ROSE AND ROSIE GOT MARRIED IM SO HAPPY OMG

annnywaaayyy enjoy the angst

note: some med stuff like stitches and shit; blood mention

disclaimed

...

The mission is a bust.

There is blood on your hands that is yours, that is not yours, and you think that maybe a bullet went through your shoulder—you're so far out of it that all you feel is a dull ache. You limp back into base, May at your heels, telling you to rest, to see Simmons in the morning—

you sort of dread that conversation.

Coulson splits off, to his office, to his duties as director, but he tells you to get some sleep, the directive thrown over his shoulder. May leaves you for the training room, her fingers twitching infinitesimally, and you make the long walk back to your room alone.

The pain comes soon, the aches and twinges, the sharp, cutting pain that makes you think that you'll probably need stitches. You tap in the code to your door, sighing when it slides open—you hesitate when you see Jemma, curled up on her side of the bed. You'd figured she would spend the night in her bunk, since you were supposed to be gone until morning, but honestly you've never been so glad to see her in your life.

You think about changing into your pajamas, or at least stripping down, but the thought of raising your arms higher than rib level makes you wince, so you kick off your boots as carefully as you can and crawl in beside her, hissing as your bones settle when you lay down, your injuries jarring. Jemma's eyes snap open, instantly alert, and she murmurs, "You're early, aren't you?" She reaches out to tuck some of your hair behind your ear.

She notices the gash on your cheek then, and sits up quickly, hands suddenly clinical on your skin. "How bad is it?" she asks, more a formality than anything, since no matter what your answer she'll still conduct a thorough exam. But you're too tired to try and lie to her tonight, too grateful to see her, to be home.

"I think I got shot," you squeeze your eyes shut when she helps you sit. "Probably bruised a couple of ribs." Jemma rolls your shirt up to your armpits immediately, gentle as always, and makes a noise that sounds too much like a whimper for anything to be okay. When you glance down at your body, you're greeted with blossoms of purple, still dark and angry from heavy boots and fists, from being flung against walls. It's—

it's not pretty.

She prods at your ribs. When you yelp, Jemma leans forward to press a careful kiss to the corner of your mouth, which is good, considering you also have a split lip that probably doesn't look too attractive.

"You'll live," she whispers, promises. "But I need to get you cleaned up, yeah?" She slides out of bed, padding round to your side, and your heart warms when you see that she's wearing your shirt. Jemma glances down when she notices you staring, and in the dim light you think you see her blush. "I—um. I missed you tonight."

You nod—maybe you'll tease her about that later, but right now Jemma's slipping an arm around your better side, eyes on your bloody shoulder and helping you up. "Is there an exit wound?" She tucks her nose against the juncture of your good shoulder, presses a kiss to the skin she finds there.

"I'm not—?"

She prods at the back of your shoulder carefully, unannounced, fingers light, and makes a small noise of approval when her fingers come away stained red. "Clean shot," she murmurs, warm breath fanning over your neck. "No major damage. I don't suppose you can lift your arms?"

Your ribs ache, but you manage to snort out a laugh in response.

"Where're the scissors, then?" Jemma pulls away, turning her back to rifle through the bedside drawer, and you miss her warmth immediately.

"We don't—" you start, wincing and wrapping an arm around your ribs. "You don't have to cut the shirt off of me. Can't I just—maybe just nap for—."

She whirls around suddenly, expression unreadable, and makes a decisive snip at the edge of your shirt. "You're literally bleeding," she deadpans, ushering you through the bathroom door.

You stand in the dark for a moment, blissfully unaware of your appearance, but then the light is on and she's cutting up the front of your shirt in a straight line, the blades of the scissors bumping your skin once before Jemma course corrects. "Take a deep breath," she advises, placing the scissors on the counter and peeling your shirt away from your chest. You grumble a little, because you're a big girl and you can take off your own shirt, but your shoulder hurts, so you do as you're told, sucking in a lungful of air.

Jemma doesn't warn you when she starts to pull off your sleeves, bad side first, and for that you're grateful; the surprise dulls a little of the pain, but the fabric sticks to your skin, bonded by dried blood and sweat, and you groan and drop your forehead to her shoulder.

Pausing in her work, Jemma brings a hand up to tangle in your hair gently. "I know, love," she murmurs, breathing even under you. "Just a little more." You let the moment rest—relax into it for a beat more before you nod and straighten, dipping your chin at her in approval when her hands return to your shoulder once more. She works carefully, pausing whenever you cry out, but Jemma is efficient, and soon you're seeing the extent of your injuries reflected in the mirror.

"Oh," you breathe out. "I'm a fucking mess."

"It's not that bad." She's lying. It's so bad. "It's—ah. Well. It could be worse, I suppose."

You try not to snort. That may be the understatement of the century.

Jemma inspects your other wounds quickly, mumbling to herself, making mental notes as she catalogs the bruises and scrapes and gashes that litter your torso. Glancing down at your unripped pants, she seems to assure herself that your legs are mostly unharmed—there's a part of you that kind of wants to make a dirty joke, but you honestly think you're too tired to.

"I can numb the area topically," Jemma says quietly inspecting the bullet wound. "It won't be as strong as a shot, but it'll be faster."

"S'fine."

All you really want to do is crawl into bed beside her. Everything else means nothing right now. She starts to turn, starts to reach for the med kit that she keeps in the cabinet, but hesitates.

"How much does your lip hurt?"

You bring your fingers to your swollen bottom lip. Well—

"Not much."

"Fantastic." Jemma leans up, presses her lips against yours so gently, more a brush than a kiss, but welcome all the same. "I'm glad you're home," she whispers when she pulls away. "Glad you're safe."

You want to cry.

This was the closest you've come to death in a long time, and you'd worried, for a brief moment, that you weren't going to come back from it. But you're here. That's a miracle in of itself. She seems to realize that, pressing another kiss to your good shoulder before she busies herself with the med kit.

She kisses your cheek when she's ready, the cotton swab in her hand cold and shocking against your skin as she cleans the area around the wound. It stings for a moment before it goes numb, an odd sensation when you can still feel the pressure of Jemma's fingertips, gliding around the shot.

"There really isn't that much damage," she murmurs in surprise. "Missed everything important." She's talking to distract you, but it's a comfort, a staple whenever she has to stitch you back together. She doesn't tell you when she starts to sew, just talks on, but the tugs on your shoulder tells you that the needle's made contact. "Fitz made a new high score on Mario Kart," Jemma tells you, smiling slightly. "Hasn't yet shut up about it."

You shift a little when the tugging becomes irritating; she kisses your temple and pauses in her chatter.

"Would you like a play by play?"

Your shoulder is aching, uncomfortable, but her voice is light, optimistic, and it makes you smile. Shake your head no, wait for her to begin again.

You're not sure what you would be doing without her.

...

When the stitches are tied off, the wound bandaged precisely, you lay in bed and wait for Jemma to join you. She's meticulous in her clean up, refuses to leave anything out of place over night, but you know that she also needs a moment to herself, to remind herself that you're alive, that you're just in the next room.

She doesn't do quite as much field work anymore, and while you're slowly transitioning out, you're still gone a lot, still being shot at and coming home bruised and torn apart.

It's hard. You both carry on as best as you can.

When she comes out, she's changed her shirt and tied her hair up, and she looks so tired that you actually ache, but she smiles brightly at you, crawling into her side and cuddling up to you. Jemma tucks herself against you, nose against your collarbone, and she drapes her arm across your waist, tucks her leg between yours, anchoring you to her.

You've shared a bed for three years, now—you'd discovered that the easiest way to fight off nightmares and tremors was to be cuddled, as embarrassed as that may have made you then. Now—

it's nice. Keeps you from ever going to bed angry.

Your arm still kind of hurts, so you can't wrap your arms around, so you settle for holding her hand. "Please stop getting shot," she mumbles into your chest, so quiet that you nearly miss it. She lifts her face up. "I prefer you in one piece."

Her grin is wide, bright; she's kind of an asshole sometimes. You tell her as much.

She waggles her eyebrows halfheartedly, sleepy. "You're a lot more useful when you're not injured."

"I was just shot, Jemma."

Her laugh echoes in your small room. Someone—you think it's Hunter—bangs against the wall. "Would you two just go the fuck to sleep?"

You share a look. Burst out laughing, because it's three am and you're young and alive.

All is well.

...

(you propose to her the next day, with a speech that you abandon halfway through because jemma's laughing too hard. you're kind of surprised that the ring didn't fall out of your pocket during the op; it looks so good on her, though, that you decide not to question your luck)