A/N: Anonymous said: "from that one au meme: 3am and the fire alarm in our apartment complex just went off let me lend you my jacket while we wait on the sidewalk, biospecialist. pretty please?"

It's been a long, horrible day, and the only thing Grant Ward wants to do when he gets home is fall into bed. Which is why, when the fire alarm goes off as he's entering his bedroom, he gives serious thought to ignoring it. But it's nearly three in the morning, so chances of this being a drill are slim. He's exhausted, aching, and so sick of everything that he might actually shoot the next person he sees, but he's not stupid.

So he heaves a sigh and goes outside, grabbing his boots from their place by the door as he goes.

He knows as soon as he sets foot in the hall that it's the right decision; he can smell smoke and hear panicked shouting from the floor above. And, as he exits the building, he can see flames coming from one of the upstairs windows. It's not a large fire, at the moment, but it's obviously spreading, and he spares a moment to be grateful for his timing as he considers his chances of getting back into the building tonight.

If the fire alarm had to go off, he's glad that it did so when he was just home from work. He has his cell phone, his wallet, and his keys—it will be no trouble to drive to a hotel and get a room for the night. He's especially grateful that he's still fully dressed; it's freezing outside, and he does not envy the other residents of his building, most of whom are standing around in their pajamas.

One in particular draws his attention: a young woman he's seen in passing, but never spoken to, is only wearing a tank top and thin cotton pants. She's obviously miserable, shivering and bouncing in place, and without even thinking about it, he moves towards her.

Grant's usually pretty good at talking to people. He doesn't like it, but he's good at it. Being able to charm people is a pretty useful skill, in his line of work, and he takes full advantage of it. But right now he's exhausted and sore, so he doesn't say anything when he reaches the woman's side. He just takes off his jacket and offers it to her wordlessly.

For a moment, he thinks she's going to refuse it, but then she takes it from him with a grateful smile.

"Thank you," she says, fumbling with the zipper pull. He's a good sight larger than her, and she struggles with the sleeves for a moment, but eventually she manages to zip it up. "Usually I would insist that you keep it, but it is very cold out, and you do have that jumper, which looks nicely warm, so…thank you. It's very kind."

"Don't mention it," he says. Honestly, he has no idea why he just gave her his jacket; he's not enough of a gentleman to give up his best source of warmth when it's this cold out, and yet. Here he is. Without his jacket.

"I'm Jemma, by the way," she tells him. She gives him a little wave and then tucks her hands into the sleeves of his jacket.

"Grant," he says. "Nice to meet you."

"Pleasure's mine," she says.

The fire is bigger, now, bathing the street in an orange glow, and he's briefly distracted by how well it suits Jemma, how it seems to light her hair and make her eyes shine. Then he shakes his head, because that's a really fucking bizarre thing to think.

Maybe those accusations of pyromania weren't so unfounded, after all.

Well, she's beautiful, regardless. He's always thought so. He's considered, more than once, stopping her in the hall to speak to her. He's imagined it before, planned out what to say and how to say it, strategized the best way to approach her, the most effective way to put her at ease—because a woman who lives alone (which he's pretty sure she does) has plenty to fear from a strange man, and he doesn't want to scare her.

He's never gone through with it, though. He works long hours—long weeks, really—and usually by the time he gets home he's so exhausted that human interaction is the last thing he wants.

He's exhausted now, but he thinks his chances of getting back inside tonight are slim. He can't leave to find a hotel until there's word on the damage to the building, though, so why not take the opportunity to finally ask her out?

In a manner of speaking, at least. It's three in the morning, and giving her his jacket doesn't make him automatically trustworthy. He doesn't want to scare her off by coming on too strong, so it's best to start simply.

"This looks like it's gonna be a while," he says over the sirens of the approaching fire trucks.

"It does, doesn't it?" Jemma agrees miserably. She's still obviously freezing, despite his jacket, and it gives him an idea.

"There's a twenty-four hour diner just down the street," he says, jerking a thumb in its direction. "Buy you a cup of coffee?"

She shakes her head. "I can't accept that. You've already lent me your jacket, which is more than you had to do."

"It's not about what I have to do, it's about what I want to do," he counters. "And what I want to do is buy a beautiful woman a cup of coffee."

He regrets it as soon as he says it, afraid that bringing her looks into it might give her the wrong idea, but, luckily, it doesn't. He can see her wavering and gives her his best charming smile.

"I can see you getting frostbite, there," he says, nodding at the way she has her hands tucked under her arms. "I don't know what you do for a living, but I bet it'd be a lot harder without fingers."

That surprises a laugh out of her, and she shakes her head.

"I'm hardly in danger of frostbite," she denies. "But you're right, it would be." She bites her lip. "You're sure you don't mind?"

"I'm sure."

"All right, then," she says. "I would love a cup of coffee, thank you."

He steps back and motions in the direction of the diner. "Lead the way."

Jemma hesitates for a moment, then steps closer to him and slips her arm through his. That is a very encouraging sign, and he has the bizarre urge to fistpump. (He resists it, of course—what is he, a frat boy?)

"I've never been there before," she says, a little tentatively. "So I suppose you'll have to lead."

"Gladly," he says, and they set off down the sidewalk, arm in arm.

(And if his heart is hammering in his chest like it hasn't since he asked Michelle Carmichael to the freshman homecoming dance more than twelve years ago, well…it's not like anyone can tell by looking at him.)