A/N: First, thanks for all the comments and kudos. They're greatly appreciated.

Second, I'm assuming you're all familiar with the 5+1 format, but just in case you aren't, consider this a gentle reminder that all chapters are not connected.

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

Fitz has barely turned away to fetch the DWARFs when a man appears on the other side of the window and aims a gun at Jemma. She draws in a sharp breath—intending to warn Fitz to run; she's between him and the man (undoubtedly a HYDRA agent) and he might have a chance to escape if he moves quickly—but it catches in her throat at the voice she hears behind her.

"Long time no see."

Jemma's phone slips out of her suddenly nerveless fingers, and the sound it makes when it hits the ground makes her flinch. The HYDRA agent in front of her twitches, then stills.

"Turn around," he orders, motioning with his gun.

She takes a moment to gather her courage, then obeys.

Grant isn't pointing a gun. He isn't even holding one. He's just standing there, looking perfectly casual, smiling at Fitz. As she turns, his eyes flicker to her, and his smile grows wider.

"Santoro," he says. "Get in here."

She hears movement behind her as the HYDRA agent (Santoro, presumably) climbs through the empty frame to join them in the shack, but doesn't dare take her eyes from Grant's. There's a pit of dread in her stomach, and she doesn't know whether it's due to the memory of Skye shaking in her arms after being rescued or just because of the look on his face.

"Sir?" Santoro asks.

"I'd like a moment alone with my fiancée," Grant says. "Escort Fitz to the SUV."

Jemma's "No!"is torn from her throat without conscious thought. Fitz's "No" is accompanied by a lunge at Grant.

He doesn't accomplish anything. Grant has him restrained in two seconds flat. He doesn't even look annoyed by the attempt, just amused.

"Calm down, Fitz," he scolds as Santoro moves forward. "We'll be along in a minute. I just want to catch up."

Fitz's response is succinct and distinctly impolite. Grant grins and hands him off to Santoro.

"Play nice," he warns, as Fitz is dragged, struggling, out of the shack. "We've got plans for him."

"Yes, sir," Santoro agrees.

Jemma wants to do something—race after Fitz, tear him away from Santoro, try to take Santoro's gun, anything—but Grant's gaze keeps her in place.

"Don't do anything stupid, Jemma," he says, softly. "We're not gonna hurt Fitz unless we absolutely have to."

Unless you make us, he means. She swallows and curls her hands into fists as he closes the distance between them.

"You look tired," he says, brushing his knuckles along her cheek. "Not sleeping well?"

Not sleeping at all, really. Between nightmares (both Skye's and her own), unfamiliar beds, and the unending worries of life on the run, she's barely managing an hour a night.

But she's hardly about to tell him that.

"Someone stole my bed," she says evenly, and lifts her chin. "And my closet."

He grins. "And you're here to get them back, is that it?"

"Something like that," she says. "Are you going to give them up?"

He cups her chin in one hand, and while he's not rough, precisely, his hold is nowhere near as gentle as it usually would be. (As it used to be.) Jemma's heart gives a particularly painful thump.

"Ask me nicely," he suggests. There's a cruel twist to his smile, and she shoves him away before she can think better of it.

He laughs.

Jemma thinks, I hate you.

And she does.

She hates him almost as much as she hates herself—for not seeing this, this other person hiding beneath the skin of the man she loved, and for the fact that not all of her does hate him. It's been six days and she hasn't managed to steel herself against him. Her skin doesn't crawl where he touched her, it burns—the same way it always has.

She hates herself because there's a horrifyingly large part of her that wants him, that thinks the stubble he's sporting and the smirk tugging at his lips suit him, that thinks desire is an appropriate reaction to a traitor.

It's been six days and she's spent the entire time running on adrenaline and grief. There's been no time to shed her love for him, and it horrifies her that part of her doesn't want to.

"That wasn't very nice," he chides, and she scoffs.

"Neither is kidnapping," she says.

"If you're talking about Skye," he says, "I was just following orders."

Another part of her, of course, would dearly love to punch him in the face.

"And Fitz?" she asks. (The and me? she swallows down. She doesn't know that she wants an answer to that question.)

"Also orders," he confirms, and smirks. "Different orders."

Jemma's mouth goes dry. "Different in what way?"

"Pretty much all of them," he muses. "From the source to the final destination."

"What does that mean?"

"You'll see," he says, and reaches out to tug playfully at her ponytail. "I'd hate to spoil the surprise."

Before she can press further, he indicates the door with a quick jerk of his head.

"The rest of our catching up will have to wait," he says, regretful. "We're on a schedule, here."

She dodges left as he reaches for her arm. "I'm going."

He rolls his eyes, but doesn't comment, simply extends his arm towards the door in a clear after you. Her heart is racing as she passes him; she's half expecting him to grab her.

Thankfully, he doesn't.

In fact, he retains a perfectly polite distance all the way to the SUV waiting outside the shack. For all that she's grateful for it, it also leaves her feeling distinctly wrong-footed. She's not used to such tension between them—to wanting distance, let alone having it. Even while in the field—where they maintained a professional demeanor—he always lingered nearby.

She's feeling an odd mix of grateful, despairing, and wistful as she climbs into the SUV's backseat. Mostly, though, she's simply exhausted. She tips her head back against the seat and closes her eyes as he gets in after her. He sits close enough on the bench seat that his thigh presses against hers, but she can't find it in her to move away.

Six days. Six days since she kissed him goodbye on her way to Portland. It hasn't even been a week, and she's loved him for years.

Her heart isn't traitorous for loving him still. It's just tired.

The drive to the Bus is quick and silent. She's not entirely certain that the two HYDRA agents in the front are even breathing. She lets herself enjoy the quiet and, guiltily, the warmth of Grant's thigh pressed against hers. It's the last comfort she'll ever take from him, she's sure.

Considering HYDRA's general approach to enemy agents, she thinks, it might just be the last comfort she ever receives, period.

It's a depressing thought.

As they pull to a stop beside the Bus, she sees Santoro waiting at the bottom of the cargo ramp. There's no sign of Fitz.

"Where's Fitz?" she asks.

Grant pats her knee. "In the Cage, probably. I hope you don't think we're dumb enough to leave you two together."

"You're dumb enough to join HYDRA," she mutters, somewhat sullenly. If they're going to be kept separated, there's no hope of escape—neither of them will leave without the other. Which is undoubtedly the point. "So why not?"

He laughs as he gets out of the SUV. For a moment she considers just staying where she is and refusing to move, but it's an absurd plan, of course. Any one of the HYDRA agents in the vicinity—him included—is capable of moving her against her will.

Better to do it on her own and avoid unnecessary contact.

A quick check proves that the child lock on the door next to her is engaged, so—after a deep breath to steel herself—she slides across the seat and climbs out through the door Grant is still holding open. She pointedly ignores his offered hand, but that doesn't deter him; she's no sooner taken a step away from the vehicle than his arm curls around her shoulders.

She can't believe she was actually feeling wistful about the distance between them earlier. Clearly she's sustained some manner of head injury without realizing it at some point.

"I have a confession to make, Jem," he says, steering her up the cargo ramp. He gives a nod to Santoro as they pass him, and he falls into step behind them.

"What sort of confession?" she asks, wary.

"I told you my orders for Fitz have a different source than my orders for Skye," he reminds her.

"Yes," she says, as he stops them in the middle of the cargo bay. The ramp is closing slowly behind them, cutting off even the illusion of a chance of escape. "And?"

He turns her to face him, withdrawing his arm from her shoulders in favor of cupping the back of her neck. Her skin prickles; she's never been so aware of the calluses on his fingers—calluses earned in the course of ending countless lives—or just how delicate the skin beneath the nape of her neck is.

"John isn't the only person I'm working with," he says. "And he's not the one who wanted you caught."

Well. That's ominous.

"Who is, then?" she asks.

He leans in and presses a tender kiss to her forehead, even as his hand slides up to weave through her ponytail, and it distracts her enough that she doesn't see the needle until it's too late.

"Trust me," he says, as the world begins to go dark around her. "You'll have to see it to believe it."

x

When she regains consciousness, she's stretched out on a couch in an unfamiliar sitting room. Her head is pounding. Her coat and shoes are gone.

And she's alone.

She sits up slowly, and the first thing she sees is a large rendering of the HYDRA symbol painted on the wall directly opposite the couch.

"Lovely," she mutters, and sets to exploring.

She's in a flat of some kind. The front door is, not unexpectedly, locked. Off to the left of the sitting room she woke up in is a well-stocked kitchen. There are two doors off the sitting room; one, which she presumes leads to a bedroom, is locked just as firmly as the front door, and the other leads to a bathroom.

The flat is fully furnished. Nothing is bolted down. Were she someone else—someone like Grant—there would be any number of weapons available to her use. As it is, she decides that her best hope (short of taking a steak knife from the kitchen, which seems likely to end poorly) is the lamp next to the couch. It looks suitably heavy; she'll probably be able to knock someone unconscious with it.

Of course, that does leave the question of what to do next. If the ugly symbol on the wall is any indication, HYDRA owns the building she's in. Even if she gets past the front door, there's likely to be no end of security between her and the actual exit.

And if by some miracle she does reach the exit, what then? She can't leave without Fitz, but there's no telling where he might be. In the next room, on the next floor, halfway across the country—she has no way of knowing. She doesn't even know how long she's been unconscious.

She makes twelve circuits of the flat, her mind spiraling in increasingly panicked circles, before she hears the front door unlock. She stops in the middle of the kitchen and turns to face it as it opens.

Her half-formed escape plans disappear like smoke.

"Good morning, darling," her mother says. "How are you feeling?"

She shakes her head in wordless denial. This is a nightmare. This has to be a nightmare.

Her mother cannot be HYDRA.

"I see you weren't expecting me," she says. Her tone is gently teasing as she continues, "Have I finally got one over on you? Your father will never believe it."

Her heart is in her throat. "You—you're—"

"HYDRA, yes," her mother confirms. The door swings shut behind her as she enters the room fully, and though Jemma notes the absence of the sound of the lock engaging, she doesn't fool herself into thinking it's anything but deliberate.

The door doesn't need to be locked. There's no possible way she can get past her mother.

Adora Simmons is a Level Nine specialist turned field commander. She hasn't been on the specialist rotation since before Jemma was born, but she's never let her skills slip. Jemma has no more hope of taking her down than she did Grant.

And, everything else aside, she doesn't think she's capable of raising even an improvised weapon against her own mother. Even if her mother is the enemy.

Oh, God. Her mother is the enemy.

Her head spins, and Adora makes a concerned noise.

"Do sit down, Jemma," she says, crossing the kitchen to join her. "You look fit to faint."

Jemma allows herself to be steered to the kitchen table and obligingly takes the chair her mother pulls out for her. She feels hysteria rising in her chest and does her best to tamp it down. Screaming and crying won't fix anything—Providence proved that well enough.

"Dad?" she forces herself to ask.

"He's with us," Adora says, taking the chair next to her. "He asked me to convey his apologies. He would've been here if he could, of course, but he's in the midst of a very important project. He simply can't spare the time."

Jemma breathes carefully, trying to stave off a panic attack. In her through her nose, out through her mouth—the way her father (her father) taught her to calm herself down when she was a girl, when she had frequent, awful nightmares, her mind just as active in sleep as it was awake.

"There's no need to look so frightened, dove," her mother chides after a few minutes of this. "You must know you've nothing to fear from us."

"I don't know anything," she says, and she truly doesn't. Her faith in the world around her has been irrevocably shaken. Her parents are HYDRA. What can she trust, if not her parents' fidelity? Is the Periodic Table accurate? Is chemistry a valid science?

Do the laws of physics apply, in a world where her parents are traitors?

Adora laughs. "Oh, darling. Always so dramatic, you are." She sighs. "Still, it's only to be expected, I suppose. Perhaps if Grant had warned you…"

"He said I would have to see it to believe it," she recalls woodenly. He was right; she never would have believed him, had he told her that he was taking orders from her parents.

"Well, now you've seen it," Adora says pleasantly. "Is there anything you have to say about it?"

"I won't join HYDRA," she says. It's the first thing to come to mind.

Her mother smiles, indulgent. "I know you won't." She reaches out to smooth some of Jemma's hair and, heartsick, she allows it. "My ethical little dove. Such a puzzling moral streak you have." She shakes her head. "I do wonder where it came from."

She sounds so fond, so—so normal, as though they're discussing Jemma's tendency towards taking sugar in her tea, rather than her ethical code. It could be any conversation they've ever had over breakfast…if not for the awful knots in Jemma's stomach and the horrid symbol on the wall, leering down at them.

"What," she inhales shakily, "What are you planning to do with me?"

"Do?" Adora echoes. She has the nerve to sound offended. "Oh, darling, we're not going to do anything. We can't allow you to work for the enemy, of course, but we're not going to force you into working for us."

"You expect me to believe that HYDRA is above such tactics?" Jemma asks.

Her mother laughs. "Certainly not. Coercion is a time-honored tradition in HYDRA; we've rather perfected the art. But you've no need to fear it." Her smile is sharp, and for the first time, Jemma sees a hint of just why so many people in SHIELD feared her mother. "No one will ever touch you, Jemma. I won't allow it."

"So, what, then?" she presses. "You didn't go to all the trouble of having Gr—of having me brought here just to tell me you're HYDRA."

"No," Adora agrees. She gives her a searching look, and Jemma knows her stumble over Grant's name has not gone unnoticed. However, it does go unremarked; her mother, mercifully, focuses on the point. "As I said, we can't allow you to work for the enemy. It's simply not safe. So, we've a lovely house waiting for you in one of our more…secure compounds. You can wait out this silly little war there in safety and comfort."

Jemma scoffs. She has to, because otherwise she might just cry, and she can't stand the thought of her mother attempting to comfort her.

"So," she says, "You're just going to hold me prisoner? Indefinitely?"

"Think of it as protective custody," Adora suggests mildly. "We can't allow you a lab, of course; I think we both know you would only do something foolish. But it's well stocked with entertainment, and you'll have access to all of your favorite scientific journals." She smiles. "And your father and I will visit as often as we can."

"Mum, please," she says, and her voice cracks on it. "Think about what you're saying. You're going to lock me up? I'm your daughter, not some—some—"

"Enemy agent?" Adora supplies archly.

Jemma looks away.

"We're not treating you as an enemy, darling," Adora says softly. "Trust me, you don't want to see what we do to our enemies." She takes Jemma's hands in hers and squeezes them until Jemma meets her eyes again. "You never will, if I have any say in it. And, to be frank, I have quite a lot of say."

"Mum—"

"We're only trying to keep you safe, Jemma," Adora says. "As any good parents would. You've chosen the wrong side in this war. Usually I do prefer to allow you to make your own mistakes, but the stakes are simply too high, this time."

"And Dad?" she asks, swallowing around the lump in her throat. "He's agreed to this plan?"

"He has," Adora confirms, and gives her a considering look. "As has Grant."

Jemma flinches and tugs her hands away from her mother's. She frowns.

"What is it, darling?" she asks. "Have the two of you quarreled?"

"Qu—" she gapes at her mother. "He kidnapped me, Mum! And that was after killing a man and kidnapping Skye! To say nothing of the fact that he's the enemy."

"So am I," Adora says reasonably. "And so is your father."

Her anger makes her restless; she surges to her feet and paces away from the table. Adora turns to watch her, but remains seated.

Jemma is overwhelmed. Her fiancé, her mother, and her father—people she's never doubted, people it has never even occurred to her to doubt—have all turned out to be HYDRA. She's been drugged and kidnapped and separated from Fitz. She's furious and heartbroken and a million other things, besides.

She doesn't know that she has the words to explain to her mother why Grant's betrayal hurts so much worse. She doesn't know that she has any words left.

"He was only doing as he was told," Adora says, eventually. "I ordered him to bring you here at the first opportunity. If you're angry at anyone for the kidnapping, darling, it should be me."

"I am angry at you," Jemma says, whirling to scowl at her. "But Grant, he—I just—"

"He's still the man you fell in love with," Adora begins, and Jemma has to laugh, because otherwise she would certainly cry.

"No, he's not," she disagrees. Her anger deserts her abruptly, and she drops down to sit on the couch. She's just…exhausted. "He's an entirely different person, Mum. At least you're still—you." Holding her hands and calling her darling and using that indulgent you're too smart for your own good tone, just like always. "He's…"

She thinks of the airfield and the Bus—the smirk on his face, the difference in the way he touched her, his easy cruelty where she would've expected awkward sweetness—and tears burn at the back of her throat.

She swallows. "He's not."

Her mother sighs and leaves the table to join her on the couch. She looks so at home here, in this elegant flat, under the leering eyes of the hateful logo on the wall, and Jemma wonders if this is hers—if, beyond the other locked door, she would find her parents' clothes in the wardrobe.

It's an oddly painful thought.

"It's true that Grant's interactions with you have been…unfortunately colored," Adora says delicately, "By the cover he had already established before meeting you. But he didn't have a choice in that, dove."

"The man I fell in love with wasn't real," she says, just to hear the words. She needs to hear them, to accept them. She can't keep clinging to the memory of a man who never existed. The moment of weakness in the SUV, though—she feels—excusable, must be her last.

"No," Adora agrees. "But, frankly, I prefer the real him. Perhaps you will, too, once you give him a chance. He's much more interesting, I've always thought."

"He wasn't real," she reiterates. It hurts just as much as the first time, and the question she must now ask hurts even more. "Was our relationship?"

Adora frowns. "What do you mean, darling?"

"Our relationship," she repeats. "Was any part of it genuine? Or did you order him to date me, as well?"

"Of course not," her mother says, sounding honestly offended. "I would never do that to you, darling. Why ever would you think so?"

"The real him," she quotes, studying her hands. "How would you know what he's really like?"

"Oh, is that all?" Adora laughs. "No, darling, he wasn't under orders. He approached us—your father and I—shortly after the two of you started dating. To explain himself."

"Explain himself?"

"He knew enough to fear us," she says, with a decidedly chilling smile. "And he didn't want us to get the wrong impression regarding his intentions. So he searched us out and promised he was genuine—and that he wouldn't hurt you. We were skeptical at first, of course, but he's proved himself quite admirably in the years since."

Jemma thinks of the past six days, of Providence, of the look on his face when she turned to face him at the airfield, and says nothing. She aches with some combination of despair and fury.

"Wouldn't you say?" her mother adds.

"He wasn't real," she stresses. "It doesn't matter how things were between us. I loved a cover."

"Give him a chance," Adora suggests. "The real Grant loves you, Jemma. I'm sure, given time, you can love him, too."

Anger wins out.

"I am not going to give him a chance," she says, sharply. "I never want to see him again."

"He's already requested permission to visit you in your new home," Adora says, frowning. "I'm afraid you haven't much of a choice."

"You're afr—" Jemma scoffs. "Tell him no, Mum. Problem solved."

"Jemma, Grant is one of our best. And the only recompense he's requested for his excellent work is access to you. Of course we can't deny him."

Jemma feels sick. Suddenly, she can't even look at her mother. "So, you're just going to—to give me to him? As a reward?"

"Don't be ridiculous," Adora says, suddenly stern. "He's not going to hurt you, Jemma. I won't allow it." She softens, taking Jemma's hands in hers once more. "I just want you to be happy, darling. And Grant has always made you so happy."

"Mum," she says. She keeps her eyes on the HYDRA logo painted on the wall, hoping to draw strength from how much she hates it. "Mum, you have to know I won't be happy as a prisoner. All the—the books and visitors in the world won't make up for a lack of freedom."

She's not even going to address the ridiculous notion that Grant might be capable of making her happy any longer. She doesn't want to think about him at all. (Doesn't want to think of the tiny, horrid part of her which is pleased to hear that he still wants her.)

Six days and she hasn't been able to let go of him. She wonders how long it will take to let go of her parents.

"It will take some time to adjust, I'm sure," Adora says pleasantly. "But, given time, I think you'll come to accept it. It could even be nice, don't you think? A little relaxation after all the danger you've been in, these last few months."

Jemma turns to stare at her, incredulous. How, she wonders distantly, has she managed to go this long without realizing that her mother is insane?

"Everything will be fine, darling," Adora says, and stands. "You'll see."

She heads for the door, and Jemma surges to her feet, panic overtaking her.

"Mum!" she says, chasing after her. "Mum, you can't do this to me. You can't—I'm your daughter! You can't just lock me up."

"The fact that you're my daughter is precisely why I must lock you up," her mother says, stopping at the door. She pats Jemma's cheek fondly. "It's the only thing saving you from the treatment your friend Leo is undergoing."

The bottom drops out of Jemma's stomach. Her vision wavers, and for a moment, she's afraid she might faint.

"What are you doing to Fitz?" she asks. Her voice is just as shaky as she feels.

"Just a minor attitude adjustment," Adora says blithely. Her smile, however, is once again chilling.

"Attitude—?"

"We've perfected the art of brainwashing, as well," Adora expands. "I would never allow you to be programmed, of course, darling, but Leo really is far too brilliant to let waste away under torture. Programming is a much more elegant solution."

"No," Jemma says weakly. "No, Mum, please—"

"I'm afraid it's out of my hands, darling," her mother says. "The scientists are your father's department, of course, and in any case, the programming is already underway." She smiles. "Perhaps we'll allow Leo to visit you as well, once it's complete. Would you like that?"

Jemma can't answer. She swallows convulsively, trying not to be sick. The thought of Fitz being brainwashed—of HYDRA erasing and rewriting him, tampering with his beautiful, brilliant mind—is nauseating.

And the thought of it happening at her father's hands is even worse.

"Now, I'm afraid I can't tarry any longer," her mother says regretfully. "I need to get back to work, and you need to be on your way. Your new home is waiting for you." She checks her watch. "It will be a few hours, yet, before the transport is ready. Do try to eat something, hmm? You're looking quite peaky."

She presses a kiss to Jemma's cheek and gently moves her back a few steps. Then she's gone, the door opening and closing so quickly that Jemma doesn't even have time to consider attempting to escape. It locks after her with a loud, ominous click, and that, for some reason, is the final straw.

Jemma sinks to the floor, hugs her knees to her chest, and cries.