AN: Title (and chapter titles) taken from Vienna Teng's "The Atheist Christmas Carol."

My thanks to Selmak for encouragement and for what SHIELD might stand for, in the party-planning world.

Jemma's day ended in her entirely too-small bathroom, picking what seemed to be a million bobby pins out of her hair after removing the wig of cascading blonde curls.

"It had to be bloody Rapunzel," she muttered to herself, sighing with relief as her loosened hair fell around her face, relieving the strain of the too-tight bun. "Bloody, fucking…"

A beer, a reheated bowl of rice and beans with srirache sauce, and then she fell into bed with a whimper.

Another day, another party, another headache from smiling like a loon for hours on end.

What had she gotten those doctorates for, again?

"Kids do not want chemistry parties," Skye said with a roll of her eyes, doctoring her cup of coffee with the powdered creamer that always tasted faintly of chemicals to Jemma. "They want to be princesses, or to run around pretending to be Howling Commandos, or-"

"Or robots," Jemma groused, thinking of Fitz's excellent luck with the mini-scientist set. "If they would let me do something interesting-"

"Like blow shit up?" Skye smirked. "You know what AC says about that, Jemma. Legal liability! Loss of small appendages! Won't someone think of the children?"

Skye's dramatic spiel was cut off by the entrance of the man himself. Jemma silently cursed the butterflies in her stomach as he smiled at the two of them. Calm and benign and bloody hell, she wanted to climb that man like a tree.

Inappropriate, she reminded herself. Very inappropriate.

"Skye, I need you with me today," he was saying, pouring his own cup of coffee and adding sugar. "Bobbi has the flu and I need a Peggy Carter."

"Me?" Skye raised a brow, skeptical. "What about Miss British herself on the sofa?"

An excellent question. It wasn't as if Jemma had anything on the calendar- and unlike Skye, her paperwork wasn't a week overdue. "I have the accent and everything," she pointed out, feeling absurdly hurt when Coulson shook his head.

"Mack had a family emergency, and Fitz won't work with anyone else." Coulson gave her a shrug and a small smile, the gesture obviously meant to be consoling.

"Silly Fitz," she said lightly, mentally considering the emergency kit in her bag. Recently restocked; she definitely (probably) had enough band-aids and gauze to patch Fitz up post-party. "Age group?"

"College," he said succinctly, and her heart dropped. "Not our target age group, I know, but some parents insist on throwing birthday parties for their babies, regardless of age… or interest level."

Jemma hid her dismay, resigning herself to an afternoon of 'accidental' gropes and grazes. "Perhaps Fitz wouldn't mind Trip…" she said weakly, and received a head shake in return.

"He's with me. Kids love his Gabe Jones."

Skye gave her an utterly sympathetic look after Coulson had left the room. "Fucking frat boys. My ass was black and blue after that terrible event at- at that place I have successfully blocked from my memory."

"Phi Sigma Mu," Jemma replied glumly. "And you get to dress up like Peggy Carter and speak in that atrocious British accent you insist on using-"

"Hey!"

"-while I fight off drunk undergraduates." Jemma's glare held surprisingly little heat. "I hate you."

"I know." Skye tossed back her hair. "Don't worry, I won't flirt ridiculously with AC like you would."

Jemma bobbled her tea, spilling some on the floor. "I do not flirt," she gasped out.

"No, you don't." Skye nodded solemnly. "But I have the feeling that, in Peggy's heels and excellent hat, you would take advantage of the opportunity."

"I don't know what you are talking about," Jemma said with dignity.

"Come on, Jem. AC has the same fanboy crush on Peggy that he does on Cap. Are you telling me that, given the chance, you wouldn't put on some nice perfume, a bit of red lipstick, and snuggle up to him with an extra button undone on the Carter blouse?" Skye fluttered her eyelashes, and abruptly switched to the British accent she favored. "'Do you want to check my garter belt for period accuracy?'" she asked. Jemma dearly hoped that she had never looked so foolish around Phil Coulson. "'I think my stocking seams are crooked. Would you straighten them?'"

"I really hate you."

"'I spent the weekend researching perfumes of the WWII era and developed my own formula in the lab. Does it make you want to play Super Soldier and British Bombshell? I need to know. For science.'"

"The next time we have a princess party together I'm going to make you wear the mermaid tail."

"'Oh, Phil!'"

Skye fell backward onto the couch in a faux-swoon just as Coulson re-entered the room. Looking wary, as if he suspected a joke were being played on him, he raised a brow. "You called?"

Skye held her pose, her gaze serious. "Sorry, what?"

"My name, Skye. You said my name."

She gave him an utterly clueless stare. "Your name is AC. Do we know a Phil, Jem?"

Jemma gave her a stony gaze, refusing to dignify her question with an answer.

"Right." Coulson shook his head, turning to leave. If Jemma weren't mistaken, she thought she saw a glimmer of… of hurt, perhaps? in his eyes.

"That wasn't kind," she said in a quiet hiss once she was sure he had left.

"Yeah, bad timing on my part." Skye dragged herself up, sighing. "Vintage clothing for me, then. Punch a drunk idiot for me, okay?"

"Exactly what we need: a reputation for violence."

"You know you want to."

Yes, Jemma admitted silently. She really did want to.

Bobbi and Skye appeared at her door that same evening, each with a six pack of beer in hand. Bobbi also expertly balanced two pizzas on one palm, carrying them with the ease of someone who had spent more than her fair share of time in food service. "I congratulate you on making it through the afternoon with a minimum of bloodshed," Bobbi said cheerfully, walking into Jemma's apartment as if it were her own. Her head barely cleared the threshold of the door, but Bobbi was so accustomed to it she didn't even flinch. Jemma's rent was low precisely because of the hobbit-esque proportions of her small apartment. Cozy, the ad had said. Drafty and not built for Amazons, Jemma contested.

"I nearly bashed someone's head in with a fire extinguisher," Jemma replied, still grumpy, and accepted the beer Skye handed her. "One of them trapped me against the van and started grinding on me, the barbarian. He was lucky that Fitz actually did set something on fire, otherwise he would be in hospital."

"AC should really set an age limit." Skye settled onto the floor next to the coffee table, taking a slice of pizza without bothering with plate or napkin. "College boys should be on our black-list."

"Fury's the one to convince on that score. If he says we do college parties- or that we don't- his word is law." Bobbi nodded her thanks as Jemma set a stack of napkins on the table. "Did you tell him, Jemma? Phil, I mean."

"I mentioned it in my report."

"With greater tact than was necessary, I'm sure." Skye rolled her eyes. "Have another beer, Jem. I think you need it."

Jemma considered her empty schedule for the next day and acquiesced with a shrug.

An hour later, the conversation took a turn that made her regret that choice.

"No, no, no," Skye said with drunken firmness. "I love you, Jems, but you aren't exactly-"

"Fun?" Jemma interrupted, frowning.

"Bad. Bad in a good way, I mean. Prim and proper is your style."

Bobbi snickered, but waved off their inquiring looks.

"I mean, you work your ass off every day," Skye continued. "You could be making the big bucks for Stark Industries or something, but instead you teach homeschooled kids science and spend your odd hours throwing parties with us. The baddest thing you've ever done is buck your parents' expectations."

"I like children," Jemma said with an edge of defensiveness. "I enjoy my work, both parts."

"And you're very good at it." Bobbi kicked Skye lightly in the shin. "Stop baiting her. Not everyone wants to hole up in a lab."

"She could at least do something fun once in awhile." Skye stared at Jemma, a challenging grin on her face. "Come on, Jemma. I know you have a mental wish-list."

Jemma reviewed said list silently, sighing slightly. "It's dreadfully prosaic," she said at last. "A house, flowers, babies."

"With a certain someone," Skye said in a sing-song fashion. "Come on, tell all."

"He's not interested in me," Jemma muttered, blushing. "Barely looks at me at all."

Bobbi looked as if she were going down her own mental list. "Not Fitz. Mack? Idaho?" She frowned. "Not Hunter, right? As his ex-wife I really should warn you off for your own good."

"None of the above."

"Well, whoever it is, you should go for it." Bobbi waggled her brows in exaggerated fashion. "Hit him with a fire extinguisher and drag him back to your cave. Be the bad girl Skye keeps insisting you become."

Jemma felt a sudden rush of excitement. "No," she said nonetheless. "I couldn't."

It came out more like a question, and Skye pounced on the opening. "Yes, you totally could. Release your inner sex kitten!"

She paused, mouth open slightly. "Can't believe I just said that," she said finally. "You're less sex kitten, more…"

"More kitten." Bobbi ducked the pillow Jemma threw at her head. "One with sharp claws, but-"

"I could seduce someone if I put my mind to it," Jemma said with affronted dignity. "American men love an accent."

"Prove it."

Skye's dare hung in the air for a long moment. Finally Jemma raised her beer, feeling a surge of Dutch courage course through her veins. "I," she said with drunk portentousness, "am going to seduce Phil Coulson."

Skye burst into laughter, but Bobbi's mouth dropped open in shock. "What?!"

"Why not?" Jemma's gesture went a bit too wide, splattering beer on the floor. "I want to nail that man to a mattress."

"Pretty sure it generally goes the other way around," Skye said with a slight hiccup. "Also, he's-"

"Mature," Jemma said firmly, remembering with a shudder the frat party. "And kind. And I've seen him dance; he knows what he's doing with his hips."

"And not someone to toy with." Bobbi's rejoinder was flat, and Jemma remembered belatedly that Bobbi and Phil had a kind of friendly, almost father-daughter-esque relationship. "It would be cruel to play that kind of game with him."

Jemma flushed, dipping her head so that her hair fell in front of her face. A game. Jemma wasn't the kind of person to play games like that, but…

"This isn't some one night fuck," she heard Skye hiss, and felt her own blush deepen. "Jem's had it bad for… like, a year."

There was a weighted silence, as if Bobbi were considering that. "How bad?" she asked finally.

Jemma squirmed in her seat, regretting her alcohol-induced confession. "He would be such a good husband and father," she said after a long moment, drooping in her seat. "He would be so- so- so caring. And he's obviously creative," she continued nervously, the words spilling out. "Remember the party on Long Island? Any man who could pull that off could do anything, including finding my clit."

Skye snorted ungracefully, coughing as beer bubbled up into her sinuses. "Holding a grudge, Jem?"

"When was the last time you slept with someone who could make you come with any regularity?" Jemma shot back.

"Trip," Skye said calmly, wiping her nose with a napkin. "But, yeah, before that- a rare occurrence."

Bobbi slumped back against the couch, rolling her eyes. "You do have it bad," she said with a sigh. "Well, hell."

"I'm no heartbreaker, Bobbi. In any kind of way." Jemma picked at the label on her beer, shredding the damp paper. "House and flowers and babies, remember?"

"Well, you definitely picked the house and flowers and babies type." Bobbi flung an arm over her eyes. "I need another drink to deal with this."

"Is it such a terrible idea?"

"No." Bobbi sat up, taking a beer from Skye. "No. But it will require some planning." She gave Jemma a look that was suddenly conspiratorial and amused. "And some creative scheduling."

"And some cleavage," Skye added, grinning as Jemma smacked her with a pillow. "And possibly some seamed stockings."

Bloody hell, what had she started?

She was still asking herself the same question two days later, as she considered her reflection. She did have excellent cleavage, she admitted to herself. The bra helped.

And yet- despite the fact that more than one member of their crew snuck glances at her newly uncovered bosom during the weekly meeting, Phil Coulson was not one of them. No, he kept his eyes firmly on her face, when he looked at her at all, and that was annoying and a bit distressing.

"He is such a gentleman," she said to Skye and Bobbi in grim tones after the meeting. "This is a problem."

"That took some serious strength of will on his part." Skye's eyes dipped down to stare at Jemma's breasts. "Even I can't stop looking at them, and I am definitely not the intended audience."

"Maybe a bit too much?" Jemma stared down at her cleavage, frowning. "I told you the push-up bra was unnecessary, Skye."

"Maybe a bit too much for work," Skye acknowledged. "Okay, we need to rethink our strategy. Bobbi, you know the guy."

"Not like that."

"No, not like that, but you actually socialize with him. What does the man find sexy; you must have a read."

"Subtlety," a voice said dryly from the door, and Jemma felt as if actual ice were running through her veins. She turned to meet May's eyes. "A bit of mystery," the woman continued, stepping forward to walk around Jemma, eyeing her closely. "This display is rather blatant for his tastes."

Jemma blushed so deeply that it was almost painful, and tugged up the neckline of her sweater. "Please don't tell him, May."

"Why would I tell him? I'm tired of watching you pine." May handed the bag she carried to Bobbi. "Fairy lights for the Wilson party," she said as an aside. "I would take them, but I think I'm feeling under the weather."

They stared at May, the picture of health, and she simply raised a brow in return.

"You do look… tired?" Skye said, hazarding a guess.

"I think it's the flu," May said in a deadpan voice, and left the room with no further comment.

They exchanged looks, all uncertain what this meant. "What kind of party are we doing for the Wilsons?" Skye asked finally, pulling out her schedule. "Not Howling Commandos, not princesses…"

"Tea party," Jemma interjected, spotting the item on her schedule. "He's so good with those."

"Stop sighing." Bobbi shoved the bag of lights into her hands. "I can practically see your ovaries exploding, Simmons. Come on; we need to find something in Wardrobe that screams 'Austen in the streets, Bronte in the sheets'."

Jemma felt herself perk up a bit at that. "Do you think so?"

"We at least have to find something less revealing. That impressive rack of yours will not fly at your average tea party."

"No, I suppose not."

Clad in a sundress, prim cardigan, and kitten heels, Jemma threw herself into decorating for what she swore would be the best damn tea party ever hosted by SHIELD, Inc.

Successfully Happy Interactive Events - Legendary Defined, she thought for the millionth time, shaking her head as she looped the fairy lights around a tree branch. So much easier to just call the company SHIELD.

"Need any help?"

She looked down from her admittedly precarious perch on the stepladder, aiming her brightest smile at the object of her desires. "No, almost done."

"You've done a great job," he said, examining the yard with an approving eye. "May doesn't really do whimsy, when it comes to decorating." He stepped forward as she started to descend. "Let me help."

Instead of offering a hand, he grasped her waist and lifted her down to the ground in a move that had her heart fluttering for very unprofessional reasons. "We'd hate to lose you to a fall, Jemma," he said with a grin.

"It would be quite a blow to your worker's comp insurance," she joked, feeling her cheeks pinken.

And it was… it was easy, after that. For the course of the afternoon they were partners, gently wrangling curious five-year olds and pouring sweetened tea for stuffed bears, leading games of hide and seek and tying loosened shoelaces. She looked over over at him once as she cut slices of strawberry cake, catching the moment when the birthday girl officiously placed a heavily beribboned hat on his head. The very dignified thank-you she received in return nearly had Jemma in a swoon.

"That was a good one, don't you think?" he said to her later as they loaded the van, either ignoring or oblivious to the tea-stain on one leg of his trousers. "No fighting, no tears. Twelve happy participants."

And two pleased parents, who had slipped Jemma a tip that would cover her utilities for the month. "Smooth like silk," she agreed. "And may I say, sir, that you looked very well in that hat."

"Not everyone can carry off a hat like that," he replied jokingly, and plucked a fascinator with a short veil from a box. "I think this might be more your style, though."

She held still as he carefully secured the fascinator to her hair with the small comb, and pulled the smoky veil over her eyes. There was suddenly an odd look on his face, as if he were seeing her anew. "Very film noir," he said after a long moment. "It suits you, Jemma."

"Well," she said, feeling a bit breathless. "Next time you need a dame, you know who to call."

It was back to congenial joking after that, but the moment had meant something, right? She certainly hoped it had meant something. A spark of interest on his part, at the very least.

Still, it was just day one. She couldn't expect to tumble him into bed that quickly.

They became friends, of a sort. At first it was just an increase of smiles in her direction, as well as a small but obvious bump in the number of events she worked with him. More tea parties and the odd theme party, mostly, though never an opportunity for her to use her best Peggy Carter impression. A pity, really, because Jemma knew for a fact that she wore that particular costume very well, and she had a pair of seamed stockings stashed away for just such an occasion.

Not that she would really ask him to straighten her seams.

Probably.

As summer turned to fall, though, something new happened: he began searching her out. Jemma would be grading papers in the break room, or working on her own research, and suddenly he would be at the door, two mugs in his hands and a smile on his face. Coffee for him, tea for her, and they would spend a very pleasant ten minutes discussing work or the local philharmonic or their mutual obsession with Hamilton.

Then it was the occasional lunch, or- rarely- a late dinner after the end of an event, both of them tired and inevitably laughing overly hard at something that had happened at the party. Once, just once, he had driven her home and walked her to her door. In the wavering light of the hall he had reached out and stroked a hand over her hair… and then pulled his hand back, showing her the clump of icing that had been hiding in her curls.

She still found it more romantic than she wanted to admit.

"I think he has the hots for you," Skye said one morning in late November, after they had left their last pre-Thanksgiving team meeting. "There was eye contact in there. More than five seconds worth."

Jemma was in a particularly bad mood that day, and merely sighed in response. Fitz had bounded up to her that morning, full of enthusiasm, and had sworn her to secrecy before pulling out the ring he planned to surprise Mack with over the weekend. She was thrilled for him, of course, but there was a part of her- a small, jealous part of her- that was intensely irritated by the number of happy couples that she was surrounded by.

Well, just the two couples, really. Three, if she counted May and Andrew, but May was so reserved that Jemma occasionally forgot that she had a husband.

"At this rate, you are definitely five short years from making sweet, sweet love with our beloved supervisor," Skye continued. "Slow but steady wins the race, right?"

Jemma made herself a mental note to pick up extra batteries for her vibrator.