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It happens so fast after the whole terminally-infected-by-alien-virus-and-jumping-to-her-death-out-of-a-plane thing. At first, that night, when she can’t sleep and she ends up in his bunk (and in his bed, and pressed against his wall) she thinks it must be from the adrenaline, from the horrific thrill of almost dying.
She sneaks back to her own pod in the morning, and they carry on as though it never happened, and maybe it was just something she needed for a night. Physical contact, a release of oxytocin, something to ground her.
Then again, he comes to her bunk the next night, and the next night (and every night after), and his touches start to linger during the day, and her heart starts to thump wildly when he’s near, and okay, maybe it wasn’t just a one-night thing.
It’s the longest she’s ever kept a secret in maybe her entire life.
She hates keeping their relationship from the team (oh god, not telling Fitz makes her nauseous) because it makes it seem like she doesn’t trust them. She does, but thinks he might not. He just tells her they can’t tell other people.
The realization of why he wanted it to stay quiet doesn’t come until two and a half months in.
They’re thrown together in a cramped little cell, damp and dark and freezing cold. She keeps quiet while he throws himself against the door, tries to stop her hands from shaking. They’ll be okay. They always are. He’ll get them out, or their team will come and find them.
After awhile, the door swings open and he gets grabbed and dragged away, leaving her alone and panicking in the dark. He gets thrown back in some time later, bloody and beaten, but without giving up whatever information their captors want.
The trouble (and the realization) happens what she assumes to be the next day.
He’s sort of dozed off, exhausted and aching, and when the door swings open again, he can’t stop himself from backing toward her, trying to protect her. It’s a mistake, and she knows that as soon as the men at the door exchange horrifically triumphant expressions.
They know.
This time they’re both dragged away, down a long hallway and into a large room. They hold his head upright, keep his eyes open as they beat her, kick her, take a cattle prod to her.
She shakes her head at him, shakes her head hard. She tries to keep her screams as quiet as possible. She tries to smile at him.
They have no way of knowing how much time has passed when Coulson and May burst into the room. Grant hasn’t said a word, and she hasn’t either.
It’s far from her favorite experience, but she actually has an easier time recuperating than she did with the virus. Less nightmares, less panic attacks. (He was there with her the whole time.)
He has a much harder time working through it, and eventually that sort of clues the rest of the team into their relationship. If they hadn’t figured it out already.
She’s never heard his voice the way it is after he wakes up from a nightmare. She does what she can, holds his head to her chest so he can hear her heartbeat, wraps herself around his taller body like a comma.
He shakes against her, and she can feel tears on the sharp angles of his face.
“It’s okay.” She murmurs in his ear, over and over. “I’m right here. I’m safe, and so are you. I’m here.” She repeats it until he falls back into a restless sleep.
One night, he wrenches himself from a nightmare before she can wake him gently. He nearly falls off the bed in a panic, trying to find her and trying to get away from people that aren’t actually there. She manages to get him to focus on her, and then he’s wrapping himself around her so tightly, she couldn’t move if she tried.
She doesn’t try.
The sob that shakes through him rattles every single one of her bones. She hates it. “I told you…” He tries, before his breath snaps off into another dry sob.
“What, darling?” She prompts gently, pressing her open palm to his chest. “What did you tell me?” He coughs, and she taps her fingers slowly. “Sh, breathe in with me. Good, now out. In, out. What did you tell me, Grant?”
His arms relax around her a bit, fingertips tracing patterns on her back. His voice is cracked with exhaustion. “I told you I’d catch you… if you fell. I meant it, I promised. I’m supposed to protect you.” His breath shutters in, then out. “I said I’d catch you.”
The stunned “oh” comes out of her mouth in the form of a pitiful exhalation.
“I’m so sorry.” He whispers against her hairline.
She shakes her head for a moment, until she’s sure she can speak without breaking into sobs herself. “Please don’t be sorry. Don’t do this to yourself. I’m fine, okay? I’m alright. I’m safe and sound, and I’m here with you. And I love you, no matter what. And do you know what that means, Grant?”
He breathes in, out. “What?”
He won’t let her loose enough from his grasp to kiss him properly, so she settles for pressing her lips to the base of his throat, his jaw, his chin. “It means I can catch you when you fall, too.”
It’s a two-way promise that night, and the day after, and for the rest of their lives.