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theclaravoyant · 7 years

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Simmorse Body Guard-Celebrity AU

AN ~ IT BEGINS. This turned into a 6-parter! Hope you like it! I should be updating approx every 48 hours.

CW: references to animal cruelty (the subject, no actual occurrences)

Read on AO3

Sparks - Ch. 1

Outside a storefront in LA, a sizeable crowd had gathered. Not one of sport-stadium proportions, but certainly respectable, and slowly growing as passers-by and new arrivals joined the throng. Some were drawn simply by the presence of the others; some by their curiosity about the film crew who had been setting up and milling about for some time now. Some, though, were there clutching favourite books and pens, beaming at each other, hardly able to believe that their author lived among them, walked among them, and was here, now, almost close enough to touch.

Jemma Anne Simmons did not look like the sort to be writing about gruesome crime and torture and intrigue. She almost looked like she was more prepared for the position of First Lady; always poised, clean and neat, a lover of pantsuits and blouses and brooches and otherwise never looking like she’d just pulled her hands out of a corpse. It was well known, though, that she had a PhD – and, some speculated, more than one - in forensic biology, and had worked as a Medical Examiner for a good part of her career. It made for intriguing if at times gruesome writing, and a personality juxtaposition that was in itself a curiosity. Jemma was the very antithesis of morbidity as she smiled to her fans and waved, a frenetic and happy wave. The crowd cheered and waved back. Critics liked to complain that she was cold and superior, amongst other things, but her fans knew better.

So did the reporter, Stephanie Garnett, who was herself a little awed to be out here today. It was hard to curse the fluff-news shtick when she got opportunities like this. She gestured for Jemma to prepare herself as the message from the station came through and the signal switched over to them.

“… Yes, that’s right Troy,” Stephanie introduced, “I’m here with the marvellous Doctor Jemma Simmons, who’s doing a reading of her next book, All the Madam’s Men for us here today. And now, Jemma, this reading’s for charity I understand?”

Stephanie glanced at Jemma, who smiled, well-accustomed, at her and then at the camera.

“Yes, Ms Garnett, that’s correct,” Jemma agreed, with charming showmanship. “As you can see behind me, we’re back at my good friend Daisy’s store Afterlife, where I launched The Singularity last year. She’s been through some renovations recently - how exciting! - as the store just keeps growing and growing. Daisy! There she is. Come up here, come on up here. Daisy Johnson everybody.”

Gesturing to the audience, Jemma – and Daisy – received raucous applause. As it died down, Daisy blushed a little.

“Ah, hi everyone,” she greeted. “I guess I’m not used to being on television. That’s why I was hiding in the back there.”

An amiable chuckle passed through the crowd, and Daisy smiled. Stephanie gestured for her to continue and, a little more confidently now, she obliged.

Jemma smiled to herself as Daisy spoke. The camera loved her, of course it did, and while Daisy didn’t exactly love it back, she would do anything for her mission. Jemma was just glad to give her the platform. As Daisy recited her origin story and the details of her store’s Winter Appeal, Jemma turned her own attention to the pile of Madam’s Men books beside her on the dais. They’d certainly picked a good cover image: the half-shadowed face of local model Agnes Radcliffe, her eyes and cheekbones cutting a fierce shape that demanded attention. Still, as usual, Jemma second-guessed herself. The Winter Appeal was primarily directed at supporting children. The passage she’d picked was probably not appropriate. Then again, being a writer of crime and espionage novels – and often fairly graphic ones at that - she doubted anything she wrote would appeal to that demographic. It was the parents, she reminded herself, that she was primarily after: the parents, and any other philanthropic adults, like herself and Daisy, who were interested in supporting the disadvantaged youth of their city… and who were also interested in steamy and dramatic spy novels.

“…But if you do have any children of your own, though,” Stephanie was saying, “it might be time to pause this video or tell them to play outside because –“

“Because that woman’s a murderer!” called a voice from the crowd. Or on the street? Daisy, Jemma and Stephanie glanced at each other in confusion. Blushing a little, Steph continued -

“Because next up, we’re hearing an exclusive first segment of Madam’s Men, straight from the horse’s mouth. Doctor, if you would –“

Jemma cleared her throat and picked up the book. She glanced back at the crowd, in case that voice interrupted again, but saw nothing out of the ordinary: just a little movement, but they were on a street-front after all. Feeling the weight of the pages in her hands, Jemma tried to think of the grit of the novel – a twisted romance, a race against time, a daring rescue and the power of true love – and when that became too abstract, conjured the more grounding and immediate thought of her own attraction to the model that she’d felt compelled to choose. Her Ophelia, right from the moment they’d met. Agnes was a lovely woman really, more into flowers and ballerinas than the stark ferocity of Ophelia, but the transformation from character to character had been just as inviting as each character itself.

Now feeling better grounded – and all the more satisfied for the moment of suspense she’d given her audience – Jemma opened her mouth and began to read.

“Skye didn’t know where she was.-“

“BOO!” shouted the voice. A crotchety woman’s voice. Jemma tightened her grip on the page. Was she having a nightmare? Had she fallen asleep in front of the Princess Bride again?

“BOO. That woman is a liar and a hypocrite and a murderer! Don’t fall for her goody-two-shoes appearance!! Don’t fall for her false charity!!”

“Ignore them,” Daisy suggested, in a whisper, at the same time one of Stephanie’s cameramen turned a camera to face the woman, who was still yelling, and now pushing her way through the crowd.

“The first- the first sensation,” Jemma read, pushing on, “was a rush of air, and water. Soap filled her eyes, and burned –“

“Just like you burned the eyes of those poor animals?”

“Excuse me?”

Jemma’s heart clenched. Her eyes snapped up from the page. The woman, the interrupter, was closer than she’d thought – now climbing up onto the small dais they’d set up as a stage. Bewildered fans glanced around at each other. Was this a stunt? What should they do? What could they do? A few of them started filming. Jemma staggered to her feet. Too late, she realised what this must be about.

“THIS is what your beloved Doctor supports behind your backs!” cried the heckler, raising an image to the crowd. A dismembered rabbit, if Jemma saw right. Immediately, there were gasps of horror. Parents passing across the street covering their children’s eyes. More people pulling out their phones, to post about it, or Google Jemma. Was she sure she was not living in a nightmare? She couldn’t move. Her vision spun.

“Shit.” Daisy muttered. “Jemma? I think we should go-“

Jemma couldn’t move. She couldn’t tell if Daisy was touching her or not. She was chilled through with fear, anxiety, and shame - and through the cracks was beginning to break a defensive fury.

“Her public face is a lie!” the woman continued to scream. “Her good face is a lie! It’s for business, not charity! She’s an animal abuser! And she built not one career on it, but two. SHAME Jemma Simmons. SHAME.”

“Ex- excuse me,” Jemma managed at last, clenching a fist by her side, “but I-“

“LOOK OUT!” Daisy cried, but Jemma barely had time to blink before it happened.

There was a flash of red.

Then black.

A flash of red, then black, as Bobbi Morse opened her eyes.

The tiny room from her dream stretched out into something nearly three times the size; a small apartment, for sure, but not a prison cell. She coughed the stench of mildew away. Her real room smelt like vanilla, which was a little cloying, but was so unheard of in her nightmares that it never failed to pull her back to reality. Bobbi breathed it deeply, until she felt herself steady. She had a window now, and a ceiling fan, and that whirring sound was just the refrigerator.

She breathed, and sighed, and dragged a hand through her hair.

(It needed a wash.)

She groaned. It was midday on a Tuesday and she was still in the dark – but at least this time it was of her own accord. Sort of. She had been sleeping, mostly because there wasn’t much else to do these days. She had no friends. She had no job. She had nothing to stimulate her mind or her passion, or to give her any real reason to get out of bed in the morning.

And she needed a real reason.

Because getting out of bed sucked.

Fortunately – or unfortunately, or somehow both at once – Bobbi’s hunger and other bodily functions were still in operation, and they occasionally gave her a kick in the pants. This was one of those times. Gritting her teeth, and hissing her breath, Bobbi dragged herself to sitting. Her knee roared with pain. She hadn’t stretched it properly in a few days, and it complained about this in no uncertain terms as she staggered to the bathroom to do her business. She staggered back into the kitchen, and made a cup of tea in yesterday’s cup. She looked around her apartment. A mess.

(Not that much of a mess. She was a soldier. She lived Spartan so she didn’t own enough things to make a proper mess. She could certainly afford to take out the garbage though. And her hair really did need a wash.)

With a grunt, Bobbi sat down at the little table in the kitchen. It still had wrappers on it from dinner with Hunter the night before. Kebabs. She smiled – a little fondly, a little in pain – as she flicked the wrappers into the bin. Both trained servicemen and practiced liars with egos and stubbornness to spare, she and Hunter had a complicated history, but he would never let her rot alone. This, she loved and hated him for. Usually somehow in equal parts.

Bobbi’s phone went off then, and she rolled her eyes. Speak of the devil.

STRETCH.

ARE YOU STRETCHING?

“Screw you, Hunter,” she muttered, and started to type as much when the little typing dots appeared once again on her own screen.

Also, buy vegetables, the next message said.

And razors.

And something to make your eyes pop.

Bobbi scoffed. “Asshole.”

Then another message came through. A link, with a brief annotation:

May have just got you a job interview.

#simmorse #aosfic #aosfemslash #jemma simmons #bobbi morse #prompt me stuff #happy pride!#clara's fic tag #long post #Anonymous

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