AN: This was written in a couple of hours, with very little editing. Be kind. ^^
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"That is Jemma Simmons. Would you like me to broker an introduction?"
Introduction. The word echoes through his mind for a moment as his gaze follows Jemma across the room.
Sensible trainers and faded blue jeans were hanging in the edge of his vision. He turned his head just enough to see that a handful of textbooks were held in both hands before a dark blue sweater. His gaze traveled up past the white collar peeking out at the throat to the face of an attractive woman who didn't seem to be that much older than himself—Jemma Simmons! His mouth instantly went dry; he'd been trying for months to think of something brilliant to say to her, and he still wasn't ready.
She shifted her weight awkwardly and nodded to the chair beside him. "Is this seat taken?"
He shook his head mutely. She smiled briefly and set her belongings on the table. He'd almost turned his attention back to his own books when she turned, hand extended.
"Jemma Simmons, biochem."
"Leopold Fitz, engineering."
"What did you think of the lecture? All our professors are brilliant, of course…." He felt himself smiling at her enthusiasm, almost not listening as he took in the way her face brightened, hands animated, a pulse of electricity connecting them. He'd never been so glad to suffer through a lecture containing dielectric polarization.
His heart nearly pounds out of his chest as he takes her in. For a moment the Marauder fades away and he's just a man in love.
"JEMMA!"
His eyes wouldn't leave hers, not even to get the damned door open, afraid that if he did, that would be the last moment he would see her. His arms never stopped pulling, his lips never stopped screaming her name, but there was nothing he could do to stop the sad, bloodshot smile from creeping across her face moments before she let the wind take her. It wasn't until later that night, trying to relax in his bunk, that he realized the kiss on his cheek had lingered a little longer than usual, that his heart beat a little faster for it. That maybe she wasn't just his best friend anymore.
Suddenly, even though his mouth is hanging open, he can't get enough air.
They were going to die down here. Jemma sat against the opposite wall, bathed in blue light, musing about the first law of thermodynamics. His head tilted back as he winced against the pain in his arm, trying to take shallow breaths to leave more air for her. Air. Air! That's how he could get her out. He would die for her, and now was the time to live up to those words. Except he hadn't. His profession of love followed by her sweet kisses weren't the last thing he'd known in life.
His chest constricts at the thought that, after all his hard work, after coming this close, he might not succeed.
"It's just that… We never spoke about what you said to me at the bottom of the ocean."
"This? Now? You want to talk about this now?"
Sputtering. Then, "It means a lot to me that we're friends again, and I, um… Maybe when you got back we could finally just talk about it."
"There's… There's nothing to discuss, Jemma."
Her hand on his, fingers almost folded in the spaces between his own, the slightest of smiles on her painted lips. "Maybe there is."
And then the monolith had ripped her away from him, off to a distant corner of the universe and the next six months of his life were spent in a sleepless haze, unconcerned for his own safety and straining even Coulson's legendary calm.
Then his eyes flick to her lips as she passes.
Unable to stand it a moment longer, he pushed her against the table, his mouth hungry on hers, hands gripping her waist, molding their bodies together. But only for a moment, realizing what it is he'd done and stepping back, mortified. A heartbeat later and Jemma's hands were cupping his face, her soft lips claiming his, and he clung to her like he never wanted to let go.
"We're cursed."
He's mesmerized by the swish of robes that look nothing like her normal outfits, and yet he's remembering (a little too fondly) the first time he got to remove them.
Their hotel room in Bucharest, pulling those fancy clothes off of each other, fueled by desire and sick relief. Her cold hands warming against his flushed skin, his touch pouring years of adoration and need into a single act.
That voice, that his-but-not-his voice, pours into his mind. Enough. It's time to get to work.
AIDA. Radcliffe. The Framework.
The Doctor, not even recognizing her. Arguing. Ordering her to her knees, shooting her to them when she doesn't obey. Holding the gun to her head, demanding words that would rip his heart from his chest should she say them in the real world. Jemma, forgiving him despite it.
It's that terrible memory that snaps him out of his reverie, and he looks up at Enoch.
"Why would I need you to introduce me to Jemma Simmons?"