The limo eventually pulls up to a stop outside the busy building, both occupants of the back seat too preoccupied in their own preparation to pay attention to their location or even acknowledge their arrival.

"I'm still not sure why I had to be the security guard," Fitz fiddles with the overly conspicuous earpiece trailing down over his right shoulder, "It seems a little unrealistic- not that I'm not strong, I'm just your sort of, lean muscle, you know?"

Jemma just pats his arm absentmindedly, then tugs again on the tight fitting dress which continues to find its way further and further down her chest, wondering (not for the first time) how Bobbi convinced her to wear her current outfit anywhere outside of a very private, very dimly lit linen closet.

"It's a gender stereotyping Fitz, it's not personal. I'm hardly your ideal candidate either, pop stars are typically perfectly symmetrical and beautiful-"

"Hey, come on Simmons, you're beautiful," He doesn't need to improve the dim lighting of their current location to know precisely what look she's giving him, "I mean, you know, if you're talking about biological imperative -"

"- and usually have at least a rudimentary level of musical ability, despite what tabloids might suggest." But she smiles warmly at Fitz, who passes her back a long sigh in return. This was no one's first preference for a retrieval team but the target had contact with every other member of their team and there wasn't time to brief new agents- tonight was their one chance to get the data before it flew out of the country for good.

"You don't have to sing, you shouldn't even have to talk very much." Coulson's voice comes clearly through their agency earpieces, an unnecessary reminder of their omnipresent team. "We just have to fool the press and everyone in there for long enough to get in and out again."

There's a pause, and then Skye- "You could sing though, that would be funny." Fitz doesn't mean to snort aloud, but even Jemma grins at that. They all remember what happened at karaoke night.

"She's going to be on high alert, given the events of last night." Ward's tone is not intentionally derisive, they both know that it's hardest for him when he has to sit back and watch, "Blending in is key, anonymity is your biggest weapon, which shouldn't be too difficult, even for you two," This time, Fitz gives an actual short squawk of indignation, "And if you run into any trouble-"

"We know what to do," finishes Jemma. She gives Fitz a short nod and a nervous smile, the heavy layers of makeup strong enough to shield her from a stranger, but not him. His hand weighs onto her shoulder for a moment, and then it's time, but for the benefit of their listeners, he speaks aloud, in his very best american accent.

"Let's roll."

He opens his door first and is almost instantly blinded by the glitz and the cameras, stunning, but he doesn't let his shock show, smoothly (slowly) walking to Jemma's door and swinging it open for her.

"Welcome to the Grammy Awards, Miss Bennett."

A long, elegant leg is swiftly followed by a fierce stranger, clad in leather and jewels that outlines her curvy figure, head held high despite the clamour (and somehow peering down her nose through thick lashes at Fitz, even if she is practically the same height as him once she's got those monstrous heels on) and even he can barely recognise Simmons once she's in character; barely.

It's all about preparation.