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WELCOME TO LEVEL 7
MAN, I haven't done one of these in a while! Does anyone even remember how these things work? LET'S REVIEW:
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ETA: Basically the guy needs to be innoculated, wait ten minutes, then...donate. And unfortunately, the cure loses its effectiveness within .8 seconds of being exposed to air. And no, unfortunately the digestive tract's acids also render it ineffective. So.
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Ward just stands there, behind a counter, arms crossed, fists clenched, jaw clenched. Fighting the nearly overwhelming urge to take a step forward and hump. Simmons squinting at a petri dish, bent over and the back of her lab coat hugs the curve of her ass. Ward unclenches a hand and presses it flat to the counter, takes a step toward her. He takes another step toward her, and slides his palm back and forth on the smooth surface of the lab table. Either it's warm or he's warm. He shifts his weight and closes the distance between them one step at a time.
"Hey, now," Fitz says cheerfully, clapping Ward on the shoulder. His smile's manic. "I could use your help over here, Agent Ward."
Ward drags his attention from the back of Simmons' neck all the way over to the pink flush of Fitz's mouth. When Fitz licks his lips, Ward smiles slyly and leans a hip against the counter. He pitches his voice low and velvety as he says, "Tell me what you need."
A nervous smile jerks at the corner of Fitz's mouth, and he darts over Ward's shoulder before looking Ward in the eye again and giving a nervous laugh. "We could," he nods toward the opposite side of the room from where Simmons is busily...Ward looks over his shoulder and now she's squatting, digging through low cabinet, and Ward imagines that while she's on her knees, it would be the easiest thing in the world to just go over there and...
Someone closes a hand around his wrist and tugs, then Ward's following Fitz, giving him his own once over. "Just, let's, over here is good, isn't it?"
Ward slips from Fitz's grasp and turns on him, advancing, backing him up against the thick plastic quarantine doors, then hands on either side of Fitz's shoulders. Ward leans in and murmurs, "Somewhere more private, hmm? I like the way you think." He traces a line across Fitz's forehead, then taps it. "Using that big brain of yours."
"Oh god, that's your sexy voice, that's his sexy voice isn't it?" Fitz blurts out.
"'Fraid it might be," Simmons calls. "Five minutes 'till the culture's ready, by the way."
Ward slips a hand under Fitz's shirt and skims his belly with light fingertips, enjoying the hitch of breath that accompanies the jump of muscle. Ward groans, intoxicated, dizzy with the pleasure of the nearness. One slow roll of his hips, and then it's easier to excuse a second, then he's got Fitz turned, face first against the wall, perfectly placed to cushion a series of thrusts.
Then there's a sharp elbow in his gut. He doubles over, grasps at the momentary clarity that the pain has given him. "Sorry. Fuck," he grinds out between clenched teeth. Before he can let himself rationalize the urges that threaten to drive him back up against the nearest warm body, he drops to his knees and crosses his wrists behind his back. "Tie me up. Don't argue, just do it."
Fitz looks dubious, but he does as he's asked, thank God, and in less than a minute, Ward is securely hogtied with a length of ethernet cable.
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The decontamination process isn't new to Ward, and it's not like he's got anything to be ashamed of, he thinks as he strips quickly, dumping his powder stained tuxedo into the red biohazard bag Simmons is holding open for him. She's in a biohazard suit, chattering away cheerfully about how it almost certainly isn't Anthrax, and besides, he's up to date on his vaccines, isn't he?
He thinks about pausing when he gets down to his briefs, but she's still holding the bag out expectantly, so off they go, and under the shower he goes, and fuck, the water is freezing. He doesn't wince, but his teeth are chattering by the time he finishes, or they would be, if his jaw weren't clenched.
Fitz is pacing on the other side of the glass, tapping away at his tablet tryptych, working on the piece of tech he managed to wrestle away from the badguy before they threw a handful of powder in Ward's face. Simmons is already peering into a microscope, talking a mile a minute to herself, and he listen to three '*fasc*inating's before he clears his throat.
She looks up, then down the length of his body, then up again. "Apologies. The decontamination shower is terribly cold, isn't it? Hot water opens the pores, counterproductive, of course."
"Of course," he grinds out.
"You really shouldn't feel self conscious."
"I don't. I feel *cold*."
"About your current size of your penis."
Ward breathes in and out slowly, through flared nostrils.
"The blankets are in that cabinet," she says, gesturing as she turns back to the microscope.
He tugs the itchy fire blanket around his shoulders and finds a stool to perch on while she works out whether he's been dosed with something deadly, something inert, or something with entirely ridiculous side effects. She grabs a dropper and after dripping something florescent blue into the dish, she steps back and reaches for her neck, then stops. And glances over at him. "You're flushed," she says. Her voice is calm enough to make him nervous.
"I'm fine," he says. "Just..." he pokes an arm out from his blanket bundle and looks it over. A pink flush is creeping down his skin, and as he watches, it creeps past his elbow, toward his wrist. As it crawls across his skin, it tingles and *almost* itches, but not quite. He starts to scratch, but at the last second, flattens out his palm and skims it over his forearm. The sensation is so intense, he hesitates to label it erotic.
His cock has no such reservations.
"I've got it!" Fitz crows. "It's a," he rattles off about eighteen syllables that Ward doesn't bother trying to track, ending with, "-ine compound. Brilliant, really, the delivery mechanism sidesteps the issues with--"
Simmons says, still in that eerily calm voice, "Fitz. Go update Coulson and let him know to keep the lab sealed for the next two hours."
Ward uses every self control technique he knows to resist the urge to stroke his arm. He closes his eyes and breathes slowly, ignoring the sensual slide of perspiration as it tickles cool little trails down his temples, from beneath his armpits. He doesn't catch what Simmons says, then Fitz is up against the glass, smacking it and angrily arguing that she's not contaminated and she's got about ten minutes before--something. "Go on," Ward slurs. That's weird. He feels fine, but his tongue doesn't want to work. "M'fine." Then he yawns. He's just very tired. He lays his head down on the lab table and enjoys the coolness against his prickly skin.
"You're *not* fine," Fitz barks. "You won't be. *She* won't be." He looks equal parts angry and scared and
"Stop, you're scaring him. Fitz, listen to me, if we break quarantine, there's a 40% chance it'll infect the rest of the crew." She takes a deep breath and smiles nervously. "If we don't, it'll run its course in a couple hours."
"I'm not going anywhere," Fitz scowls at Ward. "Not while you're in there with him."
"He'll be fine, Fitz. I'll be fine."
"He'll *hurt* you." Fitz's voice breaks on the second word. "I'm not leaving you alone with him."
"Fitz. Leo. Please. He's not a violent person."
Fitz laughs. "His *job* is beating people up."
"Fuck you. M'job is being *awesome*," Ward mutters.
"Are you a sexual sadist?" Simmons says, like she's asking about someone's blood type.
(cont'd)
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It takes Ward a minute to realize she's talking to him. "What? I--what?"
"Does the intentional infliction of pain upon your sexual partner arouse you?"
Ward snorts and lifts his head. The tiredness is passing, and after a yawn, he says, "No. I'm more of a--" he stops himself. "None of your business. What's going on?"
"See?" she says brightly, to Fitz. "Now, I'd prefer not to have an audience for this next bit. Perhaps you could," she nods at one of the cameras in the corner of the room. "For me?"
"Just knock him out with the fire extinguisher or something."
She shakes her head. "His vascular system's compromised. You know I'd likely give him an aneurysm."
"Better that than--"
"Please," she says sharply. "Do this for me. Now."
"If you hurt her," he spits in Ward's direction, then to Simmons. "Are you sure?"
She nods. "I am. Now, If you'd be so kind as to lock down the entrance to the lab when you go? In case you or Coulson decide to let your chivalry override his common sense."
A long look passes between them, then Fitz is heading upstairs and Simmons is turning to face Ward. "How are you feeling?"
"Cognive, Coganivally," he taps his head. "Impaired. Feverish. Hypersensitive. And..."
"And aroused, yes." She takes a deep breath, then reaches for the clasp on the hood of her biohazard suit and pops it. "Right. Here's how this is going to work. You'll probably try to resist, but in five to ten minutes, the urge to copulate will override the higher functions of your brain."
Despite the heated flush rolling just beneath his skin, he feels a chill. "No. It won't." He slides off the stool and backs away from her.
"Yes it will," she says, matter of factly, stepping out of her biohazard suit, then slipping her jacket off and laying it over the edge of the counter. "The harder you resist, the more...aggressive you'll be when you succumb."
He tries to look away when she starts unbuttoning her pants. He can't. The fuzz in his brain is rapidly clearing, leaving him alert. And focused. On one goal. He shakes his head vigorously. "Stop that. Get over here and restrain me while you can."
She actually rolls her eyes, but her casual tone is betrayed by the way her hands shake as she pushes her slacks down past her knees. She's wearing a pretty little pair of lilac panties, and then those are down as well. "Please. We both know my odds of jury rigging something in the next few minutes that you can't James Bond your way out of are less than ideal," she bends over the nearest table, placing her elbows on it and arching her back in a way that's ... not helping. "And if you're prevented from climaxing, there's a chance you'll have a stroke and that's not a chance I'm willing to take."
"Don't make me do this," he begs.
The look she shoots him over her shoulder is equal parts hurt and resigned. "I realize you'd rather it were Skye here, but if I leave, you might die. If I stay, this is happening. The only question is whether we get started now while you've still got some of your faculties or we wait and you grow increasingly more aggressive and less concerned with my wellbeing. Come on then."
When he doesn't move, she pulls her panties back up, then steps out of her slacks and crosses the lab. He's whiteknuckling the blanket, holding it around himself like armor and trying not to look at her.
"I'll be alright," she says gently, stroking his cheek. "Don't tell Fitz, but I'm not virgin, if that's your concern."
He tries to reply, but his mouth doesn't want to form the words. It just opens and closes a few times as he leans into her touch.
"You probably won't remember this later, but I want you know that you have my permission," she says. Then she closes the distance between them and presses a soft kiss to his mouth.
It's about then that his mind shuts down and his body takes over.
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*
The experience was one long hyperreal blur during which he wasn't aware of anything outside his own driving need and the sensations that came from satisfying that need. He was barely even aware of himself as a person. As for her, she was an object that gave pleasure. There was no thought, during. Nothing he could label an emotion, but he did feel something, toward her. As the thing that brought him pleasure, the only thing in the world, it felt like. Obviously, whatever it was he felt about her for the duration of the event, it wasn't love. He knows that. The thing that happened to him yesterday wasn't love.
It was a weaponized biochemical cocktail, he thinks as he rattles the naked ice in his glass and eyes the half-empty bottle between his knees. It's been 24 hours now. He's had a clear head for 22 and a clean bill of health for 14. He's showered. He's eaten. He's slept. The debriefing has occurred, during which Coulson and Melinda listened and questioned, stone faced. Protocol was followed, but they hadn't probed unnecessarily beyond the basic timeline of the event. They didn't ask for details.
If they had, if they ever do, Ward will be able to provide. At length. Because contrary to what she implied just before kissing him, he remembers everything.
He remembers the pitch of a disappointed noise she made as he tore her underwear off. At the time the words didn't register, it was all just pleasant sound. It's only later, now that he's back in his right mind and sitting by himself in his bunk and drinking and forcing himself to go, step by step, through the sequence of events, that he's able to understand what she was saying.
After making that disappointed noise, she said, "I liked those," and then she was quiet for as long as it took to turn her around and bend her over the sink. She barely had time to brace herself before the next noises came out of her mouth, noises that translate to, "Ow, just wait a second," as he shoved the aching, swollen, leaking head of his cock against her lips. Lips that weren't the least bit wet, he notes in retrospect as he pictures the exact color of the hair dusted along the crease between her legs, the way the tight little knot of her asshole clenched, and all the smooth, pale skin around it, beneath his fingers as he palmed her ass with both hands and squeezed and spread and then shoved some more.
He remembers the startled gasp she made when he began spurting his first load of slippery come before he even got the entire head inside of her heat. And the nervous, borderline hysterical giggle that that rippled through her with her very next breath, and the, "That's al--ah!" she made when he stopped shuddering and started moving again, this time with sharp thrust that sank him balls deep into the newly slickened passage.
After that, he didn't stop jackhammering for another several minutes with zero finesse and close to zero variation, and it's ridiculous that he's embarrassed to think that now *she* thinks that's how he fucks. Has sex. Makes love. Whatever. He's good in bed. It's just a fact. And that...thing he was doing was just mindless, mechanical rutting. He can picture it perfectly, like some shitty, boring porno that goes on too long.
He also recalls, perfectly, the intensity of the sensation and the way he felt closer to her than he'd ever felt to anyone or anything. He feels flush with humiliation at all of it. But not shame. You don't feel shame about events that are out of your control, it's a pointless waste of energy. Nothing happened that he should feel ashamed of, he reminds himself as he refreshes his drink.
He doesn't remember her resisting at any point. He doesn't remember her doing anything that could even be construed as resisting, but he does remember the point during that first stretch when she went more or less limp. After he finally came that second time, he paused to catch his breath and slid, gracelessly to the floor, keeping a close eye on her the whole time. He remembers being dimly aware that she *could* run away, but also that she wasn't, and that that pleased him. He wasn't done with her. What he felt toward her then, if he had to label it, was a mix between 'prey' and 'mine'.
And then there was what happened next.
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He didn't mention it in his debrief, or in the written report he submitted a couple hours after that. It wasn't material, in his estimation, not to SHIELD. He doesn't know what level of detail she'll report, but considering the discretion with which he was questioned, he doubts she'll be asked to provide more than he had, once she corroborates his version of the events. His version which was the truth. Just not the whole truth.
There he was, sprawled buck naked on the floor, erection still as angry red and rock hard as when he'd started, feeling restless, unsettled, still panting. She stood over him for a moment, then squatted beside him and stroked his face a few times before dragging a thumb beneath one eye and tugging down on the lid. Checking his pupils, he thinks now. Then, he only felt pleased that she was close enough to touch, and when he reached between her legs to feel that hot, wet, deep place that was his favorite, she froze. But she didn't move away.
Instead, she took his wrist, gently but firmly, and drew his hand away. She pressed it to the floor beside his head, then sat back, staring at him with a sad frown. He knew he could catch her if she tried to leave, but a flicker of curiosity was sparking in the back of his mind, the precursor to actually getting his mind back. But he didn't know that at the time. All he knew was that he wanted to see what she did next.
What she did was say, "You poor thing," sincerely, and that was the part that killed him the most, out of all of it, god knows why. Then, she took hold of his cock with certainty of purpose, straddled him, and sank down.
In the course of his career, he has fucked and been fucked by pros. He has been the one who posed as a pro, then fucked with professional level precision, then been paid and tipped handsomely (and then performed international espionage while his John slept, but that's neither here nor there.) The point is, for him, it's easy enough to spot the fact that she's not a pro, or even all that experienced at this position. But she does have determination on her side, and once he wraps his hands around her hips, she takes his cues well. She slows down, barely rocks on top of him, and that's perfect. Nothing's ever been so perfect. She's not going anywhere, and neither is he and it's just *good*. So good.
She doesn't come, but as time passes he becomes aware that she could. After he comes a third time, the buzzing knot of tension at the base of his skull finally starts to unwind. There's an aching numbness in his balls that edges back over into pain when he comes for the fourth time, roughly fifty minutes after he first grabbed her. He could make her come, he thinks. He would like to see that, so he reaches for the top of her thigh and slides his hand up, thumb dragging along the pale, soft, sweat-slicked skin. Not just sweat. That's his, he did that. He rubs his thumb through it and then up, to that spot. He knows just what to do. Doesn't have to think, and after a startled jump, she leans forward and clutches at his shoulders and moans.
She's his, he thinks as works that spot, and he's teetering on the edge of some realization, it's on the tip of his mental tongue, and then she surges forward into his touch, fingernails digging into his skin as she moans, "Ward."
And that's enough to do it. It doesn't hit him all at once, but that first wave is a bitch, because now he knows enough to know that he *doesn't* know who he is, or who she is, or where he is, and he shoves her off him, roughly. The memory of her head striking the edge of the table makes him wince now, but then, his only thought was scrambling away from this stranger. Moments later, his training kicks in and he shoves her to the floor, knee in her back, orders her to identify herself.
She burst into tears then, and after his confusion passed, he heard her say, "It's okay, you're okay, you're gonna be okay," through the hiccuping sobs.
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Oh. Oh, right. Oh, fuck.
There it was, everything else, snapping into place in his brain. His sense of right and wrong, of empathy, of critical thinking all rebooting and flickering back online. He released her and sat back on his heels, watching as she pushed herself up to her hands and knees, then eased up to her feet. She looked unsteady enough that he instinctively extended a hand, ready to catch her if she stumbled, but she didn't take it. "I'm fine. If you can, please. Just a minute," she said without looking at him, then she hissed in pain as she straightened completely. After a moment holding on to the edge of the sink and taking a deep breath, she wiped her sleeve across her face, twice, and then looked down at him with this heartbreakingly fake smile. "See, that wasn't so bad."
"I," he whispered. "I'm--"
"Through the worst of it," she said, firmly. Another deep breath, then she snatched her slacks off the floor and stepped into them. She winced as she pulled them all the way up and buttoned them around her waist, then she turned to him, still wobbly-legged and brushed her palms over her thighs. "Right then."
At this point, he's more or less himself again, he knows her, he knows what just happened, and why it just happened. He knows that he admires her ability to keep it together under difficult circumstances. He knows, rationally, that neither of them are to blame for what just happened, that neither are likely to *be* blamed for what just happened, but that doesn't mean he can shake the feeling that he just did something horrible, and that someone's going to be angry at him. That he's just damaged something irreparably, and he doesn't even know what that thing is.
It doesn't help that he's still fuzzy-headed, sore from the exertion, and feeling...impulses toward her. It's just that now, he's got the self-control not to yield to every last one. They're nowhere near as strong as before, but the desire's still there. Not just the urge to rut, but...to kiss her. Or at least just lay his hands on her, skin to skin.
She never even took her shirt off, he thinks, then just as quickly, fucking stop, just stop now. It's not real, just chemicals, but that doesn't make it *feel* any less real. He leans forward, props his elbows on his knees, buries his face in his hands and groans.
The itchy blanket settles around his shoulders and he looks up, startled. She's already got her back to him, running the water in the sink, filling a plastic cup, then crouching and setting it on the floor beside him. "You'll feel better if you have this," she says, avoiding his gaze.
Before she can stand, he palms her knee. She inhales sharply, but doesn't shy away, and he supposes that's good sign. "You okay?" he asks in a raspy voice.
She picks up the cup and holds it in front of his face. "Drink."
He takes it, drains it in several gulps, then drops the cup. She looks him in the eye, and he doesn't lean in to kiss her, but he does take a quick look at her mouth. He tries to make it quick. "Are you going to be all right?"
"Yes, of course. Don't be silly."
He'd have an easier time believing her without the quaver in her voice or the way she bites her lower lip. "I'm not being silly," he says, finally forcing himself to look away.
"You're being sweet, but please, don't give it another thought. Now then," she says cheerfully.
He tries to catch her wrist as she stands, but he lets her slip from his grasp without any resistance. "Simmons," he starts.
"Hydrate yourself. It'll flush the compound from your system more rapidly." She rattles around in a small closet, from which she extracts a broom and a dustpan, then she starts sweeping up some glass that got knocked over at some point during. The incident.
"Is there anything I can do to help?" he asks.
(cont'd)
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She pauses and looks up, offering what looks like a genuine smile. "Thank you, but no. I'd be showing symptoms by now if I'd been affected. There's a good chance we could break quarantine now, but in an hour, given the compound's instability, we can be certain. Better safe than sorry."
"Of course." He watches her as she continues cleaning up, then he forces himself to close his eyes, because the drug's still giving him pangs of longing. He breathes out and in and practices some meditation techniques he picked up in SERE. He narrows his awareness to his heartbeat, and after ten or so minutes, he hears a nearby drawer open, then he senses her standing close to him and waiting, so he opens his eyes.
She's holding a stethoscope. "Might as well. For science."
He chuckles halfheartedly as he eases to feet, tucks the blanket around his waist and sits on a nearby stool. The routine of the physical exam is soothing, they both know all the motions. He breathes when she says to breathe, tracks her moving finger, says ah, holds out his arm for the cuff and listens to her count quietly to herself, then repeats back the three words she'd listed at the beginning of the exam.
Whatever she sees seems to satisfy her, and after she slides the stethoscope back in its drawer, she nods to herself before asking, "How do you feel?" He makes eye contact. Whatever she sees makes her flinch and add, "Physically."
"100 percent."
She eyes him dubiously.
"85 percent. But I'm back."
"You'll feel something every now and then for the next day or so. A bit like...have you ever dropped acid?"
"No."
"That's a pity. It can be marvelous. Anyway, well."
"Well," he says.
"You shouldn't suffer any long term neurological effects and, oh yes, right, I've seen your latest test results, and I'm clean in that department as well. If you're wondering."
"I wasn't. But thanks."
"Also, I take oral contraceptives. But as I was saying, if you *do* have lingering symptoms, please do report them."
"Of course."
"Of course. Right. Well." She laughs and it sounds forced. "That was certainly harrowing, wasn't it."
"Jemma," he starts.
"Agent Ward," she says, touching his arm just for a moment. "I know I haven't got your training, but I'd like you to believe me when I tell you that I really am no worse for the wear." She smiles softly. "So, moving on."
"Moving on," he echoes as she turns back to her tablet.
Not long afterward, the outer doors unseal, and Fitz is the first one in. He's holding a pile of folded sweats and his eyes are red. Coulson follows and scans the room slowly, nodding once at Ward, then at Simmons when she gives him a little wave. "Everything all right in here?" Coulson asks calmly.
*
It's about a week and a half later that Skye comes on to him in a casual enough way that he's fairly certain it's authentic interest and not an attempt to work an angle. At least not any specific short term angle. He's also certain its a bad idea, and he lets her down with a self-depricating joke. She takes the refusal in stride, with the sort of attitude that speaks well of her future as a team player.
"But really, thank you for the offer," he says, sincerely.
She shrugs and sits back on the lounge area couch, folding her hands behind her head and propping one boot on the low table. The neckline on her tank top gapes, revealing a black bra strap and a jiggle of cleavage as she settles. "No biggie. I just figured, you know." She shrugs again.
He almost resists the bait, but in the end, has to ask, "You figured what?"
"With everything." She nods in the direction of the lab. When he doesn't respond, she adds, "You, Simmons, that fucked up thing that happened that we're all pretending didn't happen."
"Oh, that," he says dryly.
"Yeah, that. I'm not going to ask how you're doing with all that."
"Okay."
"Unless you want me to," she says.
"I'm fine, thanks."
"You're fine, you're doing fine? Or you're fine, thanks, don't ask me how I'm doing."
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He returns her gaze evenly.
"Anyway, what I was saying was, with everything, I thought you might want to take your mind off it. Because I get it. I mean, I don't mean that understand exactly what went down, but I've got the broad strokes, and I'm just saying..." She trails off, then sets both boots on the floor and leans toward him, elbows on her knees. "I'm just saying sometimes you have sex that isn't sex you're having because you really want to. But it happens. You know, shit happens, right? And like, your head's cool with it, but you still feel weird or guilty or pissed off or just kind of crappy. And it sucks. You know?"
He realize how stiff his posture's grown, and he softens it deliberately, because he does get that she's trying to be kind, and he does appreciate the effort. "I know."
"And, like, circumstances vary," she gestures back and forth between them, "I get that, but sometimes another notch on your belt helps get the shit you'd rather not think about out of your head. For me at least."
"You're not wrong," he says. "But..."
She smiles and pats his knee. "But no thanks. I get it."
"No. I mean, yes, no thanks. But, I was going to say, if that's where I was right now, you'd be my first choice."
"Aw," she says with a smirk, tossing her hair back, "Thanks."
"You're welcome." He taps his tablet out of sleep mode and scrolls to the next report. But he can't help but be aware that she's still watching him. "Yes?" he asks without looking up.
"So I know this isn't my business, but secrets between teammates are bad, right?"
"Not always."
"Anyway," she waves at him dismissively, "I just thought you might want to know this was her idea."
He blinks, looks up straight ahead at the distant carpet of lilac-tinged clouds outside the plane's windows, then directly at Skye. "Excuse me?"
"Simmons and I chat sometimes. Girl stuff. We're totally tampon emergency buddies now, it was a whole bonding thing. I'm not saying we're BFFs, but we talk. Anyway, this morning she told me I should go for it, if I was interested. She said you could probably use the company."
He sets down his tablet and turns to look at her. "Company?"
"She was oblique but still...pretty clear."
"She suggested you to make a pass at me?"
"More or less. They're a little hard to parse sometimes, but--"
"They."
"Oh yeah, Fitz was in total agreement."
"That you should come on to me. Because I could probably use the company. Because of that fucked up thing that happened that we're all pretending didn't happen."
"Pretty much."
"Sounds awkward."
She snorts. "And now," she makes a flourish with both hands, "I have shared the awkwardness with you. You're welcome."
"Would you have told me, if I'd said yes?"
"Probably. Maybe. Depends."
"Thanks for being honest."
"Hey, even if you're kind of a dick sometimes, you're still crazy doable."
"That's enough honesty."
With a smile, she mimes turning a key over her lips, then snatches the remote off the table and turns on the TV.
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Months pass. Missions come, missions go. Mistakes are made. Sometimes, people die, but so far it's all been temporary. Skye does for three and a half minutes, jolted back to the land of the living by a defibrilator jury rigged by Fitz. There was an incident with May, a drug that simulated death, and not informing *anyone* on the team, including Coulson. Ward wasn't sure Coulson had forgiven her for that yet.
Ward himself was brain dead for three days until FitzSimmons worked out a cure for what Fitz insisted on calling the zombie virus. Fitz also insisted on eating Ward's jello when he visited at the Hub during Ward's recovery.
"It's not a zombie virus," Simmons countered from the far side of the hospital bed. Leafing through his chart, she continued, "At no point did he display signs of craving human flesh or--."
Fitz jiggled a spoonful of jello in Ward's face. "Or braiiinnsss. C'mon just say it once for me, Please?"
"Or any other of the essential zombie traits. Even if we don't restrict it to the classical Romero zombie, which of course we should--"
"Obviously. But you saw him. The white eyes, the moaning, stumbling around into walls, drooling. Totally nailed the zombie look, even if he wasn't all bitey bitey."
Simmons smooths Ward's hair once, then pulls her hand back, pauses, and pats his chest. "More like my Aunt Nan's poor old cocker spaniel. The dear thing, blind as a bat at the end, always walking into walls. Weeing here and there. Farting up a storm."
"At least he wasn't doing that. Did wee himself a little, though, didn't he?"
"A little." Simmons leans over him and grins down. "But what's a little wee between friends, right?"
Ward can't smile back yet. They're able to tell, through some sort of EEG wizardry that he's awake and aware of his surroundings, so they've taken turns visiting him when they can. He can blink yes or no to questions, though, and he can roll his eyes and he does so right now.
"Please," she says. "When it comes to embarassing incidents involving the body fluids of my teammates, it doesn't even makes the top three."
"You think?" Fitz asks, making a grabby motion at Simmons, who hands over Ward's chart. "I mean of course there's the slight miscalibration of that sonic weapon back in August, which may I add was not entirely my fault."
"We all started projectile vomiting. *En masse*. I got Skye's vomit in my *ear*, Fitz."
"Fair enough, which is why I said it's on the list. And of course--"
They say in unison, "The donar kebab in Munich."
"The less said about that the better," Fitz says with a shudder. "Except to say that there need to be more bathrooms on that plane. But that's still only two. I can't think of any other--what?"
"You know," she mouths silently.
Fitz just looks at her, confused. "What tops him stumbling around the plane, walking into things and dribbling a trail of wee after him."
"The S-E-X."
Fitz huffs. "He's not lost the ability to spell, you know. And you can call it what it was."
After a pause, she says, "I just did. Well, I spelled what it was. I think that certainly beats a bit of piddle, don't you?" After an even longer pause, she says, "What?"
"I just wouldn't call it sex, is all."
"It was undoubtedly sexual intercourse."
"I know. I know it was. And I didn't watch, not after...you started."
They're both quiet for a long time. Finally, she says, "You were worried about me."
"Of course--" he snaps, then he leans back and lowers his voice. "Of course I was worried."
"What would you call it, if you wouldn't call it sex."
"Oh for God's sake, rape, obviously."
"It was unexpected sex that I chose to proceed with."
"If that's what you have to tell yourself."
"So what if I do?" she asks. "Would you prefer hysterics? Perhaps some deep, emotional damage?"
"No!"
"Then what's it matter what we label it?"
"We. So you two got around to discussing it?"
"That's none of your concern," she says, gently.
"You're my concern," he replies. "But if you'd rather I drop it..."
"I would."
"Done." He leans over Ward. "You suppose he's asleep with his eyes open again?"
"He can hear us," she says, bending into his direct line of sight again, lock of hair tumbling down from behind her ear. "So let's talk of more pleasant things, shall we?"
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