Organized Chaos
"You are my Manhattan from the sky. You look so neat and tidy when I'm way up high, but I know your streets are lined with a fine mess inside. I wanna come down and walk around your mind."
- Manhattan From the Sky, Kate Voegele
Stepping into Leopold Fitz's dorm room was like setting foot on another planet – one where the inhabitants were blatantly unfamiliar with both order and hygiene. Every surface was covered in a light layer of dust and water rings from long-gone drinks had seeped deeply into the wood of his nightstand and desk. Laundry was littered across every inch of the floor, the trash can was overflowing with empty cups and fast food wrappers, and wrinkled papers bearing half-drawn designs of various engineer projects covered every available surface.
The bed was unmade – blankets and sheets tangled together at the foot, obviously kicked there at some point during the previous night. The desk was covered with wrinkled paper, pieces of mechanical devices, and various textbooks stacked in a haphazard pile that defied the very laws of physics. The small bookshelf in the corner made her cringe internally – books and unlabeled notebooks were piled randomly on top of one another in no discernible pattern, spines facing in different directions.
Everything about the room screamed of chaos. She shouldn't have been surprised.
Within the clutter and chaos, she could discern the occasional personal touch. His sheets were his favorite color of dark blue. His favorite pair of converse sneakers had been kicked off near the door. A younger version of Fitz grinned at her from a framed photo on the desk, surrounded by so many relatives that everyone barely fit into the frame. The picture appeared to be from some sort of family event, and Jemma could practically hear the Scottish accent oozing from the photo. She grinned at the thought.
"I think it's over here," Fitz said from the other side of the room, drawing her attention to where he was searching for something beneath the bed, "I had it just the other day."
"How do you find anything in here?" Simmons asked skeptically, shaking her head. It was hard to believe that one person could create such a huge mess.
Fitz poked his head over the bed to look at her, scrunching up his nose and shooting her a fake glare. "I know exactly where everything is."
Jemma raised a doubtful eyebrow, "Then why are you having such trouble finding that diagram?"
"I'm not!" Fitz exclaimed triumphantly pushing himself back to his feet, diagram clasped victoriously in his hand.
Simmons rolled her eyes but was unable to prevent her lips from turning up into an indulgent smile as he clambered back to the doorway, stepping over piles of clothes. He clicked off the light and shut the door behind them, falling into step beside her as they headed to the lab.
"You know," she mused, "It would be so much easier to find things if you had some system of organization. It wouldn't take long to alphabetize your bookshelf…"
"My bookshelf is perfectly organized, thank you very much." Fitz cut her off mid-sentence.
Jemma blatantly disagreed, having just witness the disaster of disorganization for herself, but she simply rolled her eyes.
"I could do it for you," she suggested.
Fitz turned to glare at her without breaking stride, his footsteps still perfectly in sync with her own. He poked her arm with each word for added emphasis as he declared in a threatening voice "Don't. You. Dare."
Stepping into Jemma Simmons's dorm room was like stepping into a foreign country - one where the obsessive dictator was raging a ruthless war on dirt and disorganization. Every surface was spotless. There were no half-filled cups sitting on the nightstand, no dirty laundry littering the floor, no haphazard papers spread across the bed or tacked to the walls. Every surface gleamed as though freshly dusted.
The bed was made - the simple sheets and comforter pulled taunt and tucked in on every side. The desk was clear – paperclips, staples, and thumbtacks all tucked away into neat containers, pens all facing the same direction. The bookshelf was ordered – books specifically categorized by subject and then alphabetized by the author's last name. A number of colored notebooks were stacked on top of her nightstand– perfectly aligned and affixed with neatly-printed labels. He didn't have to open them to know that they would be filled with perfectly-legible notes, written in her small cursive handwriting. He was half-tempted to peek in the closet to see if she organized her clothing by season or by color.
Everything about the room screamed of order. He shouldn't have been surprised.
Despite the rigid order, there were personal touches here and there. A small plastic TARDIS sat atop the bookcase and a bookmarked novel lay upon the nightstand. A younger version of Jemma in a graduation cap and gown, flanked by an older couple that must be her parents, smiled shyly at him from a photo on her dresser.
"Have you ever been to see a psychologist?" He asked from the doorway when he caught sight of the color-coded calendar hanging above her desk.
Jemma Simmons paused in her search for a headband, leaning out of the bathroom doorway to look at him, confusion etched into every line of her face.
"Why would I see a psychologist?" she asked, her eyebrows drawing together in confusion as she tried to ascertain the motivation behind his question.
Fitz cracked a smile, unable to fake seriousness in the wake of her concerned confusion.
"Because judging by your room, I'm certain that you meet the diagnostic criteria for obsessive compulsive disorder," he joked.
Simmons rolled her eyes at him, disappearing back into the bathroom and emerging a moment later, headband perfectly in place.
"I do not have repeated, anxiety-provoking patterns of cognition, nor do I participate in specific ritualistic behaviors designed to decrease any anxiety associated with them. I am neither obsessive nor compulsive," Simmons declared primly as she grabbed a notebook from the nightstand, a pen from her desk, and her purse from the hook next to the door. "I simply like to keep my possessions organized."
Fitz blatantly disagreed, having seen her obsessive side emerge during several of their projects, but he simply rolled his eyes, stepping aside so that she could follow him into the hallway.
"Sounds like OCD to me," he quipped.
"Just because I actually fold and sort my laundry," Simmons countered quickly as she fell into step beside him, "Does not mean that I suffer from a psychological disorder."
"You don't suffer from a psychological disorder," Fitz conceded, holding the door open for her as they exited her dorm, "It appears that you enjoy it."
Author's note: Despite repeated negotiations, I do not own Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. or any of these characters. However, I do take full responsibility for any and all mistakes. Thanks for reading!