Author's Note:

This is a sequel to my 2014 FitzSimmons Secret Santa exchange fic, A Kiss-mas Story, and it picks up pretty much immediately where it left off, so you may want to read that one first.

This is also a belated Christmas present for my beta memorizingthedigitsofpi, who gifted me a gorgeous manip that became the thumbnail; you can find the full-size version on her tumblr (same name). I'd been thinking about writing a sequel to my mistletoe fic for a long time, but her picture gave me the exploded ovaries, I mean inspiration, that I needed to actually do it. So, thank you, Pi!

Monday, December 24

Zero new notifications.

Fitz stared at his computer screen and sighed. Barely twelve hours since he'd said his goodbyes to Jemma at the train station, and she'd be busy with her family all evening, so he couldn't even call. How in the Hell was he going to get through the next month?

His mouse hovered over the header on her Facebook page, telling himself it wasn't creepy to be checking up on her like this. I'm her best friend. It only made sense that he would be interested in her life and browsing her social media accounts. The creepy thing would be if I was smothering her by texting her fifty times a day when I've just seen her this morning.

No, he was just making sure she was safe. And happy. That was all he ever wanted for her, really. Safe and happy. Maybe with a side of "dating Fitz" if he really got greedy.

Well, greedy he must be, because this year he'd gotten everything he could possibly ask for, yet here he was, in front of his laptop, miserable and pining and increasingly frustrated with the internet speed at his mum's house.

"Leo! The fairy lights're out again!"

"Okay, mum!" he called out, wondering if enough chores could possibly drown out the memories of the previous night, Jemma stretched out against him, kissing him, waking up with her draped over him like some sort of sexy sloth , for Pete's sake—

"Leo, my boy, did ye do the potatoes? Soup's already boilin'!"

"Yeah, I will!" he repeated loudly, resigning himself to the prospect of not hearing from Jemma until at least the next day.

"I should hope ye didna fly all this way just t' sit in yer room by yerself! Come have a catchup, it's been a donkey's age!"

A small blue-and-white bubble popped up at the top of the screen. Jemma Simmons was tagged in Jules Simmons' photo.

"Just a minute!"

Fitz's head snapped up, his fingers tapping against the wood of his desk as he waited for the image in question to come into view. The slow page refresh nearly gave him hives as it loaded, bar by infinitesimal bar, to reveal a cheerily tipsy Jemma: flushed cheeks, head thrown back in three-quarters profile and her face contorted in what was either an oncoming sneeze or an explosive reaction to a joke. He waited, patiently, for the pale line of her neck, traveling down to the thin strap of her sleeveless blouse… his breath hitched… the creamy expanse of her arm, exposed by the loose fit of a navy blue hoodie—hold on, is that my zip-up?—slipping down as she giggled. God , she was pretty.

"Leopold!" bellowed Lorna Fitz. "Unless yer hidin' a Christmas goose an' all the trimmings in that bedroom o' yours, ye best get in this kitchen an' help yer old mam—"

The picture chose that moment to freeze, pixelated and completely unsympathetic to his needs. With a groan, Fitz dragged his palms over his face and attempted to put on a modicum of Christmas cheer. "Sorry, mum!" He pushed open the door and sauntered out into the family room, resolving to push the incomplete image of his gorgeous new (he hoped) girlfriend out of his head. "Oh, ta, mum, is that mulled wine?"

Smiling broadly, she handed him a goblet, with a pinch to his cheek and something about how tall he'd gotten.

Fitz grinned. "I know you're just sayin' that so I'll change the lightbulbs, but everyone I work with is some sort of half-giant, so I'll take it."

"Ach, well I should be havin' m' tall grandchildren change the lights for me…" Lorna's eyes twinkled with the familiar topic of discussion. "But seein' as you've never seen fit t'—"

Fitz groaned, right on cue. "Mum, good grief, I'm not even old enough to drink in the States!"

She settled her hands on her hips. "Rory McGregor down the road's the same age, and he's got two on the way!"

Fitz flung up his arms. "Rory McGregor's idea of a career is gettin' into barfights and calling it professional boxing!"

"And how's that stoppin' him keepin' his mother happy?!" With a smug nod, she turned to the table and started grating carrots.

Bemused, Fitz got out the potato peeler, settled himself on a stool, and set his glass within easy reach.

Chores and drinking. That, at least, was a solid plan.

A/N:

Big additional thanks to my betas atomicsupervillainess on AO3 and amandajbruce, and shout-out to starbrightnights for always being willing to answer my British-related questions!

Also, Lorna Fitz in this one is a little less intensely Scottish as she's been in some of my other fics, because there's more of her, and I just couldn't keep up that level of slang and spelling. Still, if you're Scottish and she says something that is just way off, please do let me know!

This fic will be updating daily! Hope you like it! :-D