Chapter Text
Jemma takes a tiny sip of her drink, wincing immediately at the taste. The Martians call it Deimos distilled. Everyone else calls it disgusting.
She doesn’t even want to be in this awful bar, for God’s sake. It had been Fitz’s idea, a few drinks to celebrate them finally getting the jobs they had been after since their first trip to university. They’re working in an interstellar lab, developing communications systems between species. It’s challenging, it requires all of the four tenth levels they have between them, and best of all, they get to work together. Jemma can’t be mad at him for wanting to celebrate.
She can be mad at him, though, for somehow forgetting that Mars is the galactic equivalent of a trash fire. It’s a mess of illegal markets, pirate hangouts, and horrible dive bars like the one Jemma is currently seated in. Worse still, Fitz has already found a man to flirt with and disappeared into the crowd, leaving Jemma abandoned to drink disgusting liquor alone at the bar.
The girl seated beside her downs her third glass of Deimos since Jemma sat down, and Jemma can’t ignore it anymore.
“How are you doing that?” she demands, turning. The girl looks up in surprise, and Jemma nearly swallows her tongue. She’s gorgeous, dark hair and flawless skin and practically glowing in the half-darkness of the bar.
“Huh?” the girl asks, twisting her mouth into a half-smile. Jemma doesn’t even register the question, staring at the girl. “You good?”
“Yes!” Jemma says suddenly, her mind catching up. “Yes, I’m fine. Are you? How many of those have you had?” The girl glances at her glass and shrugs.
“Five?” she says thoughtfully. “I don’t know. They don’t bother me, though.” Jemma shakes her head, torn between awe and horror. “I’m Daisy.”
“Jemma,” Jemma returns. She’s still staring at the other girl, but her gaze is analytical now, her mind jumping from thought to thought like the jumping spiders on Agrith that Fitz used to have nightmares about. “You’re Inhuman,” Jemma says after a moment, putting the pieces together. Daisy raises her eyebrows.
“How’d you figure it out?” she asks with a grin.
“You look like one,” Jemma says, wincing as soon as the words leave her mouth. “Sorry, that sounds bad. You just—Inhumans have this glow? You’re all strangely beautiful and sort of immortal looking.” Daisy’s grin widens. Jemma realizes that she’s just inadvertently called this stranger beautiful. She chooses to not take it back. It’s true.
“So, Jemma,” Daisy says, turning on her stool to face Jemma. “What are you doing here? No offense, you just don’t look like the girls I usually meet in bars like these. Or on Mars in general.” Jemma glances down at her cardigan and jeans, compares it to Daisy’s black leather jacket and impossibly tight pants of some unknown material, and reaches much the same conclusion.
“It wasn’t my idea,” Jemma explains. “My friend dragged me out here. What about you?” Daisy shrugs.
“I like the drinks,” she says. “‘sides, I was born on Mars.”
“Visiting family?” Jemma asks.
“No family,” Daisy corrects. “Not by blood, anyway. My family is all on my ship with me.”
“You have your own ship?” Jemma asks, surprised. “That’s impressive. What do you do?” Daisy grins wickedly.
“I’m a supply runner,” she says. Jemma has no reason to doubt her, but something in her smile isn’t the least bit convincing. “You?”
“I just got a new job, actually,” Jemma says excitedly. “I’m building communications devices to cross interspecies barriers. Did you know that we’re currently aware of over seven thousand species that we can’t communicate efficiently with because their evolution didn't include ears or vocal cords? Seven thousand. Can you imagine how much knowledge we could gain if we learned how to speak to them?” She notices Daisy’s slightly overwhelmed look and deflates. “Sorry,” she mumbles. “It’s boring, I know.”
“No, don’t apologize,” Daisy says immediately. “I think it’s interesting.” Jemma gives her a skeptical look. “I do! Most of it would probably go over my head, because, hey, didn’t even finish my third levels here, but I think it’s cool that you’re trying to help people.”
“Don’t you need at least fourth levels to be a pilot?” Jemma says, frowning, trying to recall the regulations handbook all interstellar travelers were tested on when they received their passports.
“Nope,” Daisy says a little too quickly, a little too cheerfully. “So, what company is sponsoring your whole communications thing?”
“Not a company,” Jemma says absently. “S.H.I.E.L.D.” Daisy’s smile drops.
“S.H.I.E.L.D.,” she repeats.
“Yes,” Jemma says. “Is that bad?”
The doors of the bar slam open with a crash, letting the weak light of the Martian evening flood the dark interior. In storms a human woman, blaster out, followed quickly by—
“Agent Coulson?” Jemma says, utterly perplexed. “Agent May?”
“Oh, fuck,” Daisy says from beside her.
“Simmons, get away from her, now,” Coulson says calmly. Jemma stands automatically (Coulson is using his commander voice; he never uses his commander voice), taking a few steps back from the bar, more confused than ever. May levels her blaster at Daisy.
“Hey, A.C.,” Daisy says with a crooked grin.
“Miss Johnson,” Coulson returns cooly, and Jemma puts the pieces together. “I would tell you to come with us, but that hasn’t worked out the last eleven times, so I guess it’s kind of pointless.”
“Yep,” Daisy agrees. She stands up from her stool slowly. May keeps the blaster trained on her. Daisy starts to raise her hands.
“Not happening,” May says. “Keep them down.”
“Oh, please,” Daisy says dismissively. “Like you’re actually going to shoot me. You love me, May, don’t lie to yourself.” May doesn’t respond, but Jemma could swear she sees the normally impassive agent’s mouth twitch slightly, like she’s holding back a smile.
“Keep them down,” she repeats. Daisy makes a show of holding her hands by her sides. Coulson steps forward, pulling a set of handcuffs from his belt and walking towards Daisy, carefully staying out of May’s line of fire.
“I don’t know why you spend so much time trying to catch me, A.C.,” Daisy says conversationally. “It’s not like it ever works out.” She holds out her wrists innocently. Coulson eyes her suspiciously before beginning to slip the cuffs onto her—
—and suddenly Coulson is cuffed to the bar, and Daisy is holding May’s blaster. She glances down at the blaster in her hand, like she’s surprised it’s there, before she turns to address the room at large.
“Well, it’s been fun as always,” she announces. “Good seeing you, A.C., May. Call me sometime, Jemma.” Jemma turns bright red. “Let’s go, guys.” As Jemma watches, five humans step out of the crowd of people of different species in the bar: a tall, beautiful blonde accompanied by a slightly shorter man, an utterly massive dark skinned man, a shorter man with a devilishly handsome grin, and a woman tossing the key to Coulson’s handcuffs from hand to hand with a mischievous smile.
Daisy’s group sweeps out of the bar in a parade of dark clothing and combat boots. Coulson watches them go, and Jemma genuinely can’t tell if he’s upset or amused.
“That was Daisy Johnson,” she says flatly.
“Yep,” Coulson confirms.
“The Daisy Johnson,” she continues. “Quake Daisy Johnson. Most-infamous-pirate-this-side-of-Sol Daisy Johnson.”
“Yep.”
“Bloody hell.”
A murmur of conversation and awed whispers is beginning to rise from the crowd in the bar. Quake is a notorious name anywhere, but on Mars, the beloved home and hangout of pirates and their admirers from all over the galaxy, she’s all but legendary. There’s no photos of her anywhere; she never gets caught, and the few times she’s been sketched or someone has tried to generate a computer image of her, the files have mysteriously disappeared from wherever they happen to be stored.
Still, Jemma would never have expected to not recognize her. The stories about Quake, about her ship (the Rising Tide, an absolute legend in engineer circles, at least according to Fitz; apparently Daisy’s mechanic is one of the best in the past two centuries) appearing out of nowhere and taking company supply ships in minutes before fading back into nothing, about her powers being strong enough to destroy worlds (some stories say they already have, but Jemma is skeptical; there’s too many rumors about Quake’s refusal to kill and avoidance of violence for such stories to hold weight), about her charisma and determination, gave Jemma the impression of someone somehow larger than life, someone not quite real, more of a myth than a person.
(That’s a conspiracy, too; that Daisy Johnson is imaginary, the product of a government coverup to disguise the fact that an unknown species is trying to destroy interplanetary trade. Jemma has always found that one rather ridiculous, especially seeing how the goods Quake steals have a habit of reappearing on worlds that desperately need them.)
The real Daisy Johnson is something that Jemma was not in the slightest prepared to deal with. She’s kind, and funny, and Inhumanly gorgeous with a capital i, and definitely real, and undeniably fascinating.
“Jemma!” Fitz pushes his way out of the crowd and over to her. “Are you alright?”
“Physically,” Jemma says, shaking her head slowly. “I…I believe I just inadvertently hit on Daisy Johnson.”
“Oh, you are kidding me,” Fitz groans. “You too?”
“You were also flirting with her? No offense, but you don’t really seem her type. Or her yours, for that matter.”
“Not her,” Fitz corrects her, talking with his hands the way he always does when he’s excited. “Her mechanic.”
“The mechanic whose work you’re always salivating over?”
“Yes,” Fitz says. “Unfortunately, he seems to be straight.”
“Also a space pirate,” Jemma reminds him. Fitz shrugs dismissively.
“Nobody’s perfect.” Jemma shakes her head at his words. “Besides, you were flirting with Daisy Johnson, you’re hardly in a position to criticize.”
“I didn’t know it was her!” Jemma protests.
“Would that have stopped you?” Jemma hesitates. She’s actually not entirely sure she wouldn’t continue to flirt with Daisy, given the opportunity.
“Will one of you please get me out of these cuffs?” Coulson calls from the bar, sounding exasperated. Jemma and Fitz exchange a guilty look before turning around as one. Coulson is still cuffed to the rail at the back of the bar, glaring at them. May is as impassive as always, although that telltale twitch is tugging at the corner of her mouth again.
“Sorry, sir,” they mumble in unison, and Fitz steps forward, tapping on the metal of the cuffs to wake the computers in them up. He hits a series of keys that mean absolutely nothing to Jemma, and the cuffs spring open.
“Thank you,” Coulson says, sliding the cuffs off the bar and reattaching them to his belt. “Now, if you two would come with me, we’re going to track the Rising Tide.” Without waiting for an answer, he walks out of the bar. May follows silently. Jemma and Fitz exchange glances and shrugs before following as well.
“I can’t believe you flirted with Daisy Johnson and didn’t know it,” Fitz comments.
“Will you shut up?”