AN: I own nothing. As always many thanks to my Myranda for all her awesomeness! This is a very very late reply to a tumblr prompt! If you enjoy tell me.

Grant Ward is so completely over Skye Johnson it's truly not funny. What is funny is that no one believes him when he says it: not their combined friends, not his brothers, and not even half his colleagues at the precinct.

His partner Bobbi, at least, understands, if only because her ex is a firefighter and, according to Bobbi, neither her ex's station house nor the precinct wants to give up on the pair. It's why she agrees to be his date to Skye's wedding, if only beat back the rumor mill for one of them. Though other rumors could start as result. He has never found his partner attractive, despite her beauty and damn near Amazonian height. She's his friend, his back up in every way that could count.

He's tried dating a friend before, it just didn't work. Three years ago, he'd broken it off with Skye and they'd maintained their friendship though everyone tried to push them back together as "destined" and "right". It wasn't right; it was like fitting a square peg into a round hole. What the two of them have now works for them, a friendship built on affection and respect, nothing more.

So the morning of the big day, he's actually looking forward to the free booze and food that Skye's loaded parents will undoubtedly have paid for when he gets a text from Bobbi.

*Morse: Bad news, good news, Ward. The bad – that fucker Murphy lied about food poisoning and it WAS contagious…

He doesn't wait for her next text to fire back.

*Ward: God damn it, are you shitting me? I have to go stag and suffer the judgment of everyone because that asshole doesn't want to take a sick day?

*Morse: Good news - I got you, man. Go to St. Rita's Hospital for 4 pm. Emergency exit, look for a pretty brunette in a yellow dress.

*Morse: Which you'd have known if you let me finish my text.

*Ward: The hell, Morse?! I can't just take a stranger to the wedding?

*Morse: Why not? It's not like you RSVP'd with my name. And Jemma owes me one. Plus, you'll like her. Trust me. She's smart, pretty, literally the sweetest woman I know. She's the only thing I truly miss about being married to Lance. You'll thank me later.

*Morse: And don't leave her hanging, she's in surgery most of the day and if I have to drag myself from the floor of the bathroom to shoot you for standing her up, I will.


"He's not going to show Bob. Oh, and before I forget, stay hydrated. I'll send Lance by with some of that chicken noodle soup from Mama Joy's you like so much and ginger ale. Anyway 'm a complete stranger! What do I have in common with a vice cop?" she says into her phone. She finishes up her mascara and stuffs her dirty scrubs down into her go bag.

"Of course he's going to show up, Jem. Trust me, if I didn't have this bug, he'd have dragged me along to avoid the pity stares at Skye's wedding. Anyway, you said you were having a dry spell and I think you'd have fun taking him for a test drive before you get back to the races. Trust in fact that I'd never purposely steer you wrong."

"Is he attractive?" she asks, making her way out to her car to ditch the bag into the back seat of her Prius.

"He's annoyingly attractive."


"No one is as smart as you, babe, but he'll keep up."

"I'll have to take your word for it. Calling the irksome big brother for you now, love, I love you! Rest! Sleep is the most effective medicine. Bye.


When Grant pulls up, he sees her instantly. She's hard to miss in that lemon yellow dress and matching heels. She's also wearing something that's sort of half headband, half hat. It has a little jauntily placed top hat and black veil that partially obscures her face. If she's Hunter's sister, then she's British, so he chalks it up to that.

When his car comes to a stop in front of her, she distractedly ends her call. She slips the phone into her clutch as he gets out of the car.

He doesn't miss her appreciative glance at the Tesla Roadster as he crosses around the front of it to stand before her. "Family dough has its advantages, she's a beaut, huh?" She nods in agreement. Then the glance is turned on him and it's definitely more than appreciation in her eyes. There is certainly lust mixed into it; he's incited enough of it in women to know how to spot it, though he rarely returns it as readily or keenly as he does just now.

Morse had called her pretty, which is a gross underestimation by his definition. She is beautiful in a delicate, demure way he can't quite put his finger on. She extends a fine-boned hand to him.

"Jemma Simmons," she says with a slight whimsical smile.

When he shakes her hand, he expects softness. But her grip is strong, and there are callouses on her fingers. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he remembers Morse mentioning her sister-in-law was some sort of surgeon and was highly sought after.

"Grant Ward."

"Grant, it's nice to meet you. Surely you aren't as loathsome as my brother claims."

He returns her teasing smile. "Let's hope not." He can admit, if only to himself, there is added pleasure in knowing that his attraction to Jemma will rile up Hunter. He helps her into the car and, when she's not looking around in curiosity, she's tugging at the hem of her skirt.

When he pulls her hand away from the fabric, his fingers brush her thigh and she inhales in surprise. "Why are you nervous?" He asks, glancing between her and the traffic light they're stopped at. It won't be long until they reach the wedding: Skye is getting married at a church mere blocks from hospital.

"Bobbi said you wish to detract from the queries about you and Skye by bringing someone and appearing to be involved which I completely understand it's only that-"

"I'm over her," he states, meaning it fully for the four-thousandth time. Even if he hadn't been, something tells him the good doctor would have cured him of a hung up heart in seconds flat.

"I'm sure, I only mean to say that I'm a rather horrid liar."

He shrugs. "We'll just keep it simple and then let people assume whatever they choose. Bobbi introduced us and we hit it off."

"That is the truth, or or so it would seem." She shoots him that half smile again. He aims to get the full-fledged one before the night is through.

He has every intention of letting go of her hand; he just never quite manages to do it. She doesn't seem to mind.


They park the car Jemma is itching to drive and cross the church yard together, her hand still laced with his. She glances around as they enter the tiny gothic-style church with its high ceilings and stained glass windows.

Jemma had always loved churches. It was like the complexity of each one was the architect's way of worshiping. She can't say that aloud without sounding fanciful and odd, so she contents herself with a sigh of appreciation.

As they make their way up the aisle to their seats, Jemma takes in the bright purples and pinks and vibrant green of the summer colors at odds with the traditionalism of the church. Something tells her she'd like the bride. She's not sure how her date would feel about that.

He releases her hand so she can step in front of him to take her seat and a tiny part of her feels a loss at the contact. Before she can think it over much, he's seated beside her and the processional starts.

First comes the groomsmen and the groom, a dorky-looking, all American type. He seems familiar but Jemma can't place him. He looks nervous yet happy. It's very sweet.

She shifts her eyes to glance at Grant, who seems unfazed.

The best man, a handsome black man, shoots her a grin as he passes. Grant stretches his arm across the pew behind her a touch possessively. Half to play up her part and half because she simply wants to, Jemma leans into him. He draws imaginary designs on her arm. If she didn't know any better, she'd say they feel like his initials.

Shortly, the wedding march begins to play and the bride begins her walk as the congregation stands. She's not sure what she was expecting, but its not this woman wearing a short lace dress, high heeled converse sneakers and daisy crown. She's remarkably pretty in a very pure way. There is something in the effervescent, almost uncontainable way the girl moves that is utterly at odds with the cocksure but methodical man standing at Jemma's side.

Skye only has eyes for her groom. She barely notices anything else and seems startled out of her thoughts when her father kisses her cheek. Something must strike Grant as funny, because he stifles a laugh.

The ceremony is fairly straight-forward, and when minister calls for objections, no one makes any, though a few eyes turn awkwardly their way.

The vows are short and sweet, very to the point, which Jemma's glad for because she's hungry enough to eat horse. Not literally, of course.


The reception is held a huge tent behind the church. There is no receiving line. Grant expected as much, as Skye had never been much for following convention. Instead, the bride and groom are simply announced as they come in after their photos. Skye looks truly happy and he's glad for her. He holds no bitterness toward he: they had been a bad fit trying to make good. They genuine liked each other and on paper they should have worked. They just didn't. They were opposite enough to attract, just not enough to work.

He looks at Jemma and catches her looking back at him. She smiles at him. There's a tension between them, and not an uncomfortable one, something flowing between them.

He wants to explore it.

"What?" she asks.

"Wanna eat?"

"I thought you'd never ask. I'm starved!"

As they get up to fill their plates she turns back to him. "Please do not judge me based upon the way I'm about to wolf all of this down."

"Never. " He laughs, delighted by her honesty. "What'd you do today?"

"Three MVA's with various injuries, a crush syndrome victim, and an aortic dissection I barely caught in time. I hardly had the time to breathe, much less eat or drink. What did you do?"

"Can't say a lot about it, but currently I'm gathering intel to infiltrate a drug cartel."

"Sounds quite fraught with danger."

"It it wasn't a little dangerous, it wouldn't be fun."

"That should likely be more worrying than it is."

They sit down and eat and she stays composed, taking dainty bites until the cake is served. When she takes the first bite of the sweet creation the little moan of delight she gives makes his insides clench.

The desire to hear the sound under different circumstances, elicited by him and him alone is so strong he has to fist hands to stop from touching her, and he's already established he could definitely get used to to the feel of her skin against his palm or… other places.

She licks a bit of icing clinging to the bow of her top lip away, and he might be staring but can't stop himself. He comes to decision; he will at the very least kiss her before the night is over.

Skye chooses that very moment to come over. "Hey Grant, new partner? What happened to Morse?"

"Oh no, I'm not a police officer. Bobbi actually introduced us; she's my sister-in-law." Jemma jumps up. "I'm Jemma, the wedding has been lovely, I love your style, unique yet comfortable."

"Thank you!"

"Are the boots comfortable? I'm a doctor and spend a great deal of time on my feet, I love a good heel but not the pain involved."

"I'll let you know at the end of the night."

Skye's mother, Jiayang, soon corners him and he losses track of the conversation with Skye. Something about the fabric of Skye's dress being made of repurposed textiles. He watches as Jemma lights up and asks after the company.

"I'm always looking for eco-friendly scrubs and the like-"

Skye's mother is speaking, so he regretfully pulls his eyes away from Jemma. "You look happy. I'm glad I always only wanted the best for you; I'm only sad it couldn't be with Skye."

"It is what is." He shrugs, watching as Skye pulls Jemma across the room for God only knows what. "Ah shit no…" he mutters to himself and makes his way over to where Jemma is talking to Skye's father, Cal.

Cal Johnson is a brilliant plastic surgeon who literally pieces people back together. He's also a dismissive, elitist asshole who only tolerated Grant because of the weight the Ward name carries in hospital charity circles. Grant knows the other man thinks Grant is, for better lack of a term, stupid and low class.


*Bobbi: How's it hanging, Jem Jam?"

*Jem: You said he was attractive! That man is not merely attractive Bob! He's painfully good looking, It's unfair! How am I supposed to be a good girl when he's got cheek bones and arms like that?!

*Bobbi: Sweetie, you don't have to be good, that's the point of this! Be bad, Jem! You know you want to!

*Jem: You enabling enabler!

*Bobbi: I'm a true friend, sister.

*Jem: He's got great hands. You know hands are my thing!

*Bobbi: Tell him to put them on you. Just, you know, when shit gets real use condoms. He gets more tail than a rabbit trap.

*Jem: Bobs! Seriously?

*Bobbi: The best sex is safe sex! GTG! Lance is here with my soup.

*Jemma: Do not even so much as breathe on him! He's a monumental baby when ill and I will not mother him this time!

*Bobbi: Yes, you will! Have a fun rest of your night babe!

Before Jemma can type another response, she gets pulled into a conversation.


"The only reason I could halfway manage the grafting technique was due to the patient's refined vasculature and muscle definition. There was enough left to rebuild in the first place, any other bullet…." Jemma feels a hand plant itself on her hip and slide up to rest at the small of her back exposed by the sun dress. She turns to find Grant. "Oh, Hello. I didn't mean to abandon you, love. it's only that Skye made mention of her father and we recently shared a patient. I did the grunt work, and he came in on consult to make it look extra pretty."

"Nonsense, it was all very clean and well done. You left me little to do. Though do wonder why you chose the Hamlin technique over the Mauldon? We're undoubtedly talking over Grant's head, it's a reconstruction method, you can't possibly grasp." Jemma watches as Grant gets mowed over in the conversation.

"I didn't know which ammunition had been used, I merely made an educated guess. Though, Grant, is there any way, in your experience, you can tell the bullet used and the damage done?"

"Anything armor piercing will almost always undoubtedly kill, hollow points shred and then melt away in fragments, plain bullets aimed deadly will kill anyway. Different crime organizations have different sources and levels sophistication as well." He looks at her so oddly that her heart does a funny little lurch.

Cal's face looks like he's suddenly tasted something sour and Skye smiles unapologetic approval across from him, even as she's wrapped in her husband's embrace.

He offers Jemma his hand. "Wanna dance?" she nods and he pulls her out on to the floor to dance to the fun upbeat song.

He's spinning and turning, twisting her along to the tune while murmuring the words near her ear in a rapid fire manner. "Screen falling off the door door hanging off the hinges my feet are still sore my back is on the fringes. We tore up the walls we slept on couches. We lifted this house we lifted this house. Fire-crackers in the east my car parked south!"

For the first time in weeks, Jemma isn't stressed, she isn't frazzled and busy. She's happy. She goes with flow of the music and Grant's body and sings the words back at him.

"Your hands on my cheeks your shoulder in my mouth I was up against the wall on the west mezzanine. We rattle this town, we rattle this scene! O, Anna Sun!" something dark and heated crosses his face as she smiles breathlessly at him.

The fast song soon melts into a slow one by Kodaline she recognizes. It's got a dreamy melody and big booming drumbeat. She loves the ways the sweet lyrics speak about how that one person makes you feel and knowing they're the one.

Grant guides her around the floor with confidence, yet its intimate enough to make her feel they're the only ones in the tent. His arms are a comforting weight around her. His hand occasionally strokes up her bare back, leaving a trail of tingles in it's wake. The other hand holds hers, playing with her fingers lazily.

"Bobbi isn't going to let me live this down, you know?"

"Live what down?" he asks laughingly, the words slide along her trapezius and up into the curve her neck. She can't suppress the shiver the warmth of his breath cause as they continue to sway along the edges of the dance floor.

"How very right she was."

"There is that," he agrees with a tsk noise. "Who says she has to know?"

"My nature. I'm not good with deception and I like you. Likely more than I should," she confesses while looking up at him, feeling like that girl once again out of her league.

He does something that surprises her, without a word of reply. He leans down and, shoving the veil of her fascinator back, kisses her. It's a soft there and gone kiss that leaves the ball firmly in her court. His mouth hovers at the corner of hers but he makes no move one way or another.

She steps up on to her tip toes and kisses him back. His hand snakes around the side of her neck to hold her in place as he deepens the kiss. It's a languid, explorative kiss that leaves her lungs burning and her lips tingling.

Her skin prickles with goose bumps. "We're in public," she reminds him. It comes out in a hoarse, velvety tone, even to her own ears. All she gets in return is a predatory growl. He pulls her closer still, kisses the breath from her lungs again.

"Want to get out of here?" His tone is perfectly calm but there's a tension raging through him. One hand is splayed on her back, the other is fiddling with shoulder strap of her dress, like he's toying with the idea of snapping it.

"Everyone will know…" she says forcing herself to let go of the lapel of his jacket. In the course of that amazing kiss, she must have gripped them.

"Fuck everyone else's opinion. What's yours?"

"I want to be with you. I mean, wherever you want. Bollocks! Yes, let's leave."


She can't believe she's doing this. She, Jemma Simmons, has gone back to hotel with a man she's known for fewer than five hours, one apparently rich enough to rent a hotel penthouse in New York City.

"Ward's are like Kennedys, or so the papers say. Mostly we're entitled assholes. I try not to be but I like my luxuries afforded to me via inheritance," he says, noting her gob smacked expression as they pass the doorman on the way in.

Money talk is forgotten soon enough as he is a man with a very talented mouth and hands. He's leaving sucking and nipping kisses along the line of her neck as they move out of the elevator. The sensation is feeding a fire, kindled and fanned by her instant attraction to him. His hand insinuates its way up her skirt and between her thighs.

She tries to get the keycard in once, twice, and by the third time, his fingers are skimming over her underwear and she losses all concentration and gives up, whimpering pitifully into the wood grain of the door. He deftly plucks the card from her fumbling hand and swipes it through one the first try.

"Tosser," she mutters, shoving the door open. His only reply is a dark chuckle and pushing her knickers aside to rub at and push into her cunt.

He walks her backward through the door, nudging it shut without letting it up. It's a miracle she can stand, much less move at this point. He keeps them moving and pilots through the suite into the bedroom. She stops before a marble vanity, next to a floor to ceiling mirror. He angles her so she can everything he's doing to her.

Her skirt has gotten rucked up to her thighs and he's still got a hand buried between her legs. Her hair is a falling mess, her fascinator was lost somewhere between here and the door, and her lipstick is soundly kissed off. She catches his eyes as he kisses a trail back down her neck. There is a hungry, possessive gleam in them; it's almost dark but promises pleasure.

It's that look that makes her come the first time, gasping and arching into the sensation, fast and sharp as his finger hook perfectly inside her. It catches her off guard, yet she wants more, so much more.

She flushed and can't catch her breath as he slips his hand away from her body. "Jemma. Baby…" he toys with the strap of her dress.

"Hmm," she murmurs in desperation. She looks at him in the mirror. He's so collected it's bloody irritating.

"You might wanna grab on to the edge of the vanity."

He pushes the top her dress down, and then her underwear comes away with a loud rip. She's naked now all but for her shoes and the scrap of yellow fabric about her waist. He's still fully dressed and she's sure it says something about the power play but she can't even consider it. Not with the way he's looking at her as he palms her right breast and kisses along her jaw line. She turns her head to kiss him.

She can feel the head of him there at her entrance. She nods and he pushes in slowly. She gasps. Kissing him is odd at this angle, so she breaks away contents herself with grinding back into him only to have him push in again. She smirks at him as it slowly becomes a game. Each time goes harder and deeper until they are so far bent over the vanity table Jemma's breath fogs the glass of the mirror.

The only sounds in room are heavy breathing, the occasional groan and or curse, and the sound of skin meeting skin. She'd taken of his tie and unbuttoned his shirt in the elevator, and in the mirror she can see his chest is red and heaving as he hangs on tightly to control. She wonders, as he kisses down her spine, if anyone had ever taught him how to let go. She wants to make him lose control.

"You're so fuckin' beautiful, you know that," he groans as she feels her muscles start to flutter around him. She smiles and grinds back harder, clenching around him. His control finally slips and they both come so loudly Jemma's sure they're heard two city blocks away.


He's fully awake but feigning sleep because she's laying half on top of him, watching him. He really likes the way her eyes feel on him. Though he can't see her face, he can feel an inkling of early morning shame in the way she's holding herself. He feels no shame. He'd wanted her, had her twice…he wants her again.

Her body, her skin, her kisses, and those sounds. Damn, those sounds. It had all been addicting but her high pitched keen as she came had dug in and twisted itself inside him. It would linger. She was going to linger, and he wanted that as much as his next breath.

She moves to slip out from his grasp. "Uh uh, nope," he mumbles, tightening his grip on her. Opening his eyes, he flips her beneath him in a swift motion. Her surprised little twitter of laughter makes him smile.

"No regrets are allowed in this room, only more sex." He ducks down to focus on what is quickly becoming his favorite spot on her neck even as he uses his knee to part her thighs.

"Is that right? Who says I regret anything?" she says conversationally, trailing a hand up into his hair to play and tug at it.

"Body language, sweetheart."

"Clearly you misunderstood, maybe you should re-read," she says, shifting beneath him. She opens her legs, settling him in the cradle of her hips.


"Fuck!" she swears. "That's my ER Beeper. I'm on call today." She kisses him quick and hard. "Sorry!"

Before he can even think to answer, she's rolling out from beneath him. He watches her cross the room naked in the early morning light. He takes note of the impressive hickey on the left side of her neck and matching ones that scatter down her back. There's beard burn on her hip bones and fingerprint-sized bruises on her inner thighs and ass cheeks.

He gotten carried away, but nothing had felt that right in ages. He loves to think that, under all the drab scrubs and clean white lab coat she'll have to put on, she'll carry his marks, little reminders of their encounters. He's got a few of his own, too. Scratches, bite marks, hickeys trailing his collar bone.

"Drexel! Hello, I was paged." She cocks her head over, smiling at him. "How many critical? Yes! I'm headed that way! Have my spares ready, please."

When she hangs up, it's his phone that rings.

"Ward! "

"Hey dude, you close to the station? Garrett is pissed. Intelligence unit found an in and we need an insider present. Someone to make sure the bust won't get jacked when we make it. We could send Morse if you're hung up," Mack says.

Yes, I'm close, I'll be there shortly. Don't send Morse. Calina thinks she's my girlfriend and, besides that, he's is a sexist fucker, she'll kill him."

"Hurry Dude, Garrett's pissy this morning. You'd think it was his ex that got hitched."

"I'm going," he says flatly before hanging up.

Grant and Jemma dress quickly and in silence, Jemma gets back into her dress, which is slightly disheveled. She clearly didn't plan on fucking him, and it gives him a little thrill watching her try and decide if you can tell she's has no panties on.

"You can't see anything, but if you want, I have boxers."

She only laughs. "I look absurd."

"You look beautiful." She rolls her eyes at him and they move out into the hall and rush into the elevator.

"I want to see you again," Grant says pushing the down button. She's standing so close her arm brushes his and he reaches down to trace a barely visible bruise at the base of her spine.

"I'm free Tuesday, if you want too-"

"I want to Jemma. I very much want to."

She smiles. stretching up on to her bare toes to kiss him. He pulls her close and sinks into it until the elevator door open and she breaks away, sneaking past him out the door to pull on her heels and stride as quickly as he does through the lobby.

"Tuesday it is!" And then she's gone, stepping quickly into a cab waiting for hotel guests.

Shit! He thinks, realizing suddenly that he doesn't have her number. He'll have to ask Morse. She's going to be fucking smug about this! He'll take it, take just about anything for a repeat of last night though. Jemma Simmons is something else. For the first time in a long time, maybe ever, he wants more.