He has to pretend, through all the tedious but terribly important shuffling of paper that follows, that his eyes are on the task at hand, detail-oriented, analytical, and not burning with unshed tears. He has to watch her lips move as she speaks, take in her words, nod at the expected pauses, actually force himself to comprehend what she's saying, and not drift back into the moments just before (and already long gone) in which she'd pressed them, softly, yearningly, to his. He has to carry armfuls of ancient manuscripts with more care than the well-intentioned idiot he'd shouted at earlier and not remember the yielding softness of her body as he held her against him. But worst of all, even though he'd finally said so much of the truth, he is still forced to remain an understanding man.

And then afterwards, when the symbols have been laid out for all to see, tracing their terrible path, he tries to slink away. To be near her is a constant battle against his own desires, the coil of self-control wound so tight in him that there can be no subtlety in its inevitable undoing. He'd already proved that once and it was only going to get worse. But he doesn't go far. To be away from her is similarly impossible. When he's the one by her side, she remembers all the reasons that he's the one she wants. When he's absent, as he learned with a pang after taking the tablet out of her hands earlier, that's when she dwells on the other guy.

And he is understanding. He is the man whose sense of the right triumphs over every other instinct. But maybe that doesn't rule out occasional glances toward his own interest. She doesn't seem to think so. After all, hadn't she been the one to interrupt his tirade about the virtues of the other guy by reminding him of his own? And when he'd stopped trying to hold it all in and just let himself grab her, hadn't she replied by grabbing him right back?

He's back in the lab now and the atmosphere feels charged with the same tension that had led to their inevitable collision. He collapses into his chair and lets his head thud onto the snowdrift of papers that covers every surface. For the first time since it happened, he lets himself sink into memory, savouring the honey colour of her irises from the intimacy of that new vantage point, invoking the gentle pressure of her fingers on his face, reigniting the liquid fire in his loins. His eyelids flutter closed and pure longing replaces the blood in his veins. He barely manages to supress the childish notion to bring his knuckles to his mouth, to slide the length of his fingers softly against the flesh of his lips in what would no-doubt be a deeply unsatisfactory attempt to re-enact her melting kisses.

If only he could surgically remove that raft of sensation, cut it with a gleaming scalpel out of its tragic context, neatly cauterizing the edges of the gaping wound, and somehow transplant it into a more hopeful future. Would it even take? This curse that he had begun to believe in with a level of conviction belying his training, suggested that it couldn't. But if he could believe her instead – become convinced once more by the insouciance of the universe that he'd used to take for granted, then there was no rhyme or reason that stood for them, and none that stood against them.

It is while his mind meanders down this slightly sunnier path that he feels the warmth of her hands tentatively splay across his shoulder blades. She rubs the heels of her hands across his knotted muscles, travelling up and over the hemispheres of his shoulders, leaning her own weight barely, lingeringly against his back as she runs her fingertips slowly down the length of his arms, over the folded cuffs and onto the bare skin of his wrists and the veins of the back of his hands before intertwining her fingers with his.

She's all pressed against him now and he can feel her warm breath tickling the hair at the back of his neck. He leans back slightly and folds his arms over his chest, taking her fingers with him so that she's wrapped all around him. Her chin slides into the crook of his neck, and her lips brush lightly, briefly, against the roughness of his cheek. He feels the wetness of her tears on his skin.

"Fitz," she whispers urgently. "You asked if I loved him. You didn't ask if I love you."

He doesn't move or speak or breathe.

"I do."

With a heavy sigh he gently shakes her off him, disentangling their fingers, shrugging his shoulders from under her, leaning his body away. "I know."

He feels her step away from him.

"It isn't enough, is it?"

He shakes his head, swivelling in his chair so that he can look into her eyes. "It's everything, Jemma. Everything." His hands involuntarily turn upwards where they rest on his thighs.

Jemma falls on her knees between them, filling his questioning palms with her own, her eyes pleading. "When I was away I imagined this conversation so many times. I never imagined it could end in any other way but in your arms."

He doesn't look away. He nods his head. He tamps down his rage. He winds himself ever tighter. He gently squeezes her hands. He even manages a wry smile. She's going to be the death of him.

"I know, Jemma. I understand."

phew! had to get that off my chest! Look, I think it's fair to say that I just love Leo Fitz. And I get Jemma, I do understand, but it's still so awful.

BUT one thing that episode totally cured me of was my fear that FitzSimmons were too awkward and that perhaps I really didn't want to see them kiss after all (see my fic "Agents of Unbearable Awkwardness"). That kiss seriously affected me - like, bodily! HAWT! So now I just want MOAR FITZSIMMONS KISSING. And I've gone and denied you it here. Who knows, maybe there'll be more of this and there can be some kissing in later chapters. I'd better not neglect my midwife though!

Love to hear what you think, my lovely readers!