A/N: After several days in which I couldn't write at all, I got hit very suddenly with inspiration for this. Kind of a mixed blessing; on the one hand, yay writing! On the other, I really would have preferred to finish one of my several hundred half-written drabbles or fics, rather than starting a whole new one.

But oh well. It's finals week; I guess I'll take what I can get.

Title from Florence + The Machine's Never Let Me Go. Thanks for reading and, as always, please be gentle if you review!

Having utterly failed to convince anyone of how stupid it is to trust Ward, Jemma retreats to her lab and adopts the admittedly childish tactic of pretending that if she can't see him, he doesn't exist.

It's rather beneath her, as a strategy, but it's all she has. Two instincts war within her, her recently damaged trust in Coulson fighting against her knowledge of just how deadly, how dangerous Ward is. She has a duty to obey Coulson, but she also has a duty to protect her team in any way she can.

She's contemplating something rash, and she's afraid that her emotions will lead her to make a hasty decision. She needs the distance from Ward—from everyone—in order to clear her mind and consider her options carefully.

Ward, unfortunately, seems not to have gotten the memo. (Or, more likely, he simply doesn't care.) Less than an hour after his return to the Playground—this time not in chains, much to her dismay—he enters her lab, looking for all the world like there's nowhere he'd rather be.

"Simmons!" he greets her brightly. "I wondered where you were hiding. Long time no see! How've you been?"

She may be forced to endure his presence on the base, but she doesn't have to be polite. "I was better before you arrived. Go away, Ward."

"Ouch." He gives her an exaggerated frown, pressing his hand to his heart. "Now is that any way to greet an old friend?"

There's a pointed inflection to the word friend, and her eyes flicker automatically to his guards. They're Gonzales' people, two of the many nameless agents filling the Playground these days, and she doesn't fool herself into thinking that they won't be reporting every single word Ward says whilst in their custody.

This is not necessarily a good thing.

Also not good is the fact that Ward notes her preoccupation; a worryingly knowing look crosses his face, and she gets a sudden sinking feeling.

"Hey, fellas," he says, addressing the words to his guards. "You think you could give us some privacy? I know you can't leave, but maybe a little space…?"

The guards look to her, and, heart in her throat, she gives them a nod. Even with them this close, Ward is undoubtedly capable of killing her before they can react; more distance won't make a difference.

And the look on his face tells her that she doesn't want an audience for the conversation they're about to have.

"We'll be by the door," one of the guards says to Ward, voice heavy with warning. "Don't try anything."

"Thanks," Ward says brightly. As soon as they're out of earshot, he turns back to her with a smirk. "So. Keeping secrets, Simmons?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," she denies. (It's not the moment, but she's fiercely proud of herself for how even her voice remains.)

"Yes, you do," he says, closing a little of the distance between them. "You never told anyone what happened between us, did you? Coulson, May, Fitz—they have no idea."

Oh, dear.

"Don't be ridiculous," she snaps. "Do you honestly think I'm foolish enough to leave you with a weapon like that to use against me? I told them months ago."

If nothing else, she receives evidence of just how greatly her skills in deception have increased, because for a moment Ward searches her face, looking gratifyingly uncertain. She itches with the urge to break eye contact, to turn away, but she forces herself to remain steady, eyes locked on his. She won't blink.

And she doesn't, but his expression clears anyway. Her heart sinks as his smirk returns.

"No you didn't," he says. He props his hip against the table next to her, and she doesn't try to be subtle about moving away from him. "May's one thing, but if Coulson knew about us? That I took advantage of poor, naïve Simmons?" He lowers his voice, tone some mimicry of confiding. "He'd have put a bullet in me while I was still in the basement."

His proximity makes it difficult to think, but not so difficult that his phrasing doesn't irritate her. Honestly, took advantage of her—as if she were some young, silly ingénue seduced by the world-weary specialist.

It was comfort sex, not a bloody Lifetime film.

"As I recall," she says, moving pointedly to the other side of the table. "I was the one who took advantage of you."

"Did you?" he asks. His smile is all teeth, and, bizarrely, it puts her in mind of Through the Looking Glass: the jaws that bite, the claws that catch, and all that. It's decidedly unsettling.

(Perhaps there's something to Bobbi's concern that she's not getting enough sleep, after all.)

"Maybe that's just what I let you think," he adds.

Her sinking feeling returns with a vengeance. "What are you talking about?"

"I'm just saying," he says, giving a one-shouldered shrug. "Maybe I knew it would never happen if I made the first move. Maybe I knew that you'd feel bad—feel indebted to me—if it was your idea and not mine." He leans across the table, close enough that his guards—still hanging far enough back to give them privacy—bristle. "Maybe I needed you to trust me, and that was the best way to make it happen."

An awful, sick feeling claws at Jemma's lungs. Since the truth of him became known, she's done her best not to think of that night. She's been pretending it never happened—with great success. She's been proud of herself for it, even, for not dwelling on it, for not allowing the shame and disgust of knowing what she does now to overwhelm her.

Suddenly, it feels like a mistake.

Because in denying it, she's never examined it from that angle. She's never considered that it might have been purposeful—a deliberate play. She's never questioned whether it truly was coincidence that he was still in the cargo bay, that night, when her confused, furious grief over Dr. Hall's death drove her to the lab at two am.

The awkward way his hands flattened against her shoulders when she kissed him, his quiet are you sure, the hesitation before every touch—it's never occurred to her that those things were calculated.

But of course they must have been. Grant Ward is not the sort of man who soothes away a woman's grief with gentle kisses and kind touches. He's not the sort of man who soothes anyone's grief at all.

He only causes it.

"Anyway," Ward says. "Forget who took advantage of who. My point was, they don't know. You never told them."

It's not a question, and even if it were, she wouldn't be able to deny it. It's not as though it would be difficult for him to disprove her claim of informing the others—a single word about it, the most casual of references to any one of the team, would put paid to that lie immediately.

"No," she admits reluctantly. "I didn't."

She should have, she knows, and she nearly did. A thousand times the words were on the tip of her tongue; she so nearly voiced them—to Fitz, to Skye, to Trip, to May, to Coulson—so frequently that she's occasionally forgotten that she hasn't.

But shame choked her and overrode her best intentions. She supposes she's about to pay for it.

"Didn't think so," he says. He shakes his head, rueful. "Not that I blame you. Honestly, I'm a little embarrassed about it—that wasn't exactly my best work."

Jemma…is absolutely not going to respond to that.

"I feel bad about it, actually," he continues. "I don't like to not give my best in everything I do." His eyes trail over her, gaze so heavy it feels like a physical touch. "And you definitely deserved my best." He sighs. "But what could I do? The cover just didn't have the right kind of confidence to be good at sex, and I had to keep my cover. You know all about that, of course."

She hates to think about it in those terms—as though she has anything in common with him—but yes, she does. Her time in HYDRA saw to that.

"I'm sorry," she says, "Is this going somewhere?"

"Yeah, actually," he says. "I was gonna offer a do-over. Seriously, I owe you at least three orgasms. I wanna make it up to you."

She can feel herself flushing, and turns away to give herself a moment to recover. She hates to admit this, too, but the sex—as much as she regrets it now, as much as she wishes it had never happened—was actually very good. Beyond good. Excellent, even.

There is a small, tiny, miniscule part of her that actually wants to take him up on the offer of a do-over, because if that wasn't his best work she can't imagine what is. And that small, tiny, miniscule part of her would very much like to find out.

It's horrifying.

"No," she says firmly. "That will not be happening."

He sighs. "Okay. But let me know if you change your mind, all right? Really. I feel bad."

He's infuriating.

"That's what you feel bad about?" she demands. "Of all the possible—"

She cuts herself off before she can even begin to list the numerous things that Ward should feel bad about, because he's watching her with such a pleased smile that she's certain he's deliberately provoked her. She's reacting exactly as he expected her to, and the idea of playing into his hands so easily makes her skin crawl.

So she restricts herself to a simple, "I will not be changing my mind. Ever."

"Suit yourself," he shrugs. "But the offer stands."

"Noted. Now, if that was all you wanted…?" she hints.

She's hoping that he's tormented her enough for the moment and will make a graceful exit, but, as usual, her hopes are quickly dashed.

"No," he says. "It's not. While we're on the topic, there's something else I want to talk about."

Not even done with the topic. How lovely.

(There are days that she genuinely regrets turning down Coulson's offer to see her settled elsewhere after what happened to her and Fitz. This is one of them.)

"What is it?" she asks tiredly.

"I don't know if you've noticed, Simmons, but things are pretty tense around here. Our team—"

"My team," she interrupts. She doesn't know she's going to do it until she already has—it's automatic, a reflexive denial of his nerve, to name himself among them. To count himself as one of them, when he was the one who fractured them in the first place.

How dare he.

"Our team," he repeats, with a chiding look, "Is a powder keg. All it'll take to set it off is one wrong move." He pauses, significantly. "Or word."

Her anger is washed away under a cold rush of fear, and it takes a moment before she can trust her voice.

"Are you threatening me?" she asks.

"Not at all," he claims, but his pleasant smile says yes. "Just making conversation." He picks up the stapler from her desk, turns it over in his hands thoughtfully. "It hurts me to see our team like this. We used to be so close."

"We used to be a lot of things," she says. None of what she really wants to say to him makes sense in that context, but it seems the thing to say. "What's your point?"

"My point," he muses, and sets down the stapler. "I think what our team really needs is some quality time, don't you?"

"No."

"Exactly," he says, happily, as though she's agreed. "But the thing is, it's hard to spend quality time together when the whole team isn't playing. Now, I know Skye's out, for some reason…"

He trails off, giving her an expectant look, and she stares him down. If he honestly thinks she's going to tell him anything about Skye, he might truly be insane.

"Ah, well," he shrugs. "It was worth a shot. Back to my point, which was that Skye isn't around, but you are."

"Obviously," she says, and hopes the derisive tone hides the way her throat has gone suddenly tight. If he's going where she thinks he's going with this…

"Which means there's no reason for you not to tag along on this mission we've got planned," he concludes like she hasn't spoken. "And give us all a chance to catch up."

Yes, that was what she was afraid he would say. She keeps herself deliberately still, worried about what he might read in her posture if she allows herself to react—although of course refusing to react is quite telling in itself, as well.

"Director Coulson said essential personnel only," she reminds him, as evenly as she can.

"What, you don't think you're essential?" he asks. "HYDRA took Deathlok; imagine what they must be doing to him even as we speak. He'll need medical attention for sure."

"I don't know if you've noticed," she says, mimicking his earlier words. "But we're a much larger operation than we used to be. We have actual, qualified medics now—there's no need for me to play at doctor any longer."

"Actual, qualified medics who have experience with Deathlok's unique circumstances?" he asks.

She doesn't reply, but she's afraid her silence rather speaks for itself.

"Not to mention, after everything he's been through in the time we've known him, it wouldn't surprise me if old Mike were a little squeamish about doctors," he adds. "A friendly face would probably do him a world of good."

She can't deny it: he does have a point. She hates to think of everything Mike has suffered—from Centipede, from HYDRA, doing whatever he's been doing for Coulson all these months, and now from HYDRA once again—and, honestly, she truly would feel better if she could examine him herself.

But she can't allow herself to be distracted by those thoughts.

"You don't care about Mike," she says. "What's this really about?"

"I told you," he says. "I want you to come on the mission. That way we can all catch up, work on mending some of our fences."

"I don't think so," she says, and turns pointedly away. "Once the team returns with Agent Peterson, I'll be glad to treat him here, should such be necessary."

"You sure?" he asks. "I mean, if we get to reminiscing without you…who knows what might come up?"

She freezes, hands spasming around the tablet she's just picked up, and Ward rounds the table to pluck it out of her hands. He's close, so close that the maroon of his shirt and the brown of his jacket fill nearly her entire field of vision, at least until she tilts her head back to look at him.

"Now that," he murmurs, voice low and intimate, "Was a threat." He places her tablet on the table and smiles down at her. "In case you were wondering."

It feels, suddenly, as though she can't quite get enough oxygen. She knows that it's only in her head—there's nothing wrong with her breathing, aside from being a little faster than normal—but it doesn't stop the panic rising in her chest.

She doesn't know why he wants her on the mission—certainly she doesn't buy his nonsense about wanting to patch things up—but she has to assume it won't mean anything good. No doubt he has some manner of nefarious plan just waiting to be enacted.

But she can't refuse. He might be a monster, but he isn't wrong. The team is stressed, on edge, fractured relationships barely beginning to heal, and if he tells them about—about that night, they will most certainly be distracted from their goal. Even if the mission doesn't fail, the revelation might do irreparable damage to the team dynamics.

And though that alone might not be enough to persuade her to join this mission—because there's a reason, after all, that she wasn't included in the first place—something else has just occurred to her. The quiet itch in the back of her mind suddenly resolves into coherent thought, and she realizes what exactly about his earlier words troubled her so.

Maybe I knew it would never happen if I made the first move. Maybe I knew that you'd feel bad—feel indebted to me—if it was your idea and not mine. Maybe I needed you to trust me, and that was the best way to make it happen.

They upset her not just because of what they implied—although that was of course a part of it—but because of how familiar they were.

They're very, very similar to what Coulson said this morning when she (politely) confronted him about working with Ward. I know you don't trust him, Simmons. Neither do I. But this isn't a matter of him coming to us—I went to him. I had to threaten him into working with us. Ward always has a play, but this time we're the instigators and he's stuck playing catch up. Trust me; you've got nothing to worry about.

At the time, the words were at least mildly comforting. Now, looking at Ward's cocky smirk, she has the unfortunate feeling that everything is going precisely the way he intends.

That decides it, then. She has to go on the mission—she must. She needs to be there, to stop whatever it is he has planned.

"You're evil," she says, through numb lips. It's all she can manage.

"Maybe," he says, smirk softening into a smile she'd almost call fond. "But sometimes a little evil goes a long, long way." He pats her cheek, and she hates him with an almost startling passion. "See you on the Bus."

He's out the door, his guards trailing behind him, before she can gather herself enough to respond. It's just as well; she really has no idea what she might have said—or even done—if given the chance.

She takes a deep, steadying breath. There's a pit of fear in her stomach, cold and hard and immobilizing, but she is not the person she used to be. After six months spent undercover at HYDRA, fear is an old friend. She knows how to work around it, how to use it as motivation.

Sometimes a little evil goes a long, long way, Ward said.

"Yes," she says to her empty lab. "I suppose it does."

Her decision has been made for her. All she can do is follow through…and then hope she can live with it.

Now. Where did she leave those splinter bombs?