No, the problem is the timing. He’s been in this stupid hole-in-the-ground cell for six months, and he’s put all of his eggs in the same basket: the Skye’s-my-soulmate basket. He’s felt drawn to her since day one, and with the way their relationship developed before the uprising threw a wrench into things…

She’s his soulmate. She’s gotta be.

But if she’s not…if she’s not, then he’s been playing her all wrong—playing his entire imprisonment all wrong—and it’s too late to walk it back. If his soulmate is anyone other than Skye, he’s screwed. He’ll be stuck down here until…well, until he takes some steps he’d rather not.

So, yeah. When he feels the burn in his chest, the bone-deep ache of his soulmark being born, he’s nervous.

That doesn’t stop him from ripping his shirt off to check it right away, obviously. It just means he’s holding his breath when he does.

And that breath leaves him all at once when he lays eyes on his brand new soulmark. Lightheaded, he falls back on his bed to sit.

It’s Skye. It has to be Skye. When his soulmark is a little plane—the goddamned Bus—with a little black line trailing out behind it, a contrail that’ll turn into his soulmate’s name as soon as their bond is cemented—who else could it be?

He was right. It’s Skye. And some day—someday soon—he’ll be out of this hellhole and with his soulmate.

.

.

.

No one comes down to see him that day, or the next.

That’s fine. He’s sure they’re all struggling with what’s happened, Skye most of all. Soulmarks are made to complete each other the way soulmates do, so she won’t have the little plane like he does—she’ll have the other half of the soulmark. His name. Once they bond, she’ll get the plane and he’ll get her name (he wonders which name it’ll be: the one she chose? The one given to her when she was an unwanted orphan? The one her parents came up with?) and they’ll both be whole.

In the meantime, Skye’s been denying any kind of connection to him, any kind of feelings for him, for months. Having his name write itself across her skin must’ve been a hell of a shock. She’ll need time to come to terms with it, and that’s fine. He can wait.

He’s not humoring anyone else, though. Not anymore. All those months he spent engaging with Coulson, even just to tell him he’d only talk to Skye, that’s over. Now that he has concrete proof they’re soulmates, he’s not bothering with anyone else.

So when the barrier on his cell clears to reveal Simmons, well into the night of the third day, he doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t even get up. He stays right where he is, stretched out on his bed with his hands tucked beneath his head.

“The silent treatment?” she asks after an expectant pause. “That’s mature.”

Grant ignores her.

“Just as well,” she says. “I don’t need you to talk for this—in fact, I’d rather you didn’t.”

The cold tone is unusual for her, but not unusual enough to get his interest. She’s not Skye. He’s not pretending to care about anyone but Skye anymore.

“As you were, then,” Simmons mutters, and then—then she takes off her shirt.

Grant sits up.

His cell’s not very big. Even from his bed, he has no trouble seeing what brought her down here: there, above the cup of her bra, is his name. Grant Ward, there in his own handwriting, curving down (down, how did he not realize, the black line that’ll become his soulmate’s name isn’t straight, it declines, not like a contrail, like the path a parachuter might take while diving out of the plane to save his soulmate’s life) from a black dot that’ll become the Bus once they’re bonded.

Skye isn’t his soulmate. Jemma is.

“You—” He doesn’t know what to say. For once in his life, he’s got nothing.

“I’m your soulmate, yes.” Thin-lipped, she pulls her shirt back on. “Leave Skye alone.”

“What?”

“She’s been through enough,” Jemma says tightly. “Leave her alone.”

Shaking off his shock, Grant stands. “You think I care about Skye? You’re—”

“Nothing,” she interrupts sharply. Then she takes a deep breath and continues, calmly, “I’m nothing to you, I know. But you never would’ve believed Skye isn’t your soulmate unless you saw it with your own eyes, so.” She gestures loosely at her chest. “Now you know, and you won’t be harassing her to the point she feels the need to strip and prove she hasn’t got your mark.”

There’s a lot there—a lot he’ll need to unpack later. For now, there’s only one part of it he’s concerned with.

“You’re not nothing to me,” he says. “You’re my soulmate. Jemma—”

“I’m nothing,” she repeats forcefully. “Don’t even try it, Ward.”

“I’m not trying—”

“You spent a year playing with my feelings,” she says over him. “You think I don’t know that? I might have been blind, but I’m still a genius. I was nothing to you then, and I’m nothing to you now. I won’t let you play me or anyone else again.”

Six months ago, Grant would’ve known exactly the right words to use to talk her down. He could’ve soothed her temper, brought her around, and he could’ve done it easily.

But he wasn’t expecting this. He wasn’t expecting her. The shock still has him floundering—and she doesn’t give him time to recover.

“Leave Skye alone,” she says again, voice and eyes equally cold, and then she blanks the barrier.

Well.

“Okay.” That’d explain the blinding agony and how long it’s taking him to realize really obvious things. Things like the softness his head is resting on isn’t a pillow, it’s her lap. “Is there a reason you’re covering my eyes?”

Her hand shifts. “Still the concussion. There’s a fluorescent light directly above us; I don’t believe you’d enjoy looking into it.”

“Probably not,” he agrees. “What happened?”

“The team,” she says. “May in particular. I understand there was quite a fight.”

As she says it, it comes back to him. Slowly.

Ah, fuck.

“I lost,” he says.

“I’m afraid so.”

“John?” he asks.

Jemma’s free hand leaves his hair and comes to rest on his heart instead. He knows before she takes in a shaky breath to speak what she’s gonna say.

“Dead,” she says anyway. “I’m so sorry, Grant.”

Part of him isn’t, not as crazy as John was getting by the end there. Writing on walls, talking nonsense, abandoning all their plans....there was something wrong with him, something the GH-325 did. Part of Grant isn’t sorry that the maniac who replaced John got put down.

The rest of him hurts. Too much to think on it right now---too much to let himself think about John at all.

He moves on.

“Are we in a cell?” That’d explain the weird echoing quality to both their voices.

Jemma pauses, but doesn’t press the issue of John. She’ll make him talk about it sooner or later, he’s sure--she wouldn’t be her if she didn’t--but probably she’ll wait until the concussion heals. Grant’ll take the time and be thankful. (And be ready to distract her once the concussion’s gone.)

“We are,” she confirms. “In the basement of what I suspect, based on the age, to be an old SSR base.”

Huh. “An old SSR base with only one cell?”

“No.” He can hear the smile in her voice. “I’ve been assured our shared accommodations are only temporary. Once you’ve healed, I’ll be moved.”

Over Grant’s dead body. He’s not letting Jemma out of his sight--not ever again. He’s sure as fuck not letting SHIELD lock her up away from him.

He covers her hand on his chest, his thumb finding her ring almost automatically. He feels along the edges of it, the familiar shape. It’s just like Coulson to let her keep it.

“I’ll have us out of here before they get the chance,” he promises.

Jemma shifts beneath him, enough so the press of her lips to his forehead isn’t a surprise.

Right now, however, the sun is high in the sky, and she’s on the other side of the balcony, overlooking the lawn. Green grass dotted with wildflowers slopes down the hill, acre upon acre of empty space running the length of their little peninsula. It’s perfect for picnics, both intimate family affairs and company-wide.

It’s the latter today, of course. Down below, the lawn is being taken over by blankets, tables, and pavilions as various personnel work on setting up for the Lighthouse’s Fourth of July picnic. Even from up here, she can hear the noise rising—shrieks from the children racing each other from one table to the next, music from someone’s stereo set-up, shouts as agents coordinate the (apparently) delicate set-up of the grilling stations.

Jemma’s meant to be reviewing reports on Floor 14’s latest experiments. Instead, her tablet lays all but forgotten in her lap as she watches the organized chaos below her.

“Sulking?”

She startles, nearly fumbles the tablet, and disguises unlocking it with the pretense of rearranging herself. By the time Grant rounds her chair to lean against the railing before her, she’s able to put on a convincing show of having been lost in her work.

“No,” she says, feigning petulance. “Working. Unlike some.”

He makes a show of looking around. “Weird place for a scientist to work.”

“Fresh air is healthy,” she says archly. “What about you? Have you given up on your pointless celebration of a centuries-old tainted victory?”

He clicks his tongue. “Don’t be a sore loser, baby.”

She sniffs and pointedly returns her attention to her tablet.

It’s all in good fun, of course. Jemma isn’t so patriotic as to begrudge—or even be mildly annoyed by—the Lighthouse’s annual Independence Day celebration. In fact, she always quite enjoys it. As the only English person on base, however, it’s become something of a tradition for her to make a show of disdaining the celebrations, keeping herself apart until someone comes to drag her into things.

(Fitz, naturally, is always quick to remind everyone that he is in fact Scottish, and therefore hates the English even more than the rest of them do.)

The exact methods of said dragging usually depend on just who comes to fetch her, but Grant is given to making it somewhat literal. Last year, he slung her over his shoulder and carried her downstairs, kicking and laughing all the way.

Today, however, he stays where he is, slouched against the railing behind him. His gaze is heavy on her.

“What?” she asks, looking up as the silence draws out. “Don’t you want to return to your party?”

“Nah,” he shrugs. “Think I’d rather celebrate July Fourth the way my ancestors did.”

“And how’s that?”

He smiles, slow and wicked. “By fucking the British.”

Jemma snorts a surprised laugh—a surprised laugh quickly muffled, as Grant swoops in to press his lips to hers. It’s a brief kiss, barely more than a peck…but he never has needed much to get her heart racing.

“So?” he asks as he draws back. Only slightly: he’s still bent over her, hands braced on the armrests of her chair. “What do you say?”

“I don’t know,” she says, pretending to consider. “Can you truly make it worth my while? Perhaps I’d rather stay out here and watch the fireworks.”

“Oh, baby,” Grant laughs. “Don’t you worry. There’ll be plenty of fireworks.”

“Well.” Delicately, Jemma sets her tablet aside. “If there will be fireworks…”

“Stars, too,” he promises.

As ever, he’s as good as his word—and they even make it down to the lawn in time for dinner afterward.