Work Text:
“Oh my god,” Daisy guffawed, wiping away a tear, “I’m so glad she wasn’t my partner!”
“It wasn't so bad,” Grant said as he patted Jemma’s shoulder. The biochemist was pouting as they walked away from the River’s End most popular and only bar. Its owner, Mike, offered family friendly entertainment some evenings by having board games available to patrons.
Fitz wasn’t as kind as Grant; he glared at the last image Simmons had drawn, which he had ripped from the notepad as a souvenir for the evening. “Jemma, no offence, but what is wrong with you? How is this a snail? It looks more like a deformed girl ready for a fight!”
Jemma rolled her eyes when Daisy howled at that poor description. “That’s the shell, not a skirt! And those are obviously eye stalks, not arms!”
“We need to check your own eye stalks,” Fitz suggested innocently, “Or maybe you should have drawn it with your other hand?”
Jemma bit her lip to keep from laughing. They’d been teasing her all night, and there was no need to encourage any more meanness.
“You three are the worst,” Jemma declared. “I told you we should have chosen Scrabble!”
“It was already taken,” Grant reminded her.
“And besides, you’ll kick our asses at that,” Daisy mentioned, which cheered Jemma up.
Fitz pocketed the terrible sketch and grabbed Jemma’s hand as they crossed the street. Such safety was hardly necessary in such a tranquil town, but she adored his protectiveness all the same. Despite the chill, the couples silently agreed that a walk back to the Lighthouse was not out of the question on such a lovely night. The moon was out, and the few clouds that hung in the inky sky were wispy, like the last few strokes of a drying paintbrush.
“Next time, we’ll get there earlier and grab Cluedo,” Fitz decided. “Just so you know, though, I’m always Professor — hey, where are you two going?”
They had reached the end of River’s End, and the best way back home that did not involve secret tunnels or death by potential hit-and-runs was following the nature trails until they reached the lake. Daisy and Grant, to their bafflement, were veering beyond the wooden split rail fence and into the trees, where there was no easy path.
“Oh, we’re gonna spook the new recruits at Camp Hell,” Daisy informed them blithely. “Hazing shenanigans. It’s a Johnsons only thing though, so we’ll see you back at the base.”
“Actually, we probably won’t, not tonight at least,” Grant said with an apologetic wave. “Good luck tomorrow!”
Jemma and Fitz watched as the couple disappeared into the wilderness, impressed by their ability to maintain their silent stealth even while obviously horny.
“That dock really holds a special place in their hearts,” Fitz observed wryly.
Giggling, Jemma swung Fitz’s hand between them as they resumed their walk. “Can you imagine how many more splinters they’ll get from an all-nighter?”
She was thankful that trees had begun to shed their canopies, so that the baring branches allowed the moonbeams to light their way. Fitz tugged at her hand until she was close enough to wrap his arm around her shoulders.
“It’s a bit cold for a shag outside,” he noticed. Jemma nodded, and wound her arms beneath his jacket at the reminder. “Then again, it warms them up, probably. Still. Can’t be comfortable.”
“I suppose that means no forest interludes for us,” Jemma commented with an exaggerated leer at him.
She did not expect Fitz to hum and say consideringly, “I dunno. Not in this weather, and not anywhere we could be caught by anybody. Hate the thought of anyone seeing you.”
That he had not included his own modesty as a factor amused but did not surprise her, and she realised it was because he had expressed similar sentiments before. But Fitz was an absolute specimen to behold, so she considered it an act of altruism if someone did happen to catch a glimpse of his form if they frolicked in a field.
“Ah, this is nice,” Jemma sighed, as content as she could be with the next op looming on the horizon. It was minor, all things considered, which was why they were allowed a night out. Determined to steer her mind away from the plethora of worst case scenarios, she added, “I like dating you, Fitz.”
He barked out a laugh. “Same. Though we don’t have much experience with casual dating, do we? Most couples, I think, don't start out living in such close quarters before the first kiss.”
“Which time do you mean?” Jemma asked without thinking, and it was only when Fitz’s pace slowed momentarily that she realised her unintended reference.
Before she could clarify that she’d been thinking of the Bus and the Playground, Fitz said, “All of them. One thing I liked from our lives in the Framework was how I was able to go down a more traditional route with you. Instead of full love from the start, I went through the steps, like a normal person. Interest, attraction, asking you out…”
“Your methodology was slightly abnormal,” Jemma reminded him with a raised eyebrow, thinking of the helicopter ride, “but I know what you mean. We were a bit reversed that time, weren’t we? I was head over heels for you even before you laid eyes on me.”
“And I was the adorable oblivious one, yeah,” Fitz quipped. This was easily the most positive conversation they had had about that chapter, and that was the nicest thing he ever said about that side of him, even in jest. Simmons was so chuffed by their progress that she paused to kiss his cheek, which he promptly rewarded with a proper one on her lips before continuing their journey home.
Fitz illustrated just how well he had come to terms with that trauma even more when he said, “It’s like we said before, how it was like cheating. Being able to learn things during a time-out, as it were.” Though there was little to see except for the occasional solar path lamps atop each fence post, Fitz’s gaze remained fixed straight ahead as he dwelled on the lingering aftereffects.
“I’ll never have to wonder what life would’ve been like if I lived with Alistair instead. The years we did spend with him were shite, so of course I’m glad my ma got sole custody,” he remembered. “But a small part of me, every once in a while, wondered what kind of man I’d have been if he had wanted to be a proper father and fight for me. Now I know.”
“That’s the kind of man you’d have been if he parented you alone and Hydra took over the world with an evil android at the helm,” Jemma corrected him. “I think, here, you’d still be fighting for the right side even with that terrible influence in your life.”
“Maybe. Only if I still met you in time,” Fitz said, drawing a smile. “Or maybe I’d be sacked by the ‘right side’ for being a bastard?”
Jemma snorted. “If being a bastard was a sackable offence, our forces would be severely depleted. Besides, there’s no use punishing ourselves over hypotheticals. We should take comfort in what we know for certain — with everything you’ve learned in any world, you’re SHIELD’s best, Fitz.”
Fitz chuckled in agreement as the surrounding trees thinned out and they approached the road that led to their home. The Lighthouse and its attached buildings looked quite picturesque, nestled along the craggy ledge like that. It was strange to think that the townspeople had such easy access to them, though if any did venture out here, none could get past the manicured lawn without security alarms blaring. Having done with the evening’s cool breezes, Jemma would have happily continued home if Fitz hadn’t paused for a moment.
“It’s like a postcard,” he noted.
Jemma glanced at their base and supposed he was right, with the moon and stars shining so appealingly behind it the dim beacon, and the waves providing a comforting lullaby. They lingered, to absorb the scenery and, she suspected, in an impossible effort to forestall the mission that awaited them in just a few hours.
“Come on,” she finally sighed, tugging him along, “we need to get some sleep.”
There was no time for any enjoyment beyond a good night kiss. In fact, neither cracked a genuine smile the next morning. Fitz was off early, and Jemma was forced to contend with the “nerd herd,” as Daisy called their lab staff, before she could join the others in one of the smaller conference rooms, since the main control center was reserved for proper SHIELD work.
She should have found some solace in the ease of this operation, at least, which technically started with a phone call and then video meeting in the last week. Or, really, this operation might have technically started when Grant dealt with some of the cartel’s ilk in Biarritz? Or was it when Talbot convinced Mace to continue SHIELD’s assistance because of some supposedly unearthly infection traveling via illegal substances?
Of course, when it started did not matter half as much as how it ended. Watching the flat screen alongside Fox and Yo-Yo, Jemma could not help but remember that humdrum guns killed just as well as extraterrestrial weapons. Knowing that Piper was waiting in a windowless people carrier around several corners, ready to swoop in and assist Fitz if necessary, lessened her worry only somewhat.
The targeted Belgravia townhouse was as posh as expected, with the added charm of gas lit lamps beside the main entrance. It belonged to a man who worked under the embarrassing alias of “Sir Greg;” a dabbler in drug dealing before finding his strength in transportation acquisition for his unsavoury colleagues. With Daisy’s help, Fitz had thrown a few glitches in that residence’s security, and intercepted the call when Sir Greg reached out for assistance.
Posing as the aloof “Roy Kitson,” Fitz entered the antechamber, where they all saw his reflection in the mirrored wall. The view was only possible because his spy glasses, which were thick rimmed and matched his brown tweed suit. He had been able to lend his newfound expertise there as well, for the apparel Piper first presented him with was “out of the question.” Fitz exchanged the items for better pieces, using all the mission’s petty cash to cover the surplus, but Yo-Yo eventually agreed that someone as obsessed with the appearance of wealth as Sir Greg would detect the shoddy workmanship of the first set of clothes Fitz was meant to wear. The smart glasses, of course, were not designer brand, but were of fine enough quality that they wouldn’t do any damage to his persona of a moneyed tech savant who was rumoured to have close friendships with the leaders of this racket.
Jemma was grateful she could enjoy his dashing appearance despite her tardiness. It was not the first time she did, having caught glimpses here and there of him as he left his hotel and traveled to Belgravia, but apparently, seeing this full view prompted her most passionate admiration.
They were surprised when Fitz abruptly postponed his task and excused himself to the loo. “Alright,” he murmured to the mirror after checking for bugs, “someone take Simmons off comms.”
Yo-Yo turned away from the flat screen and looked pointedly at her. Jemma’s eyes widened in confusion. “What? Why?”
“You’ve been…” Agent Fox, who was seated at the table ready to send any relevant information Fitz’s way, now grimaced, unsure how to continue. Jemma’s ostensible reason for being in the room was to assist him if needed, but she had suspected that the invitation was given out of pity. The fact that Fitz was willing to cut off her communication confirmed it.
“You’ve been making porny sounds,” Piper declared. Behind her voice, they heard the faint din of London traffic.
Although Elena was the one in charge of this op, she only nodded, unable to find fault in the agent’s unprofessional observation.
Jemma’s cheeks burned. “I don’t make ‘porny sounds’!”
Fox gave a terribly unconvincing cough at that, drawing frowns from both Jemma and Fitz.
“You absolutely did,” Fitz then hissed at his reflection, “and it’s hard enough doing this without that sexy ASMR in my ear!”
“We’ll mute her,” Elena decided before Jemma could feebly defend herself. “Just focus.”
Now Jemma was mortified, and bit her lip to make sure no other unintended noises escaped. Of course, she normally had more self-control than that, but Simmons excused her slip on her nerves for the mission, which was to locate, copy, and then destroy the contents of Sir Greg’s servers. It would have been exceedingly foolish for anyone to keep a digital trail of their crimes, so SHIELD suspected there was more to the data than Talbot let on, but that secrecy didn’t alter their plan. All in all, it was an easy enough exercise. Theoretically.
In practice, however, there were so many details that worried Simmons. One of which was Fitz’s chosen faux personality. Upon introduction via video-call last week, Sir Greg had made a friendly overture in their shared nationality, but Fitz rebuffed him. His reasoning had been that, according to his study of Sir Greg’s profile, the Scotsman tended to prematurely betray allies but respect enemies. Whilst it made sense, seeing Sir Greg’s naked dislike of Fitz when they greeted each other in person this time drummed up unignorable uneasiness within her.
Fitz went radio silent as he met with the shady businessman, who was as warm and intelligent as a refrigerator. After outlining the strict rules of what Mr. Kitson was allowed to do and where he was allowed to go, Sir Greg left him alone with two bodyguards, who were promptly lured out by a delivery robot Fitz had arranged to ram into Sir Greg’s everyday cars parked on the street. Not much damage was done considering the vehicles were armoured, but the din of the alarm systems had everyone forgetting the unassuming guest in their midst, who was then free to find the server room.
Yo-Yo, who was standing next to Jemma as all went according to plan, noticed her rigid posture. Elena offered comfortingly, “He’ll be fine. He’s a big boy.”
“So is Mack,” Jemma replied as Fitz finished up in Sir Greg’s server room. “Does that keep you from worrying about him?”
Yo-Yo grinned and she acknowledged that point with a nod. Before she could answer, they heard Piper ask, “What the hell is that?”
Jemma returned her attention to the screen, where Fitz was now standing in the underground garage. Stolen vehicles sat in various stages of redecoration and butchery, with bonnets open and automotive items carelessly strewn about. They were not surprised to see the change of setting, for it was one of the many escape routes they outlined for him after the deed was done. What was shocking, however, was a large cage tucked into the corner with a black and brown lump sat in the middle of it.
At Yo-Yo’s bidding, Fox remotely forced Fitz’s comms back on. “Fitz, what are we looking at?”
“What are you looking at?” a deep voice boomed behind him.
Fitz turned, granting them a view of Sir Greg, who appeared rightfully suspicious to find the elite tech expert in the garage.
“A possible problem,” Fitz retorted, sounding just as displeased. “Is this a monkey?”
Jemma’s eyes widened as Fitz turned again to the unmoving creature. That cage was a decent size for a few budgies, perhaps, but it was not an adequate home for what she realised was a juvenile chimpanzee. There were patches missing in its black fur, and, even without knowing its age, Simmons could see it was unnaturally small for its length. The brown part was its nappy, which needed changing apparently. It was probably the smell that first drew Fitz’s attention to that corner.
Even with the men speaking, the poor thing hadn’t moved, or shown any curiosity. Jemma swallowed, wondering if it was already dead.
Sir Greg tutted at him, and, instead of grilling Fitz for wandering away from the security room, he said in a tone dripping with disdain, “No, Betsy is an ape. Monkeys have tails.”
Piper scoffed. “As if Fitz doesn’t know.”
“I don’t care what it’s called,” Fitz snapped. “If this thing normally wanders around, no wonder you’ve been having trouble with the motion sensors —”
“She’s never out,” Sir Greg interrupted indignantly. “What am I, an idiot?”
“Don’t answer,” Yo-Yo ordered. Usually, Fitz wouldn’t have needed that common sense instruction, but she, like Jemma, probably sensed how livid he must have been. He was feigning his indifference to the neglected primate fairly well, though, they all noticed.
But the villain continued without giving Fitz a chance to respond. “I forget she’s there half the time. Don’t blame Betsy if you’ve made any mistakes.”
“Fine,” Fitz said shortly, and he turned to the stairs.
“Wait a second. Where are Vince and Oscar?” Sir Greg demanded, moving so that he blocked Fitz’s path. “Why’d they leave you to wander around?”
“I believe something outside caught their attention,” Fitz offered. Their view shifted down, where Fitz was shooting his cuffs. He sounded as if he was more bored than bothered by Sir Greg’s rising suspicion.
“What was it?”
Fitz sighed and looked up at Sir Greg again. Jemma could just imagine the haughty expression her partner probably wore right now. “I don’t know, something shiny? Really, that’s a question for your ill-trained staff,” he sniffed. “If you’ll excuse me —”
“No.” Fitz’s view of Sir Greg shook unevenly, and they realised that the man must have shoved his shoulder.
Simmons clenched her fists and remembered to keep her breathing even. So the bad man was a violent bully. They had dealt with those before. Hell, Fitz had been one of those before. There was no reason to think he was in immediate danger just yet.
“You must think I have shit for brains,” Sir Greg sneered down at him, his veneers looking just garish so up close, “you being here while there’s a distraction out there. That’s not your fault, eh?”
“What’s not my fault? Me being here, they’re being out there, or you having shit for brains? You can’t blame me for that last one. I suspect it’s an unforked family tree that’s the culprit.”
“Oh Fitz,” Fox groaned in horror, echoing what Jemma had muttered in her mind.
“Burn,” Piper snickered, not at all helping.
At first, they did not quite understand why the image became so blurry. Then they saw Fitz draw out his pocket square to snap it open, and the flat screen was filled with a view of the garage floor and Fitz’s fingers wiping the lenses with the fabric.
“He spat at him?” Jemma squawked in disgust. “That’s barbaric!”
“Christ,” Fitz muttered, and not quietly either, “how primitive.”
“Fitz…” Yo-Yo warned, but it was too late. Fitz’s mission had officially gone tits up.
The glasses were dropped lens-down, either by choice or by violence, so that they only had the unhelpful visual of the ground with their audio, which included some scuffling and grunting. Neither of these concerned Jemma too much, and she thought that she remained relatively calm, all things considered, until they heard a gunshot.
Jemma was too terrified to scream, not aloud anyway. Her heart was shrieking hysterically, while the other three were frantically demanding a response from her partner. It was only when Piper told Yo-Yo and Fox to hush did they realise Fitz was speaking, but not to them.
“Sshhh, sshhh, it’s all right,” he was whispering. “Hang on.”
Holding their collective breath, they heard the sound of metal on metal. There was the unmistakable squeak of a hinge, and Simmons was the only one who twigged what Fitz was doing.
Faster than Fox could react, Jemma reached over and yanked one of his comms out to place into her ear. “Fitz, wait! Even a malnourished chimp could rip your face off and she’s been abused! Get some protective gear first —”
“Oh no, Betsy’s nice, Jemma,” Fitz contradicted, still speaking quietly. “Aren’t you? Okay, let’s go.”
The fact that the abused animal was not only not attacking Fitz but apparently also accepting his help was nothing short of miraculous. How the hell had he managed that? Pheromones?
“Wait don’t —” they heard Fitz say urgently, and Jemma snapped from her hysterical thoughts of studying his sweat in the lab. “Oh no Betsy, that’s not good for you!”
“Fitz?” Yo-Yo called out.
“Sorry! Erm, Betsy’s got my earbud…” His words sounded strange, almost distant but his breathing was loud. And wet?
“Oh my god,” Piper moaned as realisation hit. “The monkey ate his comm?”
“Ape,” Jemma corrected faintly. So they had no visuals and no audio now either. And Fitz was in a secure townhouse with a murderous, abusive smuggler and his guards. Even if Sir Greg was incapacitated somehow, there was bound to be one brain cell among the remaining thick skulls in residence that would suspect that Fitz was responsible for all the mischief.
Well, Fitz was already in the garage. Surely enough time had passed for him and Betsy to escape.
“Maybe she’s just chewing on it,” Agent Fox was guessing. The young man sounded sympathetic, and unwilling to blame the pet. “I bet she was hungry —”
“What should I do?” Piper asked.
“Drive over,” Yo-Yo said after a moment; Jemma understood her hesitation, as Piper’s shabby vehicle was bound to look out of place in that neighbourhood. As long as Fitz and Betsy hopped in fast, however, there wouldn’t be any other trouble. “Fox, you hack into Sir Greg’s security system to find Fitz, and Simmons, you get into the CCTV around the house.”
Of course! Jemma, shaking off her daze, grabbed the laptop Fox wasn’t using to get to work, wondering why neither of those had occurred to her already. Dimly, she was grateful that Yo-Yo was in charge, as she was much more level-headed. True, this particular caper was not going well despite her leadership, but only because nobody could have predicted Sir Greg harbouring such tragic distractions in his garage, or Fitz becoming some sort of Primate Avenger.
Simmons was sure that it had only taken her minutes to find the appropriate camera that gave them a clear view of where Fitz should exit the residence. So she did not understand what could have transpired in those minutes that caused an explosion.
It initially swelled from the garage, blasting the doors clean off. Jemma was grateful that she was sitting, for the sight of the growing, ravenous fire was enough to make her feel lightheaded. Where was Fitz? Where was Fitz?
“Oh, I got him,” Fox announced excitedly. At some point, he had switched his effort to the surrounding CCTV as well, and he casted his monitor so that they could all watch the blurry image race across the flat screen.
Yes. There was Fitz. Fitz and an ape. He must have sprinted his heart out, for they were a good distance away from the now blazing home. Jemma was so relieved to see them both that she could have cried. Now that she knew that he was alive and well, she’d kill him later.
She gave the comm back to Fox, who directed Piper so she could find the rescuer and his hirsute damsel in distress. “I’ll just live with Betsy,” Jemma decided in a daze and slumped deep into her chair, struggling to catch her breath. “Betsy would never worry me like this.” Even if that chimp proved to be dangerous after all, Jemma reckoned she’d never fear the animal as much as she’d fear Fitz out in the field.
But Betsy was not an option as her new bunkmate, Jemma soon learned.
Hours later, she, Yo-Yo, and Fox were waiting in the bay when he and Piper returned to the Lighthouse. To Simmons and Yo-Yo’s amusement, Fox was practically bouncing in place as the two deplaned, only to slouch in disappointment when it was obvious there were no other passengers.
“Where’s Betsy?” Fox demanded.
“We made a pit stop in Cornwall,” Piper yawned as she passed them. “Fitz knew about a sanctuary there.”
“What? Really?” Fox turned an accusatory eye at Fitz. Jemma didn’t blame him; she was more surprised that they didn’t come home with a companion for Betsy from said sanctuary.
Fitz, looking pitiful in his rumpled SHIELD training clothes, raised his hands in surrender as he trudged closer. “Don’t blame me. Mace said I couldn’t bring her home when I asked — oh, I shouldn’t have asked. Yeah, blame me then.”
Pitying him, Jemma gave Fitz a comforting hug. She tried to take the burden of his backpack, since he looked a bit achy, but he refused her help. “It’s for the best,” she assured the downcast men. “Obviously, Betsy deserves a nice home outdoors with her peers.”
“And she doesn’t deserve to hear all the yelling,” Yo-Yo agreed, not nearly as emotional as Jemma and Agent Fox had been.
They turned to her in confusion. “Who’s yelling?” Fox asked.
“Mace,” Elena answered, and Jemma now saw that that should’ve been obvious. The explosion had made the news, of course, but it was easily blamed on the gas lamps. “And me too.”
Jemma and Fitz exchanged glances, but did not have time to discuss much with their colleagues present. Even if they had been alone on the way to Mace’s office, it wasn’t as if they could discount anyone’s annoyance as unfounded. Not after they learned what happened.
During the time that Fitz and Piper flew home, Agent Fox had managed to access the archive of the interior security footage before the explosion, starting with the fisticuffs with Sir Greg. They had all seen Fitz endure one punch and dodge a few more before deftly reaching for a gun holstered inside the enormous man’s jacket. He didn’t hesitate to shoot the criminal once in his foot. Yo-Yo and Fox had held their breath when Fitz contemplated shooting Sir Greg a second time as the criminal scrambled up the steps, raising his gun and aiming at his retreating back for a few seconds before deciding against it with a shake of his head. Jemma hadn’t batted an eye, for although she fully understood his temptation to shoot the despicable man in the back, she was certain that Fitz wasn’t capable of indulging the desire.
After liberating Betsy and losing his earpiece, Fitz found the remote control for the doors and was nearly free until something made him pause the moment he stepped outside. Then they watched as he observed one gaslit lamp fixture beside the door. Stepping backwards into the garage, he swiftly followed the connected pipes inward until he found a valve.
Jemma felt a myriad of emotions when the video file showed Fitz take fiery initiative. Impatience, horror, and if she was being entirely honest, pride in his vengeful ingenuity.
First, Fitz ducked his head in a few of the open driver’s side windows. Because they had seen the result, Yo-Yo’s team guessed he’d been checking for cigarette lighters. But the stolen cars were fairly recent models and did not have that option.
Instead of giving up his mad plan, Fitz caught sight of jumper cables, and approached a flashy coupe whose bonnet was already open. It was an easy matter connecting them to the battery and some steel wool he found on a workbench along the wall. The only difficulty Fitz really had was gathering enough ample kindling — a pile of greasy mechanic towels — to set on top of the steel wool and keeping dangerous items from Betsy’s hungry reach while he worked.
Trusting that the ensuing fire would mature on its own, he again pressed the remote control, broke open the gas valve with a monstrous monkey wrench, and escaped with Betsy just before the garage door lowered shut. When the footage abruptly ended, they could only assume that that was because enough gas had filled the garage to combust.
(Overall, it was beautifully done, especially when they considered that he’d been one-handed the entire time. That detail was often repeated when word of his escapade spread among SHIELD’s ranks later.)
In the time it took them to cross the Atlantic, Jemma decided to add fury to her list. Anything could have happened to Fitz in those minutes he spent on arson. More body guards could have discovered him, or Sir Greg could have returned with another gun. She could have lost him.
Her anger had to get in line, however, behind Rodriguez, Mace, Coulson, and May’s. Jemma waited outside Mace’s office, where she guessed Yo-Yo would be the first to reprimand Fitz, being team leader and all.
It had been hard to hear Yo-Yo, but Simmons had no such problem when Mace took his turn. The director had recently begun discarding his awful, homespun aphorisms and was now going for good old fashioned angry lectures. Although no one enjoyed such justified upbraiding, everyone had to admit they were much more effective.
Jemma thought that May or Coulson would have stopped the tirade at some point, but she guessed that they were not very happy with Fitz either. The director ended with, “And now we have to make sure Talbot doesn’t learn about the damn chimp!” Simmons was at least pleased Jeffrey hadn't called Betsy a monkey, or Fitz would have surely corrected him and made things worse.
When Fitz finally emerged from Mace’s office, Jemma was surprised to see his chastened expression, for she hadn’t expected him to take much of that scolding to heart. From what she heard, Coulson and May hadn’t said much, but perhaps they had devastated Fitz with their Very Disappointed faces?
Seeing his remorse dissolved whatever ill feelings she had against her partner. With a sigh, she tucked her arm around his elbow and they began the walk home. Despite the late hour, the base was still fairly active, and enough agents passed them to make sensitive conversation difficult. Once they were safe in their bunk, Fitz felt safe to say, “So, I nearly killed somebody.”
Jemma, who’d been toeing off her shoes, whirled to where he sat on the coffee table. “What?”
Fitz nodded, despondent. “Turns out, there were more pets. In the upper levels. I should’ve thought of that beforehand but…” He shook his head at himself. “I was too angry to think. Most were okay — well, as ‘okay’ as they were before the fire — but one dog needed oxygen because of the smoke. I feel awful. I should’ve…” A new thought occurred to him, and he straightened with hope. “Oh, I can pay for its vet bill! And find it a home. Mace said I can’t adopt that one either.”
As she approached him, Jemma decided to give him another tight embrace to cushion the possible impact of her next question. “And,” she said cautiously, “were there any human victims that the news did not report?”
Fitz’s grip on her did not change, and nor did his hand running up and down her back pause, which she supposed meant he was not very bothered when he answered, “Victims, yes. Casualties, no. Sir Greg and some of his people had their share of bad burns, but they’ve survived and are in somebody or other’s secret custody.”
She drew back to study his face, which did not let on much. To Jemma, it appeared as if he was attempting to gauge her reaction first.
“And how do you feel about that?” she asked plainly.
“Not terrible,” he answered after a moment's hesitation. “And maybe a little worried that I don’t feel worse? How do you feel about that?”
Jemma sighed in relief. “Same,” she felt free to say. It had always been drummed into her brain since she was a toddler that every human being had intrinsic value. Some people’s value diminished, she had learned, through their own faults. At her unsparing answer, Fitz nodded, not pleased but not disappointed, and clutched her tight again.
This change in their level of regard for other human beings was probably something they ought to discuss, with each other, a sympathetic peer, or Raynor. In this moment, however, it felt alright. Even if their answers did not exactly match, Jemma knew enough of Fitz’s mind and past not to judge him, and she did not doubt that Fitz would grant her the same leniency. Maybe someday they’d learn to reach their former heights of decency, but until then, they were comfortable to keep such morally lax company.
“That Sir Greg was a monster,” Jemma said darkly. As if his illegal activities weren’t enough to ruin the world, he had to throw in animal cruelty to his ghastly repertoire as well?
“He was heartless,” Fitz said, the words muffled against her stomach and she tried to curl around his mournful head. “But so was I.” Jemma assumed he was still regretting the injured dog until he lifted his head to peer up at her, his chin digging into her sternum, so that their faces were only inches apart and curtained by her falling hair. “I must have scared you to death. Are you pissed off?”
Jemma's mouth parted in surprise. She wasn’t sure why she thought he wouldn’t have thought of that. Fitz wasn’t so wrapped up in himself that he’d forget her feelings, of course.
“I was,” she admitted, softening the blow with a kiss to his curls. “I was furious and terrified and…” She shrugged and left the circle of his arms to grab some pyjamas for them both. Jemma didn’t want Fitz to see the whirlpool of emotions in her eyes when she remembered how reckless he’d been. “Many other things. I think it’ll just take me a day or two to process.”
Simmons knew that she couldn’t be too fussy about his exposure to these dangers. Brushes with death were par for the course, and she expected Fitz to accept such risks for her any time she had to go in the field as well.
“You’re not terrified of me, though, right? Coulson and May treated me as if I was a bomb ready to explode. And did you notice Fox looking at me like I was the Hulk?” Fitz was not exactly penitent; he looked more confused by their understandable distrust, which nearly broke her heart just the same.
Jemma wasn’t concerned about Fox, since he’d been giving them strange looks ever since Fitz moved in. But May and Coulson’s reaction probably meant there’d be some more monitoring in their future. She could only hope it was subtle.
“No, darling,” she consoled him. “You made difficult decisions in a trying moment. And you looked dashing while doing so, if I’m being quite honest.” They smiled at her teasing.
Fitz accepted the sleep clothes from her and, like Jemma, began to change for bed. “About that,” he began in an entirely different tone. She’d call it chastising if not for the fact that he was geological layers below any moral high ground at the moment. “I’m sorry to say that, between the explosion, the fall, and Betsy, the suit didn’t survive. My condolences.”
What a strange thing to say. Jemma’s fingers paused on her buttons as she tilted her head at him. “Right…?”
He gave her a condescending look of pity. “I understand you have a whole thing about me in posh suits now, but, really. Jemma, you ought to know better.”
Jemma dropped the pile of their soiled clothes in the hamper as she let out a surprised chuckle. “Oh, it wasn’t the suit that provoked my noises,” she declared without a jot of shame and joined him beneath the covers. In the wake of Fitz’s naughtiness, it had been easy to forget her embarrassing gaffes. “Well, you did look nice, but it was your glasses that really caused me trouble.”
“My glasses?” Fitz parroted as she plastered herself to his side.
“Yes,” Jemma agreed and looked up at him. His bewilderment was adorable. “They looked similar to the glasses you wore that time in Bucharest. The same shape, anyway.”
“Which time? We’ve been there more than once, I think…” He caught her insinuating smile. “Oh. That time in Bucharest.” Fitz grinned at her with a lecherous gleam in his eyes.
Simmons was very tempted to recreate that grand night, but while her hero’s spirit was most likely willing, she was rather worried about his flesh. Even while comfortably situated in bed, Fitz could not stop wincing as his joints popped. Setting aside their incorrigible libidos for now, Jemma sat up and asked, “Are you hurt?”
“Only a little. The explosion knocked me off my feet and I landed funny to cushion Betsy’s fall.” Jemma nearly clicked her tongue in sympathy until Fitz added, “Also, those Lobbs? Not great for jogging, apparently.”
Then she scoffed and sat up. “At that price, they ought to at least be motorised and gold plated. Come on, roll over.”
“Huh?” When she insisted with a bossy gesture, Fitz gingerly did what he was told.
“I’m going to give you a massage while you fall asleep,” Jemma informed him. “Will you be in pain if I sit here?” She carefully straddled his bum.
“No. But resume that position after I roll over again.”
Jemma snorted. When Fitz didn’t move or speak, she frowned and leaned over his back to whisper, “Are you asleep already?”
“Did I not flip over?” Fitz groaned, startling her back upright. “Christ, everything feels like a massive effort. Hold on, give me a second —”
“Absolutely not,” Jemma declared. “What kind of person would I be if I had my wicked way with you now?”
As she kneaded his knots through his shirt, Jemma quietly watched his drowsy profile on the pillow. Just as she thought he would drift off, Fitz answered her rhetorical question in a sweet, barely audible voice.
“My kind of person.”
When she was sure Fitz had fallen asleep, Jemma laid beside him again and indulged in a long, probably creepy stare at his tranquil face. A tiny part of her continued to eschew all logic and still wanted to protect him with every breath in her body; perhaps lock him up somewhere cushiony and safe so she wouldn’t feel pangs of terror when these missions unraveled. But then again, if he allowed that, Fitz wouldn’t be her kind of person either.
Grateful for the myriad of ways they fit together, Simmons kissed him good night.