#alnablooms

Suddenly finding a gull which was scrounging for scraps near the bins incredibly interesting, he pretended he hadn’t heard her.

The fact that he had arrived mid-way through term, a shy boy of ten with a thick Scottish accent, a distaste for sports and rough-and-tumble, and an intellect that made even the teachers uncomfortable, had all made him an easy target for Sam Donaldson and his group of friends. The group of boys now picked on him whenever they could, and it didn’t help that he was the smallest in the year, with skinny legs that couldn’t seem to run away fast enough. A sliding tackle had accidentally brought him crashing heavily to the ground in PE earlier that morning, and he skinned all of his left calf. He was dreading going home later; when his mother saw the bandages she’d fret, while his father would just be disappointed that he hadn’t ‘toughened up’ yet.

She narrowed her eyes suspiciously at him, but she didn’t ask the question a second time. Instead, she unzipped her lunch bag and examined its contents carefully. She had ham sandwiches, he noticed, and he felt a little tinge of jealousy as he finally plucked up the courage to bring the tuna monstrosity closer to his face, peering dubiously at the pinky-brown filling and sighing again.

She watched him sadly for a second, biting her lip thoughtfully before prodding his arm with a single, gentle finger.

“Trade you?” she asked. He couldn’t help but grin at this sudden change in fortune.

“Really?” She nodded. “Yes please!”

They swapped sandwiches and happily chattered and read over some science books Jemma had filched from her parents (both of whom were doctors) as they ate. He had been pleasantly shocked to find that she was as clever as he was – no one his own age understood what he was talking about most of the time. As they sat together, he shifted his position on the bench so he could see the books better but knocked his leg as he did so, hissing in pain and her gaze snapped to him, her expression concerned. She flipped the books shut and looked at him seriously, eyes heavy with something that made her seem older than ten.

“Was it Sam?” she asked him sadly, and he nodded and told her about PE, balling his fists up and praying he wouldn’t start crying. He didn’t want to cry in front of Jemma.

“I just wish he’d leave me alone,” he whispered sadly.

“Well I just wish I’d been there,” she told him fiercely. “I’d have pushed him over.”

He looked at her, shocked, and he saw an idea forming on her face. She wouldn’t hurt someone outright, but he knew, as she set her jaw, that she had a horrible habit of putting herself between bullies and the kids they picked on.  

“No Jemma, you mustn’t!” he protested. “They might come after you.”

“Well, I don’t care,” she replied fiercely.

“You should,” he assured her earnestly. All of Sam’s friends were scary, and Sam Donaldson was the scariest of them all.

“But you’re my friend and they hurt you!” Even after months of being in her company, this was hard for him to believe. He’d never had a friend before and he’d always believed that Jemma just felt sorry for him.

“No I’m not,” he said sadly, “no one ever wants me for a friend.”

She crossed her thin arms over her chest and glared at him.

“You don’t get to tell me you’re not my friend. You are and I’ll prove it.”

He would remember for years how soft her lips were and how the ends of her hair tickled him as she leaned forward and kissed him. He had been so shocked he’d almost fallen off the bench, but she simply pulled back and asked him if someone who didn’t like someone else would kiss them. Then, unperturbed, she’d gone back to the books. He joined her a moment later but his mind kept straying back to what had just happened.

He was her SO. Coulson was their leader. Fitz had been her partner. Why had no one looked after her properly?

They were all she had, and they’d failed her.

Fitz excused himself, no doubt to check on Simmons, and suddenly he too needed to step away, suddenly felt an overwhelming anger and before he knew it, there was a surge of pain in his hand and, glancing down, he found it balled into a fist, bleeding where it had come into contact with the van he had just punched. It had been a little while since the pulsing, burning rage of the Asgardian magic had flared up quite so fiercely, and he only remembered it being so potent the day he first touched the Berserker Staff.

When May appeared at his side, she was wearing a look he hadn’t seen on her face in a while, and as she tried to calm him down, it was difficult to know who needed the other more. His heart lurched for a second as she laced her fingers between his, and he returned the gesture as best he could, squeezing her hand slightly and he both heard and felt her exhale heavily at the contact.

She let go a moment later, too soon he thought, and murmured for him to follow her upstairs and he did not have the energy or the will to resist. She gestured that he should sit on the couch and disappeared from sight, only to return a moment later with a first aid kit. She sat beside him, careful to leave a few inches of space between them.  

“Give me your hand,” she muttered quietly, opening the clips on the plastic box and fishing out a pack of antiseptic wipes.

“I’m fine,” he said darkly, staring through the table in front of them.

She quirked an eyebrow at him and repeated her request. When he did not move, she took his damaged hand in one of hers, gently wiping it, and he hissed as it stung unexpectedly. Glancing down, he realised for the first time that it was bleeding far more than he thought. He must have caught it on something. Funny, he hadn’t even noticed.

“No one is expecting you to be fine,” she told him gently, smoothing an unidentified ointment over the cuts.

“I know,” he admitted eventually as she covered the wounds as best she could, smoothing her thumb back and forth over a square of gauze as she taped it down. “I just want her to be.”

“We all do,” she replied eventually, a lilt to her voice that was so full of such pure, raw emotion that it reminded him all too well that he was not the only one who was suffering and in need of comfort right now.

May, he had learned, had a desperate need to protect people. She wanted to stop other people suffering as she had, took it upon herself to take the hits since she’d taken so many already. Even if Skye herself did not know it, Ward had seen how much May cared about the younger woman, how much of herself she saw in Skye. She was always so quiet and in control, it was easy to forget how much she suffered.

“Thank you,” he whispered, gesturing to the bandage on his hand, and she flashed him a brief, tight-lipped smile.

He shifted his position on the couch so they were sat together, shoulder-to-shoulder, his right arm pressed against hers, and her left leg warm against his own. He felt her lean into him slightly, and it occurred to him again that it was likely that neither of them knew whether they were comforting the other, or just themselves.