Boy Meets Girl
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Sometimes when you meet someone, there's a click. I don't believe in love at first sight but I believe in that click. Recognition. - Ann Aguirre
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The Girl On The Train
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Fitz slumped in his coveted seat. Bitterly cold and with an hour long train ride ahead of him, he had no intention of standing for the trip home. Instead, he was content to keep his chin tucked securely under his scarf and pretend to be half asleep so no one would bother him.
A group of businessmen with sludge on their shoes and too-expensive briefcases in their hands boarded at the next stop, their eyes roving around for empty seats. He tucked his chin in further and made himself appear glued to his chair. He made sure he and his backpack took up the maximum amount of room, not wanting one of them to take a seat and the rest to crowd around, holding on to railings and bars for balance. He rolled his eyes at the prospect of boring boardroom conversations or worse, office gossip, from the men who probably forgot to pick up Christmas gifts for their wives. They made their way further into the train without incident though, and he settled in for the long haul.
He closed his eyes at some point well into his trip, listening to the sounds of a little girl reciting her Christmas list to her exasperated older brother (I know you want the new Black Widow action figure, okay?), a woman yelling an old family recipe into her cell phone (No, I said two cups of walnuts! Are you stupid?), and a man trying desperately to switch his flight (Look, my wife is going to kill me if I'm stuck here another three days.).
Ah, the holidays.
If he was honest with himself, the only thing he liked about the holidays was his mother's gingerbread cookies and that shortbread she made with a whiskey glaze. His mouth watered just thinking about it. He could take or leave the nosy neighbors just "poppin' in for a cuppa before headin' into town," content with his mum's company and her cooking for the five days he'd get to go home. In just under 13 hours, he'd be on his way.
It wasn't the sound of his shifting backpack that alerted him that someone had taken the other half of his seat at the market stop, but the sudden scent of peppermint and chocolate that hit him. He cautiously cracked open one eye and saw a pretty (okay, fine, he could admit that she was gorgeous) woman who was carefully easing his bag onto the floor between their feet while she balanced a green paper coffee cup in her other hand. The strap from her own bag slid precariously down her shoulder to the crook of her arm, the bag itself swinging dangerously close to the hot chocolate she was carrying around.
With a sigh, Fitz opened both eyes and reached forward, sliding his bag in front of his own feet and moving himself closer to the window seat at the same time.
"Oh, thank you! I'm sorry. I didn't know if you were asleep… though really, I wouldn't recommend sleeping on the train; do you know how many people have their things stolen?"
"Abou' one in six hundred, closer to one in six hundred an' sixteen if you wan' to be accurate," he responded promptly. "An' I was watchin' it."
She adjusted her bag in her lap and took a sip from her drink to hide her smile, but he still saw it. She had a pretty smile. He was momentarily tongue tied because of it, but he recovered enough for his mouth to start working before his brain could catch up with it.
"Statistically speakin', you're more likely to drop tha' an' scald someone when the train makes a sharp turn or hits rubbish on the line than I am o' havin' my stuff stolen." Nodding when he finished speaking, he turned away from her to check how far along the line they were. Just three more stops, and then he'd be home to pack and he could forget all about sounding like an idiot on the train. He assumed their conversation was done by the way her jaw had dropped and her cheeks had turned pink underneath her toque, but apparently not.
"Well, I stood in line for nearly 20 minutes to be able to get something warm to drink before I had to wait on the platform for the train, so I wasn't getting rid of it when I boarded."
"Didn't say you had to."
"Right."
They sat in silence as the train pulled to a stop and people came and went in waves. There was some sort of tension stretching between them, and Fitz was overcome with the urge to apologize for snapping at her, something he didn't usually find himself even entertaining the idea of when he rubbed someone the wrong way or when his own anxiety got the better of him. His eyes flicked to her scarf where he could see the knitted pattern of sugar molecules. It was sweet, he thought, then tried not to laugh at his own joke.
One man, clearly having had a little too much eggnog if his smell was anything to go by, stood out from the crowd of people that were on their own way home. He leaned against the railing nearest their shared seat, his unfocused eyes trying their best to zero in on Fitz's seatmate.
"You got any plans for the holiday?" The alcohol infused man asked her, taking a step closer to her personal space.
Fitz could tell she was trying not to be intimidated or to look off balance, but he also felt it when her muscles pulled taut in the seat, even though she had carefully kept a few inches of space between them.
"I do," she told the man sharply before taking a sip of her drink and turning her head slightly in Fitz's direction. Fitz told himself not to jump when she pressed her side securely against his. She wasn't suggesting anything to him, just to the idiot hitting on her. He relaxed in his seat, his knee pressing against hers as the guy in front of them rolled his eyes.
Fitz pulled in a slow breath and made a decision, lifting his arm and stretching it around her shoulders, letting her fall slightly into him, his hand pressing into her shoulder.
"Pfft. Suit yourself, sweetheart." The man gave a belch and maneuvered his way farther down the car.
Fitz wasn't sure if he should move his arm or not. It didn't feel altogether uncomfortable. And now that he was closer to her, he could smell more than just the chocolate and peppermint. Her perfume was subtle and flowery, a little bit of spring in the dead of winter. But he didn't want to seem like he was taking advantage of the situation, so he let go of her shoulder and relaxed his arm on her seatback, neither of them saying anything for a few moments.
"Thanks for that," she said when they hit a bump on the track and he had to remove his arm to grab his bag before it skittered away. It was only when the shrill tones of "Jingle Bells" echoed from the bag in her lap that she said anything else. "Sorry, sorry," she mumbled as people began to turn and look in their direction. "Bloody Skye. I should never have let her borrow my phone." Fitz snorted as she shoved her cup in his direction. "Could you? Please?"
His fingers seemed to close around the cup automatically as she began rooting around in her bag, the music getting louder and louder with every lyric. He stifled a smile when a little boy a few seats away began singing along. It somehow made the piercing tone of the song much less annoying.
"Mum!" She yelped as she finally pulled the phone from her bag and accepted the call. "I'm sorry, but I'm on the train, so I'll probably lose you soon. I'll call you when I'm home?" She was quiet for a moment, and Fitz kept an eye on her reflection in the glass so it didn't seem like he was staring right at her, even though he was. She had lovely eyes and the way she was chewing on one nail distractedly was somehow adorable. "Yes, mum. I know. I remember." She rolled her eyes, exasperation lining her features. "Yes. Okay. We're heading into a tunnel. Bye!"
"You know, we're no' actually headin' into a tunnel for another two miles."
She turned the ringer off on her phone before unceremoniously dropping it into her bag. "Do you always chastise perfect strangers for lying to their mothers?"
"Only a' Christmas." He handed her beverage back to her, wondering how it could be that her gloved hands were warmer on his bare fingers than the cup had been. "'sides, we're apparently dating now."
She colored again, and rolled her eyes. "Big fan of the holiday, then?"
"Actually, no. But lyin' a' Christmas jus' seems wrong."
She laughed behind her cup again, and he smiled at her. She glanced up at the route map as if counting stops, so Fitz turned back to the window while the train moved on. Unaccustomed to having to share a seat on his way home from work, he searched for something to talk to her about that was more interesting than statistics on train passengers.
"It's not that I don't like my mother," she explained, cutting off his train of thought just as he had opened his mouth to comment on the weather. "It's just that every time I've spoken to her for the last month, she's reminded me to bring home my grandmother's teapot for Christmas. It just seems ridiculous to pack it up and take it all the way over to her because it goes so nicely with the dinnerware, only to have her insist that I bring it back with me because my grandmother wanted me to have it after the holiday is over." He returned his gaze to her just as she shook her head. "Add to that her insistence that I find someone to fill the odd seat at the table because everyone else is bringing someone, and she makes me want to drown her in the tea she'll be making."
Her voice had risen with every word, and a woman in front of them got up and quickly scurried off the train at the next stop.
"Obviously, I would never actually drown my mother in tea," she told Fitz in a harsh whisper, leaning her head in close to his.
"Obviously," Fitz agreed with a slight chuckle.
"You heading home for the holidays, then?" Her mouth created a sudden oh and she appeared to cringe before rushing through, "Unless you don't celebrate Christmas, but you did mention lying at Christmas before-"
"What makes you think this isn't home?" He added a teasing grin for good measure. Was he flirting with her? Was this how people did this? The better question was, was it working?
"Oh, I see. So the Scottish accent? Is that just for show?" Her eyes sparkled as she tapped the top of her cup with one finger and shifted in her seat.
"Well," he began, affecting the American accent he had grown up trying to perfect. "You tell me. Which one sounds real?"
"Definitely the Scottish."
Unable to stop the grin from growing ever larger on his face, he nodded. "Yeah. Scottish." He gave a slight chuckle.
"Your American's pretty good though. Do you practice in the mirror," she joked, leaning closer still.
"Maybe." He didn't, but he could feel his cheeks flushing at the thought of her picturing him practicing an accent. "Mostly picked it up from television."
"Well, there is a lot of American TV back home."
"Yeah, exactly."
"So… home?" She prompted, raising her eyebrows again.
"Oh, erm, yeah. I catch a flight tomorrow."
"Me too!" Her whole face lit up in excitement as she started asking him questions about his flight, but the expression on his face must have made her think she had taken a step too far. "Oh my God, I'm so sorry. I don't know what's gotten into me." She shook her head quickly, the hand not holding on to her drink coming up to rub her neck, making her bag slide across her lap as the train turned. She quickly dropped her hand to catch it just as Fitz did and she shyly smiled her thanks. "It's just not often I meet someone from home. Well, not from home, obviously. You're from Scotland." She wrapped her fingers tightly around the strap of her bag with one hand and brought her cup up to her mouth with the other, clearly in an attempt to hide her face.
Fitz couldn't help but think she looked adorable with the slight embarrassment on her features.
"'s fine, really." He shifted in his seat as the train began to slow. "Jus'... this is me."
"Oh! Oh. Right." She stood awkwardly, moving out of his way as he stood up, slinging his bag over his shoulder. "Well, it was nice… having someone to chat with on the train."
"Yeah, it was nice meeting you, erm -"
"Jemma."
"Fitz." He watched her for the length of time it took the train to come to a complete stop. He wasn't sure if he should shake her hand or something else. A part of him wanted to ask for her number, but his tongue seemed to tie in his mouth at the very idea of asking, and really, he knew nothing about this woman. A pretty smile, talk of home, and some flirting (that had all been flirting, hadn't it?) didn't mean he should expect a phone number. Instead, he licked his lips anxiously and said, "enjoy your holiday."
He was almost certain he imagined it when her smile faltered slightly.
"Yes. You too."
He hunched his shoulders in preparation for the cold and navigated his way through the crowd of people laden with holiday shopping and takeout containers. There were a few people rolling luggage, and he dodged them expertly before hitting a staircase and running to the upper level where the wind bit and the cold sunk right into his bones. Of course, that was probably because he was wearing his light winter coat and he hadn't put his hat back on. He reached a hand into his pocket, pulling out his hat and stretching it across the top of his head. Gloves from another pocket followed, and he pulled them on while he walked.
Trudging along through the wind and with ice crunching underfoot, he didn't hear the yelling at first.
"Fitz! Fitz!"
He spun on his heels to see the woman from the train - Jemma, he corrected himself - jogging down the block toward him, her boots slipping on the ice every so often. When she caught up to him she panted for a moment, her breath crystallizing as she puffed in the the air in front of her.
"Hello," she told him with a breathless little laugh.
"Hi." He clenched his hands into fists at his sides before nervously uncurling his fingers and tapping them on his thighs. "I thought you - erm - tha' wasn't your stop?"
"No, it wasn't. But… well, I said it was nice talking with you, and it was. And I thought, if you're anything like me and maybe you get bored with your family over the holidays, or you… I don't know... Anyway, I don't usually do this. And I'm not one of those people who says that and actually does always do this…"
She babbled while she fished around in her bag, emerging with a bright red marker and hastily scrawling something on the sleeve of her coffee cup before recapping it, pulling the cardboard away and dropping the cup in a nearby bin. She thrust the coffee cup sleeve in his direction and he reflexively reached out his hand to take it from her, finding a sequence of numbers written underneath her name in a delicate script.
Fitz stared at the sleeve without comprehending what he was actually seeing. He glanced back and forth between the cardboard and Jemma, trying to figure out what was happening. Women didn't just give him their number. Ever. Even after mild flirting. The way she was shifting her weight and pulling on her sleeves made her look supremely nervous, and he didn't want her to think he didn't want her number, so he tried to think of something to say to her.
"Erm - thank you?"
"Oh. Well, you're welcome." She gestured with the marker to the sleeve. "No pressure or anything, really." She shook her head, her nose crinkling up. He hoped she wasn't already regretting giving him her number.
Before Fitz could change his mind, he reached out for her hand and took the marker from it, removing the cap and scribbling his own information on the opposite side of the cardboard sleeve, ripping it in half, then recapping the marker and handing them both back to her with something like a bow. It was his turn to cringe.
"No pressure," he echoed with a slow smile, trying to forget that he had just dipped his head like he was greeting royalty or something.
Jemma placed them both in her bag with a pleased hum. "I suppose I'll talk to you soon then?"
"Yeah. Soon." His smiled widened. His face was probably going to be sore after meeting this girl. He couldn't remember the last time he'd smiled so much or so wide. "Definitely."
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