A/N: First of all, thank you very much to everyone who commented, bookmarked, subscribed, and kudo'd. This story has gotten a major reaction and I very much appreciate it.

Second, the lovely, amazing sapphireglyphs (who is, in case you don't already know this, my absolute favorite) made a spectacular edit for this fic. Once you've read the chapter (or before, even; I'm not picky), you should absolutely go check it out and heap praise on her, because it's gorgeous: sapphireglyphs dot tumblr dot com /post/104339096351/erase-myself-and-let-go-start-it-over-again

Third, in case you missed it, there is a collection of drabbles relating to this verse called the end will come (and wash it all away). There are only two drabbles so far, but I've got more requests in my inbox, so more will be added eventually. So check that out, if you haven't already.

Fourth, another reminder that this is not a nice Ward. He's super creepy. Fair warning.

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

By the time Jemma finishes her shower, she's feeling—if not better—a little more in control of herself. She's had months to come to terms with what she lost, and while it's understandable that seeing Ward has stirred it all up again, she can't allow herself to dwell on despair. He's clearly enjoying watching her suffer, and if she can do nothing else, she can deny him that. She needs to keep her calm.

Wrapped in a towel, she digs through the duffle bag to find that Ward was correct: the clothes he bought her are a little large. Not so bad as to be unwearable, just a little looser than she generally prefers. She dresses quickly in jeans and a wool jumper and then, as she's lacking a hair dryer, clips her hair back to let it air dry.

She returns her shampoo and shower gel to the toiletries bag (both are, just as the face wash, her favorite brands, and once again she is not thinking about it) then, because she did make rather a mess of things whilst picking her outfit, carefully refolds and repacks all of the clothes into the duffle bag.

That complete, she looks around the room carefully, but no other opportunities to stall present themselves. So, with a deep breath, she picks up the bag and leaves the (admittedly, mostly imagined) safety of the bathroom.

Ward is on the phone again. He's turned all the lights on, and is sitting—or sprawling, rather—at the small desk near the door, writing something on the hotel stationery as he speaks. As she drops her bag on the floor next to the bed, he looks up from his note-taking to give her a slow once-over.

Then he grins and switches abruptly from Arabic to English.

"You'll especially want to watch out for May," he says, eyes locked with hers. "She packs a punch."

She takes a step forward before she can stop herself. She doesn't know what she's planning to do—or even if she's planning to do anything at all. It's a simple reflexive response to the mention of May, and it clearly amuses Ward, who gives her a little wink.

"Yeah," he says into the phone. "Let me know when you're ten minutes out. I'll get things started."

Her heart is in her throat as he hangs up and lobs his mobile across the room, where it lands in his open duffle bag. She remembers what he said yesterday about a gift for SHIELD and wonders if that gift is going to be a slaughter. More importantly, she wonders what she can do to stop it.

"Calm down, Jem," he chides, standing. "I can see your mind working, and as fun as it might be to see what you come up with, there's no need for you to interfere."

"No?" she asks, crossing her arms. "What was that about May, then?"

He crosses the room until he's standing right in front of her, looming over her in a less-than-subtle threat. Her heart is racing, but she doesn't back away. She simply tilts her head back to meet his eyes steadily. The implied threat to her team outweighs her fear of him.

After a moment, Ward grins again and lifts a hand to cup her chin.

"You're cute when you're feeling brave," he teases, brushing his thumb along her bottom lip. Skin crawling, she knocks his hand away, and he laughs quietly. "But there's really no need for it. I told you yesterday, I'm arranging a replacement prisoner for Coulson. Can't be there myself, obviously, since we've got other plans, so I'm using an intermediary. I was just warning him to keep out of the crossfire, that's all."

"And you did it in English," she says. "Because you wanted to see how I'd react?"

"Yeah," he says. "Pretty much. It was…" He smirks a little. "Illuminating." He pats her on the cheek and then turns away. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm gonna shower. We'll leave as soon as I'm dressed."

As he turns away, however, her eyes catch on his wrist, and, without thinking, she grabs his arm. Once her mind catches up to her actions, she lets go immediately, but what's done is done, and Ward looks back at her with a smirk.

"What?" he asks. "You in the mood to join me?"

She's leery of giving the impression that she cares about his well-being, because he really doesn't need the encouragement. However, she'll certainly take that over his offer, so she gathers her composure and nods at his wrist.

"What happened?" she asks.

He turns to face her properly again and holds out his arms, displaying the large, ugly scars marring both of his wrists. She stares, taking in the size and placement of them. The sheer amount of blood loss they must have caused…

"You attempted suicide?" she asks, a little faintly.

"Would it bother you if I said yes?" he counters.

Honestly, she has no idea. She doesn't know what she's feeling at the moment. And even if she did, she still might not answer—because a negative response might enrage him, while a positive response might encourage him. It's better not to speak at all.

"No?" he asks, and lowers his arms. "Well, I didn't. Not seriously, at least."

"What?" she asks, confused. Those scars look fairly serious to her.

(They're large enough that it's truly surprising it took her this long to notice them. He was wearing a jacket all day yesterday, of course, but even with the room as dark as it was when she woke, she really should have seen them then. She's a scientist, for all that she's spent the past few months playing school teacher. Being emotional is no excuse for being unobservant.)

"Coulson saw me as too much of a threat," he says, walking over to the bed that was supposed to be his. He rummages through his duffle bag as he speaks. "I needed to convince him I wasn't, get him to lower his guard. The, uh, broken act was my best play. So I pretended to try to kill myself a few times."

"Pretended to…" she breaks off and shakes her head. The risks he takes are none of her concern. If he slit his own wrists solely to trick Coulson into relaxing his guard, the only thing it should do is remind her of just how manipulative—how calculating—he is.

"It was risky," he acknowledges, apparently following her train of thought. "But, to be fair, I didn't know you were gone. Not at first, anyway. And Trip patched me up fine." He draws a black bag out of his duffle and drops it on the bed. "And, most importantly, it worked. Coulson thought I was crazy, it made him sloppy, and here we are."

"Here we are," she agrees, significantly less cheerfully.

"The rest of our catching up will have to wait," he says. "I need to shower so we can get moving."

His hands go to the drawstring on his pajama bottoms, and Jemma turns away, ignoring his soft laughter. She's half-expecting some snarky comment about how it's nothing she hasn't seen before, but all he does is squeeze her shoulder as he passes her on his way into the bathroom.

"Out in a minute," he says.

As soon as the door closes behind him, she goes straight to the desk. Unfortunately, none of what he's written down is in English (or French, which she would also be able to read). It's entirely in Russian, which is interesting, since she's positive he was using Arabic on the phone. Speaking of which…

She darts a glance at the bathroom door (still closed), then crosses to Ward's still-open duffle bag. His mobile is resting on top of his neatly folded clothes, and after the barest second of hesitation, she picks it up.

It's an old Nokia—old enough that it has neither touch-screen nor slide-out keyboard, and she puzzles over the choice…but only for a moment. Even a phone this old has a call log, and she thumbs through it quickly. She makes note of the last three numbers called and burns them into her mind.

Then she weighs the phone in her hand, torn. She can hear the shower running. A quick call to May or Coulson, just long enough to give them her location, warn them about the 'gift,' and pass along these numbers…it wouldn't even take thirty seconds. She'd have plenty of time to erase the call from the log and return the phone to the bag. He'd never know.

Her thumb hovers over the keypad. She should make the call. Her team could be in danger. There's no guarantee that Ward's telling the truth about his 'gift' being a replacement prisoner. After all, he was willing to slit his own wrists just to increase his chances of escape. Who knows how far he might go to gain revenge against the people who locked him up? Her team might be—actually, is almost certainly—in danger. It's her duty to do whatever she can to help them.

But there's a knot of fear in her chest as she stares down at the phone. She's thinking of what happened yesterday, of his threat to break her and her fear for the lives of the people in that store. How many people are staying in this hotel right now?

Two people for every number she puts in before he catches her. Assuming she manages the whole thing, that's ten numbers. Twenty people.

Can she risk that? Can she risk the lives of twenty innocent strangers in the name of warning her team about a threat of which she knows absolutely no details?

Can she prioritize the lives of the people she loves over the lives of helpless civilians?

She hesitates too long, and the decision is made for her as the shower cuts off. Cursing silently, she returns the phone to Ward's bag and hurries to sit on the far side of the other bed. She doesn't try to look innocent, because she knows that's sure to fail. She simply reminds herself that she has nothing to feel guilty about. She didn't make the call.

(She hopes she won't regret it.)

Ward exits the bathroom wearing only a towel around his waist, and Jemma looks down at her hands. She toys with her wedding ring, twisting it back and forth. It still feels odd to be wearing it again, but at the same time, it's so familiar that it's almost comforting. Almost.

An odd buzzing sound pulls her out of her contemplation of her ring, and she looks up to find Ward standing at the sink, shaving with an electric razor. She wishes he wouldn't. The beard doesn't suit him at all, and, in fact, adds a rather significant creepiness factor to his overall appearance, but without it he'll look that much more like her husband. She doesn't want that—doesn't want to be able to forget, for even the slightest fraction of a second, that this man is a traitor and a murderer.

Still, she has the feeling that commenting on his appearance will open up an avenue of conversation that she truly does not want to go down. So she returns to fiddling with her ring and keeps her silence.

Eventually, the buzz of the razor ceases, and Ward makes a thoughtful noise.

"What do you think?" he asks. "Should I leave the stubble? Or shave it, too?"

Without looking up, she shrugs.

"You're right," he says, as though she's answered. "I look better with it. Clean-shaven doesn't suit me nearly as well as it suits my cover."

She suspects that, in other circumstances, the reference to the lie he lived with her for so long would hurt. At the moment, however, she's too busy trying not to panic to give it much attention.

She hears him set the razor down and closes her eyes. Her heart is in her throat as he walks past her on his way to the other bed. She's terrified of what her face might give away, and terrified that he'll somehow know that she looked through his mobile. She was in such a hurry when she put it back; what if she didn't replace it exactly? What if it's off-center, or wrong side up, and he notices?

She can hear the rustle of cloth behind her as he gets dressed, and a bit of the tension goes out of her spine. His mobile was on top of his clothes; surely, if there was any sign that she moved it, he would have seen it before removing his clothes from the bag?

Still, she's holding her breath as the sounds stop—or at least become quiet enough that they're drowned out by the blood pounding in her ears. The seconds stretch out, and she's sure, absolutely positive, that at any moment he's going to—

"Jemma."

She very nearly jumps out of her skin. She opens her eyes and, praying that the panic she's feeling isn't written all over her, twists to face him. He doesn't look angry.

"What, did you fall asleep?" he teases. "I didn't take that long."

"No," she says somewhat breathlessly. "Just…thinking."

"You can think in the car," he says. "Let's go. Get your shoes on and grab your bag."

"Yes," she says, standing. "Of course."

She slips her shoes on, then bends down to pick up the duffle bag that's been deemed hers, keeping her eyes on Ward. He picks up his mobile and slips it into his pocket without giving it more than a glance.

"You ready?" he asks her, picking up his own duffle.

She nods, not trusting her voice. She feels slightly dizzy from relief. He really didn't notice. She might not have managed to get word to SHIELD, but she also hasn't managed to get anyone in this hotel killed. She'll take that as a victory.

She follows him out of the room and into the early morning air. It's still dark outside, the car park lit with orange from the street lights, and it takes her a moment to realize that the truck they arrived in last night has been replaced by a black sedan. She doesn't know enough about cars to identify the model, but she recognizes the Audi symbol on the front grille.

"You like it?" Ward asks casually, pulling a key-ring out of his pocket and unlocking the doors remotely. "The truck was getting a little hot."

He comes to a stop next to the passenger side door and gives her an expectant look. She shakes off her surprise and obediently joins him at the car, passing him the duffle she's carrying when he holds out a hand. As he continues to the boot, she opens the door to find her handbag sitting on the passenger seat. She moves it to the footwell with a slight frown, not sure what to think of the fact that he remembered to move it from the truck when she had entirely forgotten about it.

She thinks, as she gets in the car and closes the door, that the way he's been alternating between considerate and menacing—apparently completely at random—is more than a little terrifying.

The change in vehicles, although it caught her off-guard, is very welcome. This car, after all, has a console between the front seats, so she can't be forced into physical contact with him the way she was yesterday. It's a sad commentary on the state of things that this is enough to brighten her day, but it really does.

"All right," Ward says, settling into the driver's seat. "Here we go."

He sounds so cheerful, so happy, and it grates on her. She just wants to shake him—or possibly hit him. He's kidnapped her, threatened her, threatened the lives of the people around them, and taunted her with the possibility of danger to the people she loves. She's spent the past seventeen hours scared out of her mind, and he's loved every moment of it.

She just…hates him. She's spent seven months hating him. Sooner or later, that has to stop hurting.

Doesn't it?

"So," Ward says, as he turns out onto the street. "What do you want for breakfast? McDonald's? Sonic?" He smiles a little as they pass a food truck parked on the side of the road. "Tacos?"

"I'm not hungry," she says. Her stomach is still twisted up in knots.

"You didn't touch your dinner last night," he reminds her. "You need to eat. Keep your strength up. So, again: what do you want for breakfast?"

There's a warning in his tone, a suggestion that further refusal will result in consequences, and she sighs. She's really not certain that she'll be able to eat anything, but she needs to pick her battles with him. Breakfast is not the hill to die on.

"McDonald's, then," she says. Perhaps she can stomach some oatmeal.

"McDonald's it is," he agrees. It's just ahead on the left, and he changes lanes as he continues, "Now, was that so hard?"

She looks away, out the window. It's a little after six, and the streets are full of cars—full of people going about their lives. This is a small town, like her own, and looking at the early morning traffic sends an unexpected pang through her. She should be getting ready for work right now, showering and dressing while the local news plays in the background. The news runs on a regular schedule; at this exact moment, back at home, Alison Steele (whose daughter Leslie is in Jemma's physics class) will be giving the weather.

It's funny; she spent so long feeling out of place in Bonnet Hill—feeling as though she were merely going through the motions, surviving but not engaging, content but not happy. Now, she'd do anything to be back there.

She wonders if she ever will make it home. She wonders if there's any way for her to make it out of this situation alive.

x

For some reason, the silence is even harder to bear, today. Yesterday it was oppressive. Today, it's torturous. Her mind goes in terrible circles: from how good she felt when she woke up to the chance to contact SHIELD that she didn't take to the looming question of what happens next to the threat he poses to everyone and back again.

She doesn't want to speak to him. She really, really doesn't. It can only end in tears, and she's shed enough of those already. The only thing conversation with Ward will accomplish is hurting her—yesterday proved that.

And yet, she still finds herself tempted. The silence is driving her slowly mad, and more than once she has to force herself to swallow down the words she wants to speak. It's not even that she has anything in particular to say to him (well, nothing that she'd risk, at least)—it's just that anything would be better than the silence.

Except that's really not true, and she knows it. There are plenty of things worse than silence, and she's afraid of inviting them. So she bites her tongue and stares out the window and tries her best to slow her mind.

It's not easy. In fact, it's mostly ineffective. Long after she's choked down half of her oatmeal, long after they've left the town where they spent the night (the name of which she never learnt) behind them, long after the sun has risen, the silence continues to bore at her, and the temptation to speak to him builds.

She manages to resist it for five hours.

x

Around eleven, Ward gets a phone call. He speaks briefly with the caller (in Arabic), then rings off and makes a call of his own (in Russian). That one is a little longer, and by the time he rings off he's smiling broadly.

"Right on schedule," he tells her cheerfully. "Coulson's gift is on its way."

She's spent a good portion of the last five hours trying not to think of this mysterious gift—or, more precisely, trying not to think of the fact that she had a chance to warn the team and didn't take it. The reminder is unpleasant.

Ward seems content to leave it at that, but—after having a few wonderful moments of distraction, courtesy of those two phone calls—she can't bear to return to silence. She tries to—tries to turn back to the window and remind herself of how badly conversation is likely to end—but the words slip out before she can stop them.

"What are we doing?"

Now she wishes she had planned to speak, because if she had, she would have been able to choose a better topic. This is one of the other things she's been trying to avoid thinking about, and actually bringing it up for conversation is not an effective way to do so.

Ward gives her a sideways glance, then gestures pointedly out the windshield, toward the road. "Driving."

"Yes, obviously," she says. In for a penny—she's started, so she might as well finish. "But why? All you've said is that you think it's time I met your brother. What exactly do you intend to do once we reach him?" She pauses. "And do you honestly intend to drive the whole way to Washington?"

"As to your second question, no," he says, and she has a brief moment to be relieved before he continues, "We're driving to Massachusetts, not DC."

Well. That's depressing—though not unexpected, as they've left Arkansas behind and are now in Tennessee. Each passing exit has decreased what little hope she had left that their destination was an airport, so it's no great shock to hear that it's not.

Still—Massachusetts. That means they won't be finishing this road trip today and, depending on how far they get before he decides to stop for the night, possibly not even tomorrow. She's not sure she can stand it. She might literally be insane by the time they arrive.

"And when we get there?" she asks.

Ward smiles to himself. It's not a reassuring sight. "Oh, I think we'll leave that part a surprise."

"I hate surprises," she says flatly.

"I know you do," he says, still with that little smile. "But trust me, you're gonna love this one."

Somehow, she rather doubts it.

She's not willing to push it, however. She thinks she might prefer the maddening silence to the overwhelming fear of whatever's coming next, so she looks back out the window and doesn't speak.

"So," he says. "Since you're in a chatty mood. You never answered my question yesterday: why Sarah?"

She sighs, reminding herself that she was the one who wanted the silence broken.

"King's College," she says finally.

"I don't follow," he says, frowning slightly.

"Sarah went to King's College London," she clarifies. "And I've been there. I took a lecture series there once, when I was a girl." She looks down at her hands and shrugs. "Of all the full identities I had available, Sarah's alma mater was the one with which I was most familiar. I thought, in case anyone asked any questions…"

"Right," he says. "You like to be prepared. I guess some things don't change." He gives her a sideways smile. "But some things do, don't they?"

Plenty has changed, as evidenced by the fact that she's been essentially kidnapped by a man who once swore to love and honor her, but she has the feeling that's not what he means.

"Such as?" she asks.

"You can lie now," he says. "That stock-boy at the convenience store, the kid you caught smoking…You were very convincing."

"I had motivation," she points out, a touch sullenly.

"True," he allows, with a self-satisfied smile. After a moment, it fades, and he gives her a thoughtful look. "What was your motivation when you told everyone I was dead?"

It catches her off guard. "What?"

"I was surprised when that secretary at your school spilled that story about me being killed in combat," he says. "I was expecting to hear you were in hiding from an abusive ex or something, not that you'd been tragically widowed."

"Ah."

"So?" he asks. "What was the motivation there?"

"I don't know," she admits. She looks out the window, at the dark clouds building on the horizon, and remembers sitting in Mrs. Fessler's office and lying for no real reason. "I had a story ready, when I moved there—messy divorce, ex-husband with a grudge, that sort of thing—but when the time came to share it…"

"When the time came to share it?" he prompts.

"I didn't," she says simply.

"Why not?"

She shakes her head. "I have no idea."

"No?" he asks. He sounds pleased, and she gives him a wary glance.

She hopes he isn't reading anything into her failure to portray him as a monster, but if the smug smile he's wearing is any indication, her hopes are in vain. She wonders if there's any point in trying to talk him out of it.

Probably not. Still, she might as well try.

"It doesn't mean anything," she says.

"Of course not," he agrees, but his tone suggests he's merely humoring her.

"It doesn't," she insists. "Just because it was easier to let people think of me as a widow than a survivor of some sort of cruelty…"

"Whatever you say, Jemma," he says.

He's clearly not convinced, and she has the horrible, sinking feeling that she's only made things worse for herself somehow. In that vein, further conversation will likely do more harm than good—but she's still not eager to resume their earlier, unbearable silence.

For lack of any better options, she leans forward and turns the radio on. Ward glances at her, but doesn't say anything as she scans through the static. She eventually lands on a local Top 40 station and sits back, content. It's not necessarily her favorite sort of music, but working in a high school has given her a new appreciation for it.

And, in any case, it's much better than the alternatives of silence or conversation. She'd even take opera over more of either.

x

Around three, Ward pulls off the highway and into a rest stop.

"Got some things to take care of," he says as he turns off the car. "Feel free to freshen up, stretch your legs, whatever."

She assumes he means that he has more plotting to do with his mysterious contacts, as she can't imagine there are many opportunities for nefarious deeds at a highway rest stop. Which is just as well; if he's not up to anything terrible, she won't feel the need to stop him, and therefore can take this lovely opportunity for some space without feeling (overly) guilty about it.

And she is in desperate need of space. They've stopped twice since leaving their hotel this morning, to stretch their legs, as he put it, and both times he stuck very closely to her side—barely leaving her be long enough for her to use the restroom. His presence wears on her terribly, and if the situation weren't entirely his fault (and if she didn't hate him so much), she might just kiss him for the offer of time to herself.

As it is, she hurries to get out of the car before he changes his mind. Once she's closed the door, she leans against it for a moment, waiting for her legs to wake up a bit (the constant tension she's feeling has done nothing for her circulation) and looking around the rest stop.

There aren't many other cars—unsurprising, since it's a weekday afternoon—but there are a few. She assumes most of the owners of those cars are in the building off to the left, as there are only three people in sight—a man and a woman eating at a picnic table (brave of them; if the cumulonimbus clouds looming overhead are any indication, it will start storming any time now) and a woman digging through the boot of her car.

It gives her a thought.

She pushes away from the car and rounds the hood, intending to head for the restrooms (which she presumes are in the aforementioned building), but she doesn't make it far. Ward is leaning on the other side of the car, and as she passes him he reaches out and grabs her arm. She stops, and he gives a sharp tug, pulling her closer.

"Don't," he says lowly.

"Don't what?" she asks, then winces as his grip on her arm tightens painfully. "You just said I could—"

"Don't do anything stupid," he interrupts. "Whatever you just thought of—whatever plan you just came up with—don't do it."

"I didn't—"

"You did," he says. "It's written all over your face. And I'm telling you, don't do it. Because if you do, I'm going to have to take action. And a slaughter at a rest stop will draw exactly the kind of attention I don't want."

"Okay," she says, raising a placating hand. "Okay, I won't. I won't do anything. It was just—a thought."

Ward's eyes search hers, and she hopes he can read her sincerity as well as he read her earlier thought. She resolved yesterday not to try anything, and she'll keep to that. Even though she's spent all day agonizing over the phone call she didn't make, she knows it was the right decision, and his use of the word slaughter is the perfect reminder of why.

She can't risk anything. Not with him.

Perhaps he can read her sincerity; he nods once and loosens his grip on her arm, but doesn't let go.

"I'm getting really tired of repeating the same threats over and over again," he warns, and for some reason, it sparks anger rather than fear.

"Then stop making them," she hisses, and yanks her arm away.

Her anger carries her nearly half-way across the car park, at which point fear makes a (belated) reappearance. She shouldn't snap at him. She knows that. She can't risk provoking him.

Thus far, he's been remarkably well-behaved—for a psychotic murderer, that is. He hasn't harmed her or, indeed, anyone else. He's limited himself to threats (and—obviously—kidnapping), and the last thing she wants is to push him into actual action. Fear, in this case, is better than anger. She needs to keep herself under control and do her best to avoid aggravating him.

It's the only sensible course of action, but does it ever rub her the wrong way. It's not in Jemma's nature to be docile—to cower like a scared child confronted with a monster. SHIELD may have crumbled, and she may have left its remnants, but she is still a SHIELD agent and it is her duty to protect the general populace from threats both alien and terrestrial.

Unfortunately, in this case, the only way to deal with the threat is to placate it. She can't over-power Ward—the very thought is laughable—and thus she must outsmart him. But he'll be watching for that, of course, so she needs to wait. She needs to bide her time, lull him into a false sense of security. His arrogance will be his downfall eventually. All she needs is patience.

No matter how much she hates it, she must allow her fear to outweigh her anger. Lives depend on it. In the meantime, cowering is (unfortunately) not exactly a challenge. She's genuinely terrified of him, and for good reason.

But she's nearly as sick of cowering as she is of him, so she lingers in the restroom for a long while. She washes her hands four times, splashes some water on her face, and then washes them again. Other women come and go, but this is a very large rest stop and there are eight other sinks, so she doesn't feel badly about monopolizing this one.

Washing her hands can only keep her distracted for so long, however. After the seventh or eighth time, she sighs and turns off the faucet. She takes her time drying her hands and, when she's finished that, checks her hair in the mirror.

It's a touch frizzy, having been left to air dry, so she lets it out of its clip and runs her fingers through it. It helps about as much as she was expecting it to (which is to say, not at all), and she drops the clip on the counter with a sigh.

Her handbag (which she was almost surprised to find herself holding when she reached the restroom; she has no memory of grabbing it before she got out of the car) is sitting next to the sink, and she picks it up to rifle through it.

She doesn't care about her hair or her handbag. It's just an excellent excuse to delay returning to Ward's side.

She throws away the empty bag which held the trail mix that served as her lunch a few hours ago (purchased yesterday from a cashier who had no idea just how close he and Kyle the stock-boy came to death), as well as a few receipts (because what use are they?) and half a pack of gum (which, after a moment of befuddlement, she recalls confiscating from one of her students yesterday morning).

Then she starts rifling through what's left (a lot; Jemma—or Sarah, rather—is a bit of a pack-rat, it must be said).

As she's doing so, a woman carrying a little girl approaches the sink next to her. The little girl is keeping up a steady stream of chatter in Spanish, to which the woman replies with the occasional absent mmhm as she first helps the little girl wash her hands, then sets her on the counter so she can wash her own, and at first Jemma doesn't pay them much mind.

She gradually realizes, however, that the woman is darting little glances at her, and she sets her handbag down slowly.

"Sorry," the woman says, as she throws her paper towels away. "I'm staring, I know. Rude. Um…I'm Inez, and this chatterbox," she pats her daughter's head, "Is Mariella."

"Jemma," she returns without thought—which is odd after so many months of being someone else, but to be fair, she's never felt less like Sarah. "Nice to meet you. Did you need something?"

"Actually," Inez says. "I was gonna ask you the same thing." She bites her lip and leans in a bit, lowering her voice slightly. "Do you need help?"

Jemma stares at her, surprised. "I beg your pardon?"

"It's just, I saw you arguing with your…" Her eyes flicker to Jemma's wedding ring, currently resting on the counter next to the sink. "Husband? Or whoever he is, outside. And it just—looked a little tense. So I thought I'd ask. Do you need help? Police, or a ride, or-or anything?"

For a moment, she's tempted. She's more than tempted. Because this is the thought she had earlier: that if Ward intended to leave her to her own devices for a while, she could summon help. She could call SHIELD: on someone else's phone, so he wouldn't know, here in the ladies' room, where he can't interrupt. She doesn't even have to make the call herself; she could ask Inez to make the call as soon as she leaves, so there's no risk of Ward hurting her for it if he does somehow find out.

There's no way the team could get here in time, but she knows roughly where Ward is headed. The team could meet them there or intercept them along the way, and this nightmare could end. She could go home.

So, yes. For a moment, she's tempted.

But common sense overcomes temptation. There's a reason she resolved, earlier, not to take action, and just because Ward won't be able to interrupt them here doesn't mean he wouldn't know if she did something. He reads her so easily; he saw this thought on her face as soon as she had it, and she can't imagine she would hide the truth of having actually gone through with it any better. He would know what she'd done as soon as she walked out of the ladies' room, and Inez would pay the price.

So she shakes her head and gives Inez her best smile.

"It's very kind of you to ask," she says. "But no, thank you. I'm fine."

Inez doesn't look convinced. Jemma thinks quickly, reaching for a plausible explanation, and decides that something somewhat close to the truth would be best—since, as has been repeatedly established, she is not the most talented of liars.

"Things are slightly tense, I admit," she sighs, picking up her ring and slipping it back on her finger. "As it happens, a road trip makes for a very poor honeymoon." She laughs a little. "We should have gone with Paris."

"Ah," Inez laughs. "I get you. He won't ask for directions?"

"He won't ask for directions, he won't stop for lunch," Jemma shakes her head. "And he's spent the whole time on his mobile." She gives Inez a sheepish smile. "I have to admit, I did—well—provoke him a bit, earlier. But at least it got him talking to me instead of his business partners."

Inez whistles. "Can't blame you for picking a fight if he's spending your honeymoon on the phone. Lame."

"Quite," she agrees. Her lie is working well, and she needs to make her excuses and leave, before it falls apart. "Still, it was childish of me. As is hiding in the ladies' room, which I've been doing for…far longer than I'd care to admit."

"Hey, no judgment here," Inez says. "Last time I saw this one's father I burned his dinner on purpose because he insulted my mom." She shrugs. "Men, right?"

"Right," she says, and sighs. She picks up her clip from the counter, clips back her hair, and slings her handbag over her shoulder. "I suppose I might as well face the music." She starts to step away, then pauses and lays a hand on Inez's arm. "But thank you, really. It was very kind of you to offer help."

She shrugs. "I'm just glad you don't need it. Enjoy the rest of your honeymoon."

"I'll do my best," she says, and walks away.

As she pushes the door open, she hears Inez address Mariella (who spent the entirety of that conversation talking to herself, apparently unconcerned by her mother's inattention) in Spanish. Jemma doesn't understand the words, obviously, but the tone is light and playful, and it causes her an unexpected pang.

She doesn't know why. It just…does.

She shakes it off as she heads out of the building. She pauses just outside, looking around the rest area, and eventually spots Ward over by the hiking trail, sitting on the back of a bench with his feet resting on the seat. For a moment she gives thought to going back inside (there are vending machines and a display about some local landmark; she's sure she could kill at least fifteen minutes), but he catches her eye and waves her over before she has the chance.

So, with a sigh, she steels herself and crosses the grass to join him. When she reaches him, he gives her a long stare—as though he knows every word she just shared with Inez—and then smiles.

"Have a seat," he invites, nodding at the bench. "I have another call to make. Might take a while."

Another call? She's been gone for at least half an hour; exactly how many people is he in contact with? She toys with the idea of asking, but—remembering how all of their conversations thus far have gone—decides against it, and sits down without a word.

She sits, of course, at the very end of the bench—as far from him as possible, not that that's very far. (It's not a large bench.) Ward smirks, but leaves her be as he dials a number and brings his phone to his ear.

Thus far, all of Ward's phone calls (with the notable exception of those few sentences at the hotel this morning) have been held in languages she doesn't speak. Which is why it comes as a shock that his words are in English.

Of course, the choice of language isn't nearly so much of a shock as the words themselves.

"Hey, Skye," Ward says, and Jemma turns so quickly to face him that she nearly falls right off the bench. He gives her a little wink and brings his finger to his lips to silence her before she can speak. "So you got my present okay?"

From this distance, she can't hear Skye's response. Before she can think better of it, she slides closer. Ward grins at her, amused.

"Sorry to miss it," he says. "I would've been there if I could. Unfortunately, I had other things to take care of." He gives her another wink, then adds, "Jemma says hi, by the way."

Jemma still isn't close enough; she can hear Skye's voice, but not well enough to understand what she actually says. Whatever it is, it makes Ward's grin widen in response, and she barely resists the urge to either snatch the phone from his hand or shout something (anything) loudly enough for Skye to hear. However, resist she does; she doesn't need the firm, warning squeeze Ward gives her shoulder to know how taking either action would end.

"She can't talk right now," he says regretfully, without moving his hand. "She's a little…tied up, at the moment."

His tone is clearly meant to imply that she's literally tied up, and she narrows her eyes at him. He raises an eyebrow in return.

He's testing Skye, she realizes, the same way he tested her this morning at the hotel. He wants to see how Skye will react to the implication that he's being cruel to her. (Not to say that he isn't, but at least she's not been restrained.)

"There's no need for threats," he says, mildly, which suggests that Skye has reacted to the test somewhat more violently than Jemma did to hers. "Jemma's fine. We've been having lots of fun together—haven't we, Jem?"

He squeezes her shoulder.

"That's one word for it," she mutters, and turns away to face the hiking trail again. She can't stand the grin on his face—how it amuses him to torment her like this, dangling a connection to her team right in front of her with no intention of letting her use it—and if she can't wipe it off his face (though she'd dearly love to), she can at least not look.

"See?" Ward asks, as though she's spoken directly to Skye. "All good. But enough about us. How are you? How'd you guys do against HYDRA—any casualties?"

Jemma holds her breath. Of course, even if the team did take casualties, Skye is hardly likely to tell Ward about it. But—still. She worries.

"Actually, I'm not disappointed at all," he says, and only hearing half of this conversation might just be the final straw for Jemma's sanity, because it is maddening. "I'm glad to hear it. You're my team; I don't want anything to happen to you."

He almost sounds sincere, but she can't be bothered by whatever game he's playing now, because it sounds as though the team made it through his little gift undamaged. It's more than a relief.

He trades a few more quips with Skye—something about Coulson and not forgetting a conversation they had—as well making a few more insinuations about Jemma's current state, but she's only half listening. He doesn't say anything that could be considered important—he offers no clues to Skye as to where they're headed or what he plans to do when they get there, and he says nothing about what will happen when he's finished the current errand—so she allows her attention to drift.

She spots Inez exiting the building (with Mariella clinging to her neck like a monkey) and gives her a wave. Inez waves back, then jerks her chin at Ward, bringing her hand up next to her ear in a motion that clearly conveys the question is he seriously still on the phone?

She shrugs in a manner that she hopes projects exasperation, and Inez shakes her head as she heads for the car park. She's obviously been left with the impression that Ward is an inattentive and inconsiderate husband, but nothing more. It's a victory—exactly what Jemma wanted her to think—but a hollow one.

She's watching Inez buckle a squirming Mariella into her car seat when Ward moves, shifting from sitting on the back of the bench to sitting properly next to her. She starts to slide away, but he slings an arm around her shoulders, holding her in place.

"So," he says. "What did you say to her?"

Having expected a taunt related to Skye, she's caught off-balance by the question. "I'm sorry?"

"That woman," he says, and flicks two fingers of the hand attached to the arm he has draped over her shoulders in the direction of Inez's car, currently reversing out of its parking spot. "I saw how she was looking at me earlier. You wanna talk about if looks could kill…" He laughs, a little. "I thought I'd have to cross her off to keep her from calling 911 on suspicion alone. But that just now—that was only solidarity. She felt bad for you—men are bastards, right?—but she wasn't worried. So. What did you say to convince her you weren't in danger?"

As though she needed more evidence that she made the correct decision in declining Inez's offer of assistance. That he noticed so much about her, from across the car park and while otherwise occupied…

She was right. Had she told Inez that she was in danger, he would have known instantly.

"Jemma."

"I told her we were on a road trip," she says, and twists her ring on her finger. "Our honeymoon. I said you've spent the whole time on the phone and I picked a fight to get you talking to me."

She can feel his eyes on her, but she keeps hers on her ring. She doesn't want to know what expression he's wearing right now—what he thinks of her lie, or even of the fact that she lied at all.

"That was smart," he says eventually, and presses a kiss to her temple. She tenses, and he smiles against her skin. "Don't look so miserable, Jem. You should be happy; you saved her life." He sits back against the bench. "Not to mention her little girl's."

She closes her eyes. After everything, it shouldn't be a surprise—in the face of all he's done, what's a threat against the life of a child?—and it certainly shouldn't hurt her, but—somehow—it is and it does.

She tries not to think of before, of late-night conversations about their future and the confessions he made under the cover of darkness—his fear that his own childhood would make him a bad parent, put at risk any child they had together—but she can't help it.

She remembers the way she attempted to reassure him—the promises she made and the encouragement she offered—and feels sick at how easily she was fooled.

It hasn't stopped hurting yet. Maybe it never will.

"Cheer up," Ward says, and removes his arm from her shoulders to pat her thigh. "Like I said, you saved her."

He stands and holds out a hand. She hesitates but, reminding herself that she doesn't want to aggravate him, eventually places her hand in his. He laces their fingers and pulls her to her feet, and she doesn't know what's worse: the way it makes her skin crawl or the fact that their hands still fit together so perfectly.

She really wishes he'd stop touching her.

"Come on," he says. "We're done here."

x

It starts to rain perhaps ten minutes after they leave the rest stop, and the storm follows them (or they follow the storm, either one) for hours. Jemma doesn't mind; at least the thunder, lightning, and pouring rain give her something other than her own misery to focus on.

Ward, on the other hand, is clearly not pleased by the weather. Or, to be more accurate, the way the weather affects traffic. He doesn't say much—aside from the occasional muttered curse when someone cuts them off or slams on the breaks or otherwise slows him down—but his expression becomes increasingly severe as the hours pass.

About four hours after they leave the rest stop, he gives up.

("I wanted to get farther today," he says, in a conversational tone completely belied by his white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel. "But I might just shoot the next person who changes lanes without fucking signaling, and that would be completely counter-productive. So. We're stopping for the night. Objections?"

A few, actually, but she doesn't dare voice them while he's wearing that face. She shakes her head.)

After a very uncomfortable dinner at the Denny's next to the hotel he chooses, he gets them a room, carries their bags inside, and then disappears out the door with a curt errands when she (reluctantly) asks where he's going.

It's not that she wants him to stay. In fact, that he's left her alone is a huge relief. But not knowing what he's up to worries her. All of his phone calls and errands—he's planning something, and she has no idea what.

And not for a second does she believe that he arranged for SHIELD to capture another HYDRA agent out of the goodness of his heart.

Still, short of chasing after him (which is almost certain to end badly), there's nothing she can do about it. She drops on to one of the beds and pulls off her shoes, then—feeling childish and sulky—throws one of them at the door. It hits with a satisfying thunk, then bounces off it to land smack in the middle of the entry way.

She hopes he trips over it and breaks his neck.

It's still storming out, and her clothes are damp from the dash from the car to the restaurant and then the hotel. She doesn't plan on sleeping tonight—not after what happened last night—but she doesn't want to spend all night in wet clothes, either, so she changes quickly into some pajamas. Then she sits back down on the bed and turns on the television, because any longer left alone with her thoughts and she'll be throwing more than just shoes.

She watches the weather channel long enough to determine that the rain will likely follow them all the way to Massachusetts, then surfs through the channels until she finds one holding a marathon of children's Halloween films. They're not particularly gripping, but they're something to watch, and at least they're not likely to depress her (any more than she already is, at least).

The chill in the room (for which she is, admittedly, partially to blame; a vest top and sleep shorts were poor choices in clothing) drives her under the covers five minutes into the first film, but she's still not intending to sleep.

Unfortunately, between her nightmare last night and her complete lack of sleep the night before—not to mention the constant state of terrified awareness she's maintained for the past two days—exhaustion is wearing her down, and despite her best efforts, she dozes off halfway through It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown.

x

It's so hard to move. The surface is so far above her and her lungs burn for air and she knows she needs to keep swimming—keep swimming—but the water is so cold and she's so tired and Fitz is heavy, more (not dead, please not dead) weight pulling her down. But she has to keep swimming because the alternative is unthinkable, so she swims and she swims and she fights the exhaustion that tries to overwhelm her—

But the surface never gets any closer—

And Fitz wakes up and starts fighting, trying to get back to the pod—he wants the heroic death that she's denied him—he's pulling her back down—

And she can't breathe—

Then there are warm arms around her and a voice in her ear that says it's just a dream, and for a moment she relaxes, because Grant has her and she knows she's safe. Except he keeps talking and she connects his voice to have it your way and have it your way to the press of the button that sent her to the bottom of the ocean in the first place, and suddenly breathing is a struggle again.

Memories filter in, the truth of the man holding her hitting her right in the throat, and she shoves him away and scrambles off the bed.

"Not this again," Ward sighs before she can speak. "You were having a nightmare, I calmed you down, you're welcome."

"I'm not thanking you," she snaps, because the memory of her terror is far too fresh for her to be anything but furious. "You need to stop doing that."

"What?" he asks, and sits up. He leans over to turn on the bedside lamp, then continues, in a voice so infuriatingly calm that her anger nearly triples. "Comforting you? You were having a nightmare—"

"Because of you!" she interrupts. "Because of what you did to us! I wouldn't need comfort if you hadn't hurt me in the first place!"

He sighs again, like she's being completely unreasonable, and shifts to the edge of the bed, swinging his legs over the side and propping his elbows on his knees. He looks so relaxed—so completely at ease—like her entirely justified anger is nothing more than a mild snit, and she hates him with an almost startling passion.

"And what did I do?" he asks.

"You betrayed us, you killed people, you kidnapped Skye," she lists, voice rising. "You helped the enemy work against SHIELD, you served HYDRA, and you dropped us out of the Bus and nearly killed us!" Even saying it hurts, because it's been months since she and Fitz were an us—and that's one more thing she can lay on Ward's shoulders, though she doesn't dare voice it. "Take your pick! Everything you did—"

"Is on HYDRA," he interrupts, and she sputters, train of thought derailed. "And I was never loyal to them. I served John—he was serving HYDRA. I followed orders. That's all."

"You think that makes a difference?" she demands, incredulous.

"Everything I've done," he says, still in that maddeningly calm voice. "I did because I was ordered to."

"No!" she snaps. "No, you didn't!" He starts to speak, and she shakes her head sharply. "Even if we put aside the fact that you are actually, unironically using the bloody Nuremberg defense and expecting me to accept it—even if we pretend that acting under orders makes what you did excusable—which it bloody doesn't—that still leaves a major problem!"

"And what would that be?" he asks mildly.

"This!" she exclaims, throwing a hand out to indicate the room. "No one ordered you to abduct me, Grant! John is dead, you've burnt your bridges with SHIELD, and you claim not to be loyal to HYDRA. Which means you're not taking orders from anyone anymore, and that tells me that you chose this."

He's watching her with a blank face, and perversely, it angers her even more than derision or annoyance would have. She crosses her arms over her stomach, because otherwise she might honestly strike him—just to get that awful nothing off of his face.

"You got away clean," she says, a little quieter. "Once you escaped custody, you were free. You have dozens of identities I don't know about—millions of dollars stashed away. You could have disappeared. You could have started over. Instead, you came after me. You took me away from my life and you're dragging me across the country to do who knows what to your brother." She takes a deep breath. Her anger is deserting her, leaving only exhaustion in its wake. "No one ordered you to do this. You could've got away, but you chose not to. You chose revenge over escape."

He's silent for a long moment. "Are you done?"

Is she? There's plenty more she'd like to say to him—words that have been building up for months. But what's the point? It won't change anything. She could spend the rest of her life shouting at him and he would never feel guilty for what he's done. He genuinely believes that he hasn't done anything wrong, that the fact that he was under orders excuses his actions.

(Or at least, he's putting on an excellent show of genuinely believing it. When it comes to him, it's impossible to know what's real and what's not.)

With her anger fading, she once again recalls that she's meant not to be aggravating him. Shouting at him—calling him out on his pitiful excuses—is not a good way to keep him happy. Saying anything more would be not only pointless, but dangerous.

"Yes," she says quietly, and hugs herself a little tighter. "I suppose I am."

"Good," he says, and stands. He closes the distance between them in a few short strides, looming over her in a threat at odds with the almost gentle expression he's wearing. "Then I'd like to talk about your choices."

"My—"

"You chose to run," he says. "To abandon SHIELD—abandon your friends—and start a new life. You think that's any better than what I did?"

"I didn't abandon…" she starts, but is interrupted when he presses his finger to her lips.

"No," he says, as she backs away. He matches her, closing the distance between them once more, but makes no move to touch her again. "You've had your say, now I'm going to have mine." He smiles grimly. "You abandoned the team, Jemma. You spent seven months in hiding, playing teacher, and all the while your friends were in danger. They could've died a thousand times and you never would've known it. You weren't there. When they were injured, when they needed a doctor or a biochemist or someone who could handle Fitz—you weren't there."

She swallows.

"The day I escaped," he continues. "I waited until I was transferred into FBI custody. But I could've done it earlier." He shakes his head. "They didn't sedate me, you know. I guess Coulson really did buy my broken act, because he barely even tried. They slapped some shackles on me, called me secure, and let me walk out of my cell under my own power. They walked me through the base."

He steps even closer to her, close enough that her arms (still crossed over her stomach) brush against his abdomen. She wants to move back, to put distance between them, but she's frozen in place by his words.

"I could have escaped," he says. "I could have killed every single one of them. Skye, Coulson, Trip. Fitz. I could've crossed them all off before Trip even had a chance to draw his sidearm." He raises a hand to smooth some of her hair away from her face, touch disturbingly tender. "I could have killed them all, and you never would have known it, because you weren't there."

"Why didn't you?" she asks, and hates herself for the distinct quaver in her voice.

"Seven months spent locked in a cage," he muses, and his hand falls to her shoulder. "Death is too quick. I want them to suffer." He smirks a little. "Do you think any of them are sleeping? Knowing that I'm free, and that I've got you? My poor, defenseless wife…" His thumb brushes back and forth along the bare skin of her collar bone, and it sends a shiver down her spine. "I could be doing anything right now, and they've got no idea where we are and no way to stop me."

She has to swallow before she can speak. "Is that why I'm here? To hurt the others?"

"No," he says. "No, I've got plans, and you're a big part of them. Hurting Coulson and the team, that's just a bonus. And it wouldn't be possible if you'd stayed with SHIELD—under their protection. So I guess I should thank you for running."

Something like shame burns in her chest, which is ridiculous. She has nothing to be ashamed of. She had every right to leave—to see to her own mental and emotional well-being by removing herself from a situation that was nothing but pain. She knows she did.

And even if she didn't—even if it was the wrong thing to do—running away from SHIELD is nothing like what he's done. Her single crime (if it is a crime) is nowhere near the severity of his multitudes. He's murdered countless people, ruined countless lives. He killed for HYDRA and helped Centipede conduct human experimentation—and was at least party to, if not actively involved in, the Incentives program, which forced good people to do horrible, horrible things.

For goodness' sake, he's standing here telling her that he intends to make her team suffer because death is too quick! She's nothing like him.

"I'm nothing like you," she whispers.

"Sorry, what was that?" he asks. He's wearing a look of innocent confusion, but the distinctly mocking edge to his voice tells her he understood her perfectly.

He's so amused by all of this, isn't he? Her fear of him, her anger, her disgust—it's all just a joke. He's enjoying it. And that—it hurts. Of course it hurts. Ward once had to be talked out of inflicting harm to a superior officer in retaliation for Jemma's emotional distress—that he now takes such visible pleasure in causing it…

Yes. It hurts. But it's also infuriating, and anger is so much better than pain.

"I said, I'm nothing like you," she repeats, louder. "Leaving SHIELD was nothing like betraying it, and we both know it. Whatever game you're playing right now—whatever you're trying to accomplish—it's not going to work."

"No?" he asks.

"No."

For a moment, his grip on her shoulder tightens painfully, and she wonders if she's pushed him too far. For a genius, she certainly is having difficulty with the concept of not provoking him—but then, he's so difficult to predict; it's hard to know what will anger him.

But then he laughs and releases her, dropping his hand back to his side. He makes no move to follow when she takes two stumbling steps back, so she retreats even farther, putting the other bed between them.

"I think it will," he says, and it takes her a second to remember what they were talking about. Her heart is pounding almost painfully in her chest, and it's difficult to focus. "I'm just getting started, and I've got a lot more practice at this than you do. You're not gonna win this one, Jem."

"I am," she insists. She doesn't even know what they're talking about, not really, but it doesn't matter. She's seen what he's capable of; she doesn't need to know what sort of game he's playing to know that she can't let him win. "Your experience doesn't matter. I'm smarter than you are."

"Yeah," he acknowledges easily. "But you're also weaker, and I don't mean physically." He turns away from her, crossing the room to unzip the duffle bag resting next to the television stand. He rifles through it as he continues, "The most important thing John ever taught me was that attachments are weakness. It's why I don't have many. But you—you're just full of them. You're attached. To SHIELD, to the team—even to me, a little. And…"

He turns to face her again, and the argument she planned to offer sticks in her throat at the look on his face. He's building up to something. That can't be good.

"You're attached to everything," he says. "Everyone. The waitress at Denny's. The man at the front desk. The family of five sleeping in the room next door. You put value on every life you encounter, and that's why you're weak. That's why you can't beat me."

"You're wrong," she says quietly. It's all she can really manage. "Attachments aren't weakness. They're strength."

He makes a noncommittal noise, then smiles. "How about a demonstration? It's the middle of the night. I've been driving all day. I'd like to sleep. But if we go back to sleep, you're gonna wake me up with nightmares again. It's annoying. So, you've got two options. You can either accept that you sleep better when I'm with you and share a bed with me or," he pitches something across the room at her, and she fumbles to catch it. She realizes, when she does, that it's a pill bottle, and blinks down at the label. Estazolam. "You can take two of these. They'll knock you right out."

"I…"

"What's it going to be?" he prompts. "Pills or cuddling? Personally, I prefer the cuddling, but either way you'll be quiet, so I'll be able to sleep."

"I—neither," she finally manages. "I'm not going to take a drug I know nothing about and I'm certainly not sharing a bed with you. I'd rather die."

"I thought you'd say that," he says, and nods contemplatively. "That's where the demonstration comes in." He reaches into his duffle bag again, and she backs up against the door when he draws out a gun.

It makes him laugh.

"This isn't for you," he tells her. "Or not directly, at least. Call it…motivation."

"Motivation?"

"I've given you your options," he says. "You're going to choose one. And if you don't—if you continue to refuse—I'm going to take this gun to the room next door and kill everyone inside."

She stares at him, speechless.

"And you're not gonna let that happen," he concludes smugly. "Because you're attached to human life, and it makes you weak. To save the lives of strangers? You'd let me do just about anything."

It's true.

She's stuck. She can tell his threat isn't idle; if she refuses to make a choice, he'll kill the people in the next room. Innocent civilians who have done nothing to deserve death—whose only crime was choosing to stay at the same hotel as a murderer.

She saw them as she and Ward arrived: a man, a woman, and three children—two of them under the age of ten and one still an infant. He says he'll kill them all, and she believes him. She can't let that happen.

But she also can't share a bed with him. He's spent all day touching her, and it makes her skin crawl every time. Actually climbing into bed with him would be a hundred times worse—to say nothing of how painful it is, how reminiscent of what she's lost.

And, of course, taking a drug of which she knows nothing but the name—and even that might be false; there's no guarantee that this is the original bottle—is beyond stupid.

There are no good options here.

"So?" he asks. "Pills or cuddling—what'll it be?"

She doesn't have a choice, really.

She shakes two pills out of the bottle and dry swallows them. Then she closes the bottle and throws it at him as hard as she can. He snatches it right out of the air and drops it into his bag with a laugh.

"And that," he says, smugly, "Is exactly why I'll win."

A/N: PSA: It probably goes without saying, but please don't take strange pills. Jemma was kind of backed into a corner, but it's a really bad move to take pills you know nothing about, especially from the hands of a psychopath.

Just saying.