"Will you stop sulking! I've told you already it wasn't your fault-" Jemma slams the door behind her, following Fitz into the lab. Only a moment earlier, everything had been smiles, hugs, an team (almost) reunited, and she wasn't going to let him slip away again. "-clearly we are dealing with powers just a little bit beyond our capabilities, but that's in the job description Fitz; that is the job description!"
"I know, okay?" He doesn't mean to yell, his frustrated hands find solace twisting into his hair, spinning on the spot to find her closer behind him than he'd anticipated. "I know. I'm sorry." Her heavy sigh wasn't required for him to understand more apologies isn't what she wanted, but he can't help it. It was all his fault.
What's worse is she looks the same, exactly the same; between blood tests and tearful reunions she hasn't even had time to change out of the spotted shirt and dark cardigan he knows intimately, he's been watching them on loop, eyes straining on the camera feed spread across his screen, her curls still only brushing her shoulders - the only change he's noticed are her nails, torn and broken from where they dragged against the concrete floor. He didn't see much point in mentioning this to her.
But he looks different. His hair is long, longer even than back in their second at the academy, unkempt stumble spreading up his cheeks, somehow more angular than they were before, somehow sharper, older even. The days of waiting, watching, unaware that she could see his every pace, his every punch into the wall, his every tear; they've taken their toll.
She means to tell him that it's okay, that she's already forgiven him a thousand times over, that there wasn't anything to forgive in the first place, but the guilt slashed across his face is triumphed only by the fear, billowing and brilliant- but that doesn't make any sense- what is he afraid of?
The pause is long enough that, even as she watches, he begins to recede into himself, sliding behind hardened eyes and a stiffened jaw. It comes to him so easily, before her eyes, and she can't think of the right words to make him stop, make him stay; but she can't bear to watch him go, not again.
It's a whim, a unadulterated spark that springs from her brain to her muscles without pausing for consideration or reassessment, and suddenly one hand is on his shirt and the other reaches for the back of his neck and pulls them together. There's a second when their lips meet, where he's still a heartbeat behind her, but then they fit together and it's as right as every step in their strange dance has ever been, both two moves ahead of the world, but together. His arms close around her waist and he tastes decidedly fiery and dangerous but safe and home all at once, and she can't bring herself to care if her head is spinning and her knees have decided to melt away entirely, she kisses him with every breath, with every inch that she can give him, and in return; he gives her everything.
Finally, eventually, they pull apart. Their foreheads are pressed close and she can barely make out the green eyes swimming before her, but she smiles and smiles and settles for-
"Now. I believe you mentioned something about dinner?"
He chuckles, warmly. It's a good sound.
"Somewhere nice."