The hand is cold and heavy as it presses against Jemma’s mouth and nose, stifling any noise she might have made. Cool lips brush against her ear and she shivers against the body at her back while her eyes focus on the display in front of her.

“Don’t move, don’t make a sound if you value your life. Can you do that?” She nods against him and can hear the smile in his voice when he speaks again. “Good. I’m going to go take care of that,” he continues, quietly and casually lifting the arm not wrapped like a vice around her to point in the direction of the commotion at the other end of the alley. She whimpers at the sight of glinting metal in the meager sliver of moonlight that falls in the alley. A sword. “Wait here.”

He’s gone in an instant and she questions if he was even there at all. Then she blinks and he’s suddenly at the back of the alley where two women and a man have a third crying woman between them. She’s coated in blood.

Jemma sways on her feet. She only wanted to come out for a quick smoke break (not that she actually smoked—weed more often than anything—and not while she was working). Her boss was an asshole, though, and didn’t allow them breaks except to smoke. So she kept a pack of menthols on hand, shaking it on her way out the back door to the alley only to slip it back into the pocket of her apron once she was alone, or lighting one if she had company, taking slow shallow drags as they chatted. A break from the cacophony of the patrons and the quiet jazz music and the clinking of glasses and scraping of cutlery over porcelain. She just wanted a moment of quiet, and now she was about to watch someone die. She should call 911.

“Don’t.” A hand like ice wraps around her wrist and she turns her head to meet the ethereal shimmering purple gaze of a second stranger. “She’ll be fine,” he adds with a small grin, “and besides, you’ll miss the show. He loves showing off.” He tips his head in the direction of the macabre display of the bloody woman surrounded by vampires. Jemma does nothing more than stare in wide-eyed shock at him. “Why are you still looking at me?” he asks, nudging her chin forward. There is hissing and crying, and the man with the sword decapitates the two female vampires before Jemma can scream. The third vampire drops their victim and backs away, but not before glancing in her direction. His eyes are weird, almost glowing, and then he’s gone.

“Shit,” the man next to her swears, rushing forward and dragging her along with him.

“Hey!” she cries, protesting at his harsh grip and the manhandling. Her shoulder aches and she worries if she puts up a fight if he’ll dislocate it. “Let go of me, asshole!”

“Dean,” speaks the man with the sword, glancing over at her with a frown. Jemma takes him in quickly: long white hair, braided back at each of his temples, pale blue eyes, and pallid skin made even more pronounced by the black clothes on a lean body. “Let go of the civilian.” The man holding onto her immediately lets her go, dropping quickly to his knees and tending to the bleeding woman on the ground, the dark fabric of his jeans turning darker as his knees land in blood.

She turns and glares up at Sword Guy. “Look, weirdo, I don’t know who you are, but you can’t just run around this district with a fucking sword… and then—I’m sorry, are you laughing at me?” Jemma asks, incredulous.

“What’s your name?” Sword Guy asks, still laughing a bit.

“I’m not telling you my name,” she says and huffs when he just keeps smiling at her. “I’m not,” she insists, crossing her arms and trying not to look at the possibly dying person on the ground. “Shouldn’t we call someone?” There are protocols for inhuman attacks on mortals; they’ve been drilled into her head since she was a child. She squeezes her right hand, feeling the smooth bite of scar tissue against her fingers. She knows them intimately, how magic can go wrong, how when she needs magic the most, it tends to fail her.

“No. She’s in better hands with us.”

Jemma scoffs, mustering her courage as she makes a stand against this man who insists on ignoring the protocols. “Oh, I’m sure she is, and absolutely everything is fine.”

“Didn’t say ‘everything is fine’, he’s not a doctor, but he’ll make sure she’s alright. I’m Søren, by the way, since I know you’re wondering.”

“Yeah, wondering why you’re such a—” she sways on her feet again and flinches as Søren reaches out to steady her, his touch gentle. She whispers angrily, “What the hell happened here?”

“There you go, brain catching up, yeah? It’s adorable how slow you mortals are.” He gives her a quick once-over and then opens the hand that’s holding his sword. It disappears in a curl of smoke. Jemma blinks owlishly. “Magic,” he stage whispers, chuckling at her scowl, clearly misinterpreting it as a question, but she’s not inclined to correct him. “Come with me.”

“No, I can’t. I have work.”

He barks a laugh. “Not anymore you don’t.”

“Well I’m not going with you,” Jemma tells him, taking half a step away from him, the fucking bastard and his patronizing tone. “Look, Sean—”

“It’s Søren,” he interrupts with a grin.

“Shut up. I don’t care what your name is. You can’t just show up here and try to tell me what to do. I need to work. I have bills and rent to pay and I don’t have the time or the inclination to cavort around with a guy who carries around a magic sword and his ‘not a doctor’ friend,” she snarks, adding air quotes around the last bit and hating the way his smile keeps growing.

“You’re fun when you’re angry. Wait right there,” he tells her before snapping his fingers. She frowns again, wondering what his deal is, but then it settles over her: the slow heavy feeling of a holding spell.

“Bastard,” she hisses, fighting against it but to no avail.

He strolls backward away from her then turns and heads towards the woman and the man he called Dean, kneeling down next to them. They exchange quiet words and Jemma watches in wonder as the light blue glow of healing magic surrounds the woman.

True healers are rare: most healers Jemma has met can’t heal by magic alone and need to carry satchels of supplies with them. No results were ever guaranteed, and most times you’re better off seeking out a doctor than taking the risk of questionable magic and at worst, death if a spell goes wrong. What Dean is doing is something she’s heard and read about, and accidentally encountered twice. A few minutes pass, Jemma trying to push her way out of the holding spell while growing increasingly annoyed at Søren, at the vampires that chose her work’s alley to commit their crimes, at her bad luck that she took a break when she did, and at her boss who hasn’t come to see what’s taking her so long. She stills when Søren rises and walks back towards her with a grin.

“Time to go,” he says without preamble, grabbing her hand. She has just enough time to watch the woman on the ground take a deep breath and then the heavy press of transportation magic surrounds them both before she can protest. It squeezes and pulls all at once while managing to steal your breath away. Jemma hates transportation magic, it’s only blessing is that it’s over in a blink of an eye.

She stumbles when they land, then she spins to slap him. He catches her hand, clicking his tongue at her and wrestling her other arm down until he’s got both of them locked behind her back. “Settle down,” he growls as she makes an attempt to kick him. “Seven hells, girl, what is wrong with you?!”

“You can’t just go around kidnapping people like that! What about that woman? Is that guy really a healer?” Her eyes dart around the space they’ve landed in. Large wooden double doors stretch from floor to ceiling behind the man in front of her. Lit sconces line the walls. That’s all she takes in before her attention is drawn back to her kidnapper.

“So many concerns for other people and none for yourself, and none about what just happened? Interesting.”

“Not true, I’m very concerned I’m going to lose my job, that I need, because of what you did—why?”

“Dean and I have been tracking that coven for weeks now.” He surveys her shrewdly then leans in close to her. Jemma tries to get away, but his hold on her doesn’t budge. His nose presses against her neck, right behind her ear, and an involuntary shiver dances up her spine as he inhales deeply. “You smell entirely civilian,” he tells her, and she rolls her eyes. What an idiot, she thinks. “Yet, you aren’t showcasing any sort of teleportation sickness.” He draws away from her neck but keeps his face close to hers. “And you knew what I did to you in the alley, with that holding spell, didn’t you?” he accuses.

“Yeah, not letting me go back to work,” she snaps and he grins. “You still aren’t letting me.”

“Mmm, it’s true, I’m not. That vamp that got away made eye contact with you. If he’s a smart one, and he is, the slippery bastard, I promise, he’ll come back to finish the job. No witnesses, and you are a witness. A very vulnerable and delicious type of witness.”

“So that’s your plan? Just kidnap me and keep me here until you dispose of him?”

“Not exactly,” he drawls. “You’ll be safe here—” He leans forward just a bit, the last word lifting in a question she’s refused to answer. “Would you be more agreeable if I made sure your job was still waiting for you?”

“Maybe,” she grumbles, finally able to twist away from him to take in the place he’s brought her to. She’s expecting some sort of underground bunker, but she’s standing in opulence. “It’s Jemma,” she tells him distractedly.

“Jemma,” he repeats, separating the syllables like he’s never heard it before. “Welcome to my home, Jemma. You’ll be safe here. Make yourself comfortable, just don’t go into the West Wing.”

She stops gazing around to glare at him. “Are you fucking with me?” she asks.

He grins, dark eyes shining in the low light. “I am.”

It’s at that moment a soft thud marks the arrival of Dean, the woman from the alley in his arms, still covered in blood but breathing.

“Took you long enough,” Søren drawls. “I’ll be right back.”

He disappears, leaving the three of them in silence. Dean shifts the woman, who releases a quiet moan at the movement, and glances over her head to Jemma.

“Follow me.”

Jemma does, not wanting to be left alone in what seems to be a foyer. She moves slowly after Dean down the hall, looking at the gold inlay on the wood paneling of the walls and the marble mosaic beneath their feet. “Will she be okay?”

“I think so. There’s still a minimal chance she could turn, but—” he trails off with a quiet sigh, and Jemma picks up her pace to walk in step with him. He towers above her, Jemma realizes. She had noticed in the alley, but to now be walking beside him, it’s easier to see. Dark wavy hair falls to his jaw, and his lips are—

Jemma halts that thought before it can begin but decides whenever she’s out of here she’s going to start kissing way more people, because it’s clearly been too long if she’s considering kissing a man, especially one who nearly held the same dimensions as a French door refrigerator while covered in blood and a nearly dead woman lying in his arms.

“But it’s highly likely your healing magic negated it,” she finishes for him as he backs into a room.

He’s silent as he uses his elbow to flip on the light switch. There’s a giant bed in the center of the room adorned with an ungodly number of decorative pillows and what looked to be a velvet comforter.

“Yes,” he agrees finally, glancing over at her before laying the woman gently down on top of the blankets.

“Come on,” Dean says a few moments later after checking the woman’s pulse and throwing a light blanket on top of her. “Let’s get you situated.”

“I don’t want to be an inconvenience,” she huffs. Dean laughs.

“Trust me, it would be more of an inconvenience if we let you go. Especially if Holden found you.”

“Who?” she asks before shaking her head, “forget it, I’d rather take my chances.”

Dean stops in front of another door, and Jemma barely stops in time to avoid a collision. “The vampire that got away,” he tells her blithely. “Here we are.” He opens this door with just a bit of flair, doing brief jazz hands and then slipping inside to flick on the light revealing yet another spacious bedroom. “Bed, obviously,” he begins, pointing. “Closet it over there, no idea what’s in there but nothing we can’t sort out later. The bathroom is through that door there. Søren and I typically eat in the kitchen, but now that we have guests, he’ll want to use the dining room. That’s back down the hall and through to the opposite side. First set of double doors on your left.”

The room is beautiful, rich shades of blue and silver with hardwood floors. It’s decadence. “Can I ask you something?” she asks, walking to the bed and sitting down on it.

“Of course.”

“How does a man who looks like you—” she begins, gesturing with her hands at his broad chest, which only makes him lean closer and practically leer at her. His eyes are filled with mirth; Jemma keeps going, ignoring him. “—end up with healing magic, and Søren is the fighting type?” He leans back and laughs, and Jemma is captivated by the twin dimples that suddenly make an appearance.

“Who says I can’t fight?” he finally asks, leaning back against the closest wall and crossing his ankles. Jemma shrugs, turning on the bed to face him. “He’s better suited to it, but I can hold my own when I need to. Maybe in a kinder world these hands would only heal, but that’s not where we live.”

Jemma nods and Dean straightens, rubbing his hands against his jean-clad thighs. “I’ll let you get settled. Don’t bother trying to sneak out of a window, they’re magically sealed. Have you eaten yet tonight?”

“Does a granola bar while walking to work count?”

Dean grimaces and shakes his head. “Give me half an hour,” he tells her before slipping out of her new room, gently closing the door behind him.

Finally alone, she slips her phone from her pocket, sighing in relief that it still has battery life and service. She texts her roommate that she won’t be coming home and to keep an eye out for any suspicious activity. She knows she doesn’t need to worry about Heather but knows Heather will worry about her, so she explains what happened. It sounds even more bonkers when she types it all out.

Won’t be home tonight, vampire attack in the alley and I got kidnapped ?? by some guy who looks like a Sephiroth wannabe and one absolute unit with these crazy glowing eyes. Hunters. I’m safe from vampires but Sephiroth thinks I could be targeted… or he’s gonna use me as bait. Their digs are really swanky though.

Intentionally not typing Søren’s name makes her grin because she knows it would piss him off to know she’s called him that, and makes a note to do it to his face at some point soon.

Her phone rings a minute later.

“Jesus,” Heather says by way of greeting and Jemma flops back to lay across the bed. “You have the worst luck, you know that?”

Jemma manages a weak laugh and rolls over onto her stomach. “You’re telling me.”

“You’re okay though? Did they see you?”

“Yes,” Jemma grits out, and Heather curses. “I just wanted some fresh air.”

Heather laughs. “In that shitty alley? Babe, please. Why don’t you just tell those guys your roommate is a dhampir?”

“Because I was too busy arguing against kidnapping, and I’m pretty sure they want to try to use me as bait.”

“Son of a bitch. Who are these assholes?”

“Some guys named Søren and Dean? Ever heard of them?”

Heather whistles long and low, and Jemma’s heart sinks. “Yeah, they’re the best of the best. Rumor has it Søren is a dhampir too, but no one can confirm it.”

“Stupid. You can smell it on him,” Jemma mutters, headache already beginning to form.

Heather sniffs, “Oh really?”

“Stop it. We were very close. He says I smell civilian.” Jemma groans, and Heather laughs. “I was offended.”

“Well, you do spend hours with them, and you’re technically like a baby dhampir. Daughter of a real one and a human.”

“So?”

“So, nothing. Ask those assholes for a charger, because I know yours is in your room, and call me if things go tits up.”

“What’s more tits up than this?”

“Like they do decide you make great bait.” Jemma sighs, and Heather kisses the air on the other end of the phone. “I mean it. It’s been at least a century since I’ve kicked some shitty vampire’s ass, and I’ll be damned if those two use my best friend for bait and don’t invite me.”

“Thank you? I think?”

“Yeah, I think so too,” Heather replies, making Jemma laugh. “Stay safe.”

“As houses,” Jemma returns before hanging up the phone and sliding her arm up the bed to push it beneath a pillow. She takes a moment to lay face down in the comforter and scream before sliding back along the bed until her feet touch the floor and she can stand up.

Leaving her room makes her feel like she’s doing something wrong, even though Dean told her to come to the kitchen. She blames it on the general ambiance of the house: old and regal and suffocating in its beauty. She wonders if it’s been passed down or if Søren is the original owner of the home. Dark cherry wainscotting lines the hall, and the walls above it are painted a dark green. All of the photographs and paintings are framed in gold, and she feels the stares of the portraits like a weight she can’t escape.

She finds the kitchen exactly where Dean told her it would be. It’s huge and semi-industrial looking, all stainless steel and appliances that are a bit on the excessive side for only two men, but she can’t judge when she slides onto a barstool at the center island and watches Dean plating whatever he’s made. It smells incredible, and Jemma’s mouth waters.

“Here we go,” Dean says, sliding a bowl across the island to her and rounding it with two other bowls cradled in each hand. “Bucatini with carbonara and a hint of lemon.”

“It looks amazing,” Jemma tells him, leaning in and letting the rich scents of the dish wash over her.

“Doesn’t it?” Dean asks, looking doubly pleased with himself and her compliment. Jemma rolls her eyes and twirls her fork in the pasta.

“So, your boss is a real asshole, huh?” Søren asks, striding into the kitchen so silently she jumps. His clothes look nearly pristine, but it’s impossible to know for sure because they’re all black, but he’s still got blood in his hair and across his left cheek. That’s when she notices the myriad of scars there, almost like he got scratched by multiple cats. Big cats. She stabs her fork into her bucatini and shovels it into her mouth to give herself a second.

“Uh, yeah,” she mutters around a mouthful of pasta.

He leans his forearms across the countertop next to her and tilts his head to look at her. Damn both of them and their eyes. Where Dean’s clearly sing with the magic in his blood, Søren’s are pale blue like ice. “Job’s still yours,” he tells her, looking proud of himself, “though it’s beyond me why you would want it.”

“To pay bills. We’ve been over this, Mister I’m-o-Rich-My-Walls-Practically-Breathe-Money.”

Dean laughs into his dinner while Søren huffs but doesn’t disagree, so Jemma goes back to eating.

~*~

 

It takes three days for the woman from the alley to wake up. Jemma learns her name is Becky, and the last thing she remembers is leaving the restaurant after dinner and drinks with friends. Jemma didn’t serve her table, so she is unable to help Søren and Dean put any pieces together there, but she knows she didn’t see the group of vampires in the restaurant, which means they were waiting somewhere outside, or were just walking down the street. Søren and Dean go back and do a search of the area, but come home empty handed. Becky spends most of the time sleeping, waking up long enough to eat the light meal Jemma brings her and talk about things that are decidedly other. Jemma learns her favorite book (Wuthering Heights), her favorite flower (a dahlia), her favorite snack (Reese’s, but specifically the egg kind), and they have a lengthy chat about peanut butter and chocolate ratios before Becky succumbs to sleep once more.

It takes another four days after Becky first wakes up for Søren to finally notice something is off about her, and she takes a lot of pleasure in the way he almost runs into a wall while imitating a gaping fish as he notices.

“Jemma.” He drawls her name in that same way, almost making it into two words as he comes towards her. “You’ve been keeping secrets.”

She bites down hard on her lip to keep from laughing and makes her eyes go wide with faux innocence. “Have I? Last I recall is you telling me how I smelled.”

“You didn’t disagree.” Jemma lets out a little yelp as he grapes her wrist and tugs her close to him, pressing his nose against her neck once more, inhaling deeply.

She pushes against him, growling, “I was and am still mad at you.”

He tuts, pale pink lips pulling down in a frown. “You still have your job, which is what you were so worried about, though I cannot fathom why.” His fingers pull at the collar of her shirt and he hums. “Powerful friends?” He asks, thumb hooking under the soft leather of her necklace. She swats his hand away and ducks under his arm.

“Yes, it was only the job and not the kidnapping that pissed me off.” Søren rolls his eyes as Jemma narrows her own. “Tell me you brought me here for my safety and not to eventually use me to lure that vamp out?”

Søren backs away from her with a soft hum. “Well, I wouldn’t want to lie to you.” Jemma growls and lashes out with a quick jab aimed at Søren’s stomach. She watches him tense, but he doesn’t stop the blow. She knows he could catch her wrist, but he lets her knuckles collide with him. “Feel better?” he asks with a grin.

“A little,” she tells him with a glower that would send a civilian to his knees, but it only makes his grin bloom into a full smile.

Within two weeks she’s accepted that she just lives here now. She and Becky take tea in the garden and Jemma finds other things to keep herself occupied while Becky settles in and seems better suited to a life in a grand old house. One day, Jemma stands on the threshold of a doorway leading into a grand ballroom after wandering through the house and upstairs in search of the melancholy melody drifting through the halls. She finds herself staring in at Becky on the far end of the room, eyes closed and body swaying with the music.

“You’re very good,” Jemma tells her, voice bouncing through the large and empty room after Becky stops playing.

“Oh! Jemma! Thank you, I’ve been playing since I was little. Dean told me it was up here, and now here I am.” She shrugs, and Jemma can just see the movement of it over the open piano top. “It’s a good way to pass the time.”

“Yeah,” Jemma agrees, watching as Becky begins another song before eventually drifting down the hall to the library. She’s glad Becky is doing so well after everything that has happened to her, and she feels selfish over feeling jealous. Jemma wants to be at peace here, but she knows the inevitable meeting with Holden is hovering above all of their heads. Maybe if Jemma were actually a civilian she wouldn’t know, wouldn’t be able to practically taste the worry that rolls off of Søren and Dean in the early hours of the morning after they come home, another unsuccessful night of searching chasing them through the door.

The next Friday, Søren and Dean appear in the entry hall while Jemma is passing through to the kitchen. They’re both covered in blood, Søren’s body is limp against Dean who quickly lowers him onto the floor. The smell of the blood and their fear is sharp and metallic in Jemma’s nose as she moves closer.

“What happened?” she asks, watching blood trickle down the side of Dean’s face, coming from somewhere beneath his hair.

“Ambush,” he tells her, hands already glowing with light as they press against Søren’s chest.

“Fuck,” she mutters, watching him work and swallowing down her mounting fear at how much paler Søren’s already fair complexion is. He looks washed out, the scars on the left side of his face sticking out in sharp relief. She’s furious at him for creeping up on her like this, and she’s going to be pissed as hell if she can’t yell at him for making her care so much about him when all of this is over.

“He’ll be fine,” Dean tells her, though his voice is shaking, and she nods even though he’s not looking up at her. She’s not sure who he’s trying to convince, or when he learned to read her mind.

“I’ll be right back,” she tells Dean, darting around them and down the hall to the kitchen. She yanks out a large pot and throws it into the sink, turning on the water, warm but not too hot, then grabs all of the dishcloths and towels she can carry. Turning off the water she hauls the heavy pot out and down the hall, setting it down on the floor with a quiet ‘thunk’ and dropping the towels next to it.

The floor is hard beneath her knees as she picks up a cloth, eyes scanning over Søren. “This is all dhampir blood by the smell of it,” she says, mostly to herself, wetting a cloth and stroking it gently across Søren’s face.

“Yeah. That coven—the vamp that saw you—he’s been recruiting. Smart of him,” Dean says and then begins to cough. His healing magic sputters out as he collapses forward over Søren, careful not to actually touch him.

“Dean!” Jemma cries, reaching for him as Becky slides into the hall in pajamas and socks.

“What happened?” she shrieks, coming closer. “Oh my gods, that’s so much blood!”

“Becky,” Jemma snaps, looking over her shoulder at the woman.

With a quick nod and a tight swallow to calm herself Becky slips closer, and when she speaks her voice holds no fear. “Right, that’s not helpful. What can I do?”

Dean hauls himself up and waves Jemma away. “I’m fine, I’ll be fine.”

“Liar,” Jemma mutters, finally noticing the large, jagged hole in his shirt stained dark red with his blood. She reaches into her back pocket and pulls out her phone, sliding it across the floor to Becky. “Passcode is 18654, call Heather, tell her everything went tits up.” Becky bends down and picks it up with shaking fingers while Dean manages a weak laugh.

“Heal yourself,” Jemma hisses at him, reaching down Søren’s body for the dagger she knows is tucked in his boot. Once armed, she grips his shirt and places the blade beneath it at the collar. Between the fear and the adrenaline coursing through her, there’s a brief spark of amusement at the situation now. How the tables have turned between them that now she’s the one with a blade at his neck and the coil of anxiety is now for him instead of about him. She presses the thoughts aside and shifts the knife. It cuts through the fabric like water, baring Søren’s bloody and bruised chest to her gaze.

“Told you he’ll be fine,” Dean mutters as she notices there are no open wounds, before falling over onto the ground.

“Oh fuck,” Jemma scrambles over Søren and presses his hair out of the way, looking for the wound there. “Becky.”

“Yeah?” her feet come into view first, and Jemma glances up to see her with the phone still pressed to her ear.

“Put it on speaker and then hold this here, like you mean it,” Jemma instructs, pressing a towel to the wound on Dean’s head. She does, dropping to her knees, and placing the phone on the ground between them before her hands press over Jemma’s. Once satisfied with Becky’s pressure against Dean’s wounds Jemma slides her hands down his body. “Not good,” she says to herself, cutting open Dean’s shirt now and trying not to gag at the now exposed wound.

“Stupid,” Søren slurs from next to her and she glances over to see his eyes open and staring at Dean. “Saved my life.”

“I know, he just healed you, now stop talking and rest.”

“No. That sword was meant for me,” he clarifies.

Jemma’s trembling fingers pause for the briefest moment before she does the most reckless thing she’s done since she was young. She sticks the fingers of her right hand into Dean’s wound and picks up the dagger once more, then makes a cut in the meat of her hand that she barely feels. Becky screams and she hears Heather swearing on the phone and the rev of an engine. Søren rolls enough to grip her arm hard. She hisses as he digs in with his fingers but she doesn’t move. A bruise is nothing, it will fade, but a life slipping through her fingers can’t come back once it fades. The light of her magic isn’t blue like Dean’s, but a fiery orange that bursts from her hand and engulfs him in its light. It burns her, flaring through her veins and she screams. She counts to ten and withdraws, watching Dean’s blue magic overtake her own and stitch his flesh closed.

Søren is gaping at her like she’s grown an extra head and Jemma knows he’s finally figured it out, that she’s not the civilian he kept thinking she was. A small laugh bubbles out of her as she looks at him. “Idiot,” she whispers just before passing out on top of Dean.

~*~

 

Jemma’s mouth feels like cotton and tastes even worse.

“She stirs.” Heather’s dry tone pervades her senses and Jemma tips her head in her friend’s direction, cracking one eye open. Heather’s dark hair is smothered beneath a burgundy beanie and the circles under her green eyes speak to how little sleep she’s gotten for however long Jemma’s been out. Her grey sweater slouches down over one shoulder, showing off her twisting floral tattoo. “How do you feel?” she asks, rising from the chair she was resting in to kneel on the bed.

“Been better,” Jemma croaks and Heather quirks a brief smile. “Thirsty.”

“Yeah, let me go grab you some water, I’ll let Becky know you’re awake.”

“Okay,” she manages to say, closing her eyes before she can wonder where Søren is as she feels Heather’s weight disappear from the mattress.

A hand shakes her awake, and she blinks up at Heather looming above her. “Come on,” she says, gently easing Jemma up and tossing pillows behind her. “Can you hold this?” she asks, pressing the cool glass into Jemma’s hands.

“Yeah,” she rasps, lifting it to her lips and taking a small sip, then another, releasing a happy sigh as the fuzzy feeling in her mouth dissipates. “How long was I out? How did you get here? Is Dean okay?”

“A week. I tracked your phone and then the hot blonde let me in,” Jemma rolls her eyes as Heather situates herself in front of her on the bed. “Dean is still asleep, but he’ll also be fine.” Relief suffuses Jemma as she finishes the glass. “Becky has been worried.”

“She’s sweet, and coping well considering three vampires almost killed her.”

Heather hums in a way that makes Jemma feel like she’s missed something, so Jemma sets the glass down and waits.

“She is sweet. She wants to help when we go kill this guy. Søren told her no, and she trashed a bunch of what was probably very valuable glassware and hasn’t spoken to him since unless the conversation was about you.”

“The risks, she’s not—”

“Does it matter? If you were her? Wouldn’t you want to do what you could to feel like you’re in control?”

“Of course!” Jemma says, throwing up her hands, ignoring the slight twinge of pain in her hands caused by her sudden movement. She leans towards Heather, eyes narrowed. “Your necklace is missing,” she observes, tracing Heather’s collarbone. It’s twin rests around Jemma’s neck. “What did you do?”

“Nothing bad. I just imbued it with some of my power,” she tells Jemma with a small shrug.

“Protection and strength aside, she doesn’t know how to fight.”

“She’s a fast learner.”

Jemma feigns hurt. “You mean you haven’t spent every moment at my bedside waiting for me to wake up?”

“Fuck you,” Heather says with a laugh, turning to lay down next to Jemma. “I knew you would be fine; you were just exhausted teaching Becky to fight has been a good distraction from you not waking up.”

“I’m not meant for magic,” Jemma sighs, swatting gently at Heather when she snorts. “Okay, maybe not healing magic. I just knew I had to try again, that maybe this time it would work.”

“It did work,” Heather says, grabbing her hand and holding it tight. “Dean is going to be fine, and what happened before wasn’t your fault. You can’t keep letting that hang over you like it does. It’s not what grand-mere would want. She was mortal, Jemma, there was nothing your magic could have done.”

“I know,” Jemma sighs, shaking her hand free. “I’m going to shower and brush my teeth.”

“Good, because you stink,” Heather calls after her as she walks into the bathroom. Jemma turns and sticks out her tongue, making Heather laugh. “I’ll be in the kitchen.”

Jemma closes the bathroom door quietly behind her and leans against it. She’s been out for a week and feels as though she hasn’t slept a wink. It’s been a long time since she’s burned herself out using magic and hates how useless it makes her feel every time. With a sigh she moves to the shower and turns it on, slipping out of her clothes while steam and heat fill the room. Dean is alive, she thinks, repeating the words as she steps beneath the spray. The new scar that now lives on her palm is still red and fresh, and Dean is alive.

She washes her hair and lingers in the water until all of the soap has disappeared down the drain and she feels more awake and alive. She stands in front of the mirror naked as she brushes her teeth, leaning in to inspect the shadows beneath her eyes. Dressing in the most comfortable clothes she can she finally makes her way out of her room, braiding her damp hair as she walks towards the kitchen, only to stop in the doorway, looking in with a smile.

It takes Jemma all of five seconds of watching them together to confirm what she suspected: that was that Heather was absolutely smitten with Becky, and the lingering touches were a dead giveaway that Becky was equally as smitten.

“Jemma!” Becky cries when she notices she’s entered the kitchen.

“Hey, Becky, how are you?” Jemma asks, accepting the hug from the other woman. It’s a fierce thing that makes her wheeze and she glares over at Heather, who winks.

“Good, how are you?”

“Awake and starving, actually,” Jemma says, finally free of the hug to open the fridge and peruse her options. “Where’s our gracious host?” She asks, just a little surprised to not find Søren in here with them.

“Out tracking,” Heather answers as Jemma withdraws a container of leftovers. “That vamp who got away in the alley has turned three people, and it’s become a real mess.” Jemma winces. “Yeah,” Heather continues, “His name is Holden, but prefers to go by ‘Father’.”

“Kinky,” Jemma says, making Becky snort. She finds a pot and puts it on the stove, dumping the contents of the container (some sort of soup) into it and turning on the burner.

“Jemma,” Heather admonishes briefly. “Anyway, as I was saying, he’s relatively new. Søren told me when they first encountered him they were in France, but now he’s here where rules are admittedly laxer about vampires and turnings than they are in Europe, so obviously he wanted to take advantage.”

“How new is new?” Jemma asks, poking at the soup with a wooden spoon.

“Less than a year, and no one knows who his sire was.”

“Maybe he killed them.”

“A very real possibility,” Heather agrees. “So there’s Holden, the three humans he’s turned in the past week, and a handful of dhampir that he’s swayed to his weird cause.”

Jemma nods. “That you know about.”

“You think there might be more?” Becky asks softly. “Why? What does he even want?”

“Blood, but without repercussions, for starters.” Søren’s deep voice interrupts, making them all jump in surprise. “You’re awake,” he states and steps into the kitchen and over to Jemma. “What are you doing?” he asks, eyes sweeping over her and then down to the pot.

“I’m hungry,” she says, freezing when his hands cup her cheeks and tilt her head left and right. “What are you doing?” she asks him. His hair is down for once, not tied back away from his face with braids. He looks softer like this. “How was recon?”

He smiles briefly, eyes cutting over to Heather, then he lets her go. Jemma feels slightly bereft now that his touch is gone. “I was inspecting you, and recon was fine. Now go sit, I can handle your soup.” Jemma glares at him, but Søren grabs the spoon from her and gently pushes her towards the island where Heather and Becky are watching them with matching grins.

Four days later Dean rouses, sore but alert, and the subtle tension Søren has been carrying around sloughs from his shoulders like melting snow from a pitched roof. In two more days he’s recovered enough to seek Jemma out.

He finds her in the library and settles next to her on the small couch she’s curled up in the corner of. “Keeping secrets, are we?” he asks by way of greeting as he sits down next to her. His thigh presses against her own and she thrills at the pressure of it, at the warmth of it, her stomach swooping at his smile that she catches out of the corner of her eye.

Jemma breathes in the scent of him, clean and warm and spicy, as she closes her book around her finger and glances up at him with a grin. “You never asked, but no, not really. I can’t heal, not like you. It’s more like staving off death.”

“How does that work?”

“Dunno, can’t control it. It’s the only magic I have, and I—” She turns over her hand to show him the scars that crisscross the meaty area beneath her thumb. “It requires a sacrifice.”

“What an interesting thing to discover,” Dean drawls, taking up her hand and drawing it closer for inspection, his thumbs drifting gently across her palm and a swarm of butterflies take up immediate residence within her body.

“It is,” she says, swallowing hard when he leans over her hand and presses a kiss to her scars. Damn him and Søren for not playing fair.

“A story for another time?”

“Perhaps,” she breathes, drawing her hand back as he releases her, hoping she’s playing it cool and not the color of a tomato.

Dean’s hand drifts up her arm to her shoulder, fingers brushing through her hair before standing up. “Come on, Søren is crafting a battle plan.”

 

~*~

 

The thing about plans, Jemma has learned, is that they very rarely go, well, to plan. Søren’s is like that too. The element of surprise is blown before they’re even close to the back door they plan to enter through; a local contingent of vampire law enforcement arrives with all the fanfare of a mission that doesn’t rely on stealth. Heather takes a step back with Becky while Jemma stays in relative safety between Søren and Dean. She watches as the sword she saw upon their first meeting appears out of thin air in Søren’s hand just before he kicks in the door.

This time, they are the ambushers, and Holden is little more than dust in the wind when all is said and done. The newly turned vampires were easily subdued once their master was unable to influence them, and as Jemma leans against Heather, watching them pile into a van before heading to what is essentially a rehab facility for vampires. She hopes one day they’ll find peace with their new lives.

Becky is pacing the sidewalk, a bloody knife in her hand that no one has been able to take from her as she’s high on adrenaline and busy recounting how she stabbed a dhampir in the shoulder. Impressive for a civilian, let alone one who was only just learning how to fight. It’s Heather who finally disarms her as they walk through the city after midnight. The blade clatters to the ground as Heather kisses her and Jemma has enough sense to loop her arms through Søren’s and Dean’s to keep them walking as Becky wraps her arms around Heather, kissing her back like they’ve survived the unimaginable.

“When did that happen?” Dean asks, swaying into Jemma.

“While you were recovering from almost dying,” Søren tells him. Dean nods thoughtfully, like almost dying is something he does often.

“They’ll catch up,” Jemma says when they reach the corner, turning back to check on the two of them, no longer kissing, but lovingly engrossed in one another, foreheads pressed together while they talk. “And they can handle themselves.”

For the first time, Jemma approaches the home she’s been living in from the front, and even at night it’s magnificent. Warm light emanates from the tall windows, almost inviting you inside. The walkway is curved, leading up to wide steps that form the front porch, supported with columns as it runs the entire front of the house. Both Søren and Dean pause to let her take it in.

“I can’t believe you don’t have a garden maze,” she says after a moment of looking, making Søren laugh and Dean snort.

“Perhaps one day I’ll consider it,” Søren tells her, giving her a wink when she looks up at him. “The coven is gone,” he speaks the words slowly as they resume their walk up to the house. “So Jemma, back to waitressing for you, now that the danger has passed?”

“Maybe,” she agrees with a little nod, letting her arms fall slack in theirs, hands drifting down each forearm until she can lace her fingers through theirs. “I’m also open to other possibilities.”