

"I missed you," he says quietly.

It's true. Not just while he was under Lorelei's control, but while he was on the op in Muscat. He knows it was the right decision, to get some distance, but once he had his temper under control, he missed her terribly. And the timing was horrible—coming back from three days away only to immediately get put under mind control (fucking mind control, Asgardians are the worst) and taken away from her.

"I missed you, too," she says. She slides her hands up his arms to rest on his shoulders. "And, you know, it's three missions in a row now that you've left without kissing me goodbye."

"Wow," he says, unable to hold back a smile. "That's pretty inconsiderate of me, isn't it?"

"It's not a good habit to develop," she agrees.

"Let me make it up to you," he murmurs, slipping one arm around her waist and tugging her even closer.

"Well," she says. "If you insist."

The rule about PDA in the lab is broken. Thoroughly and with great enjoyment. Grant does not feel the slightest bit guilty.

---

A/N: warnings: off-screen rape of a nameless minor character, to which Ward is technically a party, as he does nothing to stop it-but, of course, he's being controlled as well.

I spent literal weeks going back and forth on how to handle this chapter. Of course, as soon as I decided to rewrite the entire season, I knew that I would have to tackle this episode, and the problems therein, and I've been agonizing over it since "0-8-4." Soulmates having protection from Lorelei's powers seems a little like a cop-out, I admit, but in the end, I just couldn't write Ward being raped. It's a very serious, very horrible thing, which deserves more than a few lines and a brush off, and that's all I'd be able to give it, considering what kicks off in the next chapter.

So. That's that, then. I hope my deviation doesn't ruin anything for you, and that my explanation of Lorelei's powers makes sense.

Thanks for reading!