A/N: Thanks to everyone for the feedback and for reading in the first place. This update is a little meatier than the first - got a little carried away, I guess! This chapter is set in Fitzsimmons' first year at MIT (my headcanon has them meeting before Shield Academy so slightly AU)

He's working on a miniature flying Tardis for Jemma's birthday when he hears her strained voice come through the dorm door.

'Fitz. Can I come in?'

Fitz drops the soldering iron in surprise and punctures a hole in the Tardis wall. Cursing under his breath, he frantically tosses a blanket over the top of his workstation and hurries to let her in.

'Since when do ya –' Simmons is standing in a puddle in his doorway, soaked to her skin and on the verge of tears '-ask… God, Jem! What on earth happened?'

'Let's just say it was a less gruesome version of Carrie. And I think I'm the cheerleading squad's new entertainment,' she says, finally giving way to the tears she's been holding onto for an hour.

Fitz has only seen Simmons cry once before and it involved the last Harry Potter book and a fair amount of awkward patting. But this time, he doesn't miss a beat before enveloping her into a warm hug, ignoring the water seeping through his cardigan.

'I have tea, I have dry clothes and I have Back to the Future. Which do you want first?'

Jemma breaks free of the hug to stare up at him, her heart melting a little when his eyebrow quirks up in confusion. 'What? You don't want to catch pneumonia if it's not for scientific research, right?'

The minute Jemma's settled on Fitz's bed in a pair of sweatpants and what she likes to call his Grumpy Planets T-shirt ('Negative Space'), the familiar strains of Belle and Sebastian start up on his record player and she feels lighter somehow.

'You wanna talk about it?' Fitz asks, handing her a mug of tea and sitting beside her. He's the only one she trusts to get the tea-to-milk ratio just right.

'Oh it's fine, really,' Jemma says, trying to sound upbeat but only managing the enthusiasm of a brick wall. 'I'm sorry for barging in like this: I know hazing is a regular occurrence at college. Only I'm not technically part of sorority, nor have I expressed any interest to be, really…'

'I'm so sorry. They only did it 'cause you're brilliant, you know.'

'Really, Fitz. We're at MIT; I think everyone's a bit brilliant.'

'No, you're more than that. It's like what my mum said after the fiftieth football had been kicked at my head: the one thing that bullies don't know how to respond to is kindness. And you're a bloody angel, Jemma. The minute they realise that they're never gonna get a reaction from you; when they realise that you'd probably smile at…Kim Jong-Il and try and empathise with him, they'll stop. That might not mean much right now, but just know: you're worth a million of them.'

Jemma gives the first real smile she's given all day and remembers in disbelief that she almost considered going back to her dorm instead of visiting Fitz. 'Thank you.'

'And you do realise that the only thing stopping them from becoming the first test subjects for the Night Night gun, is the disapproving look I'll get from you, right?'

Inexplicably, this is what makes her cry for the second time.

'Oh no, that wasn't meant to make you cry! God, I am not very good at this whole comforting thing, am I. If ever there were an indication that I should watch more Oprah and less Jeremy Kyle…'

Jemma laughs, shaking her head fervently, and Fitz's rambling eventually subsides. 'I don't know how you could be better.'

'But would you like a tissue? I can offer you Kleenex or…' – she just settles her head back on his shoulder – 'ah yes, a new brand: My Shoulder.'

Fitz puts his arm around her like clockwork and the butterflies in her stomach take on a new meaning. Jemma rarely lets herself indulge in these feelings; she refuses to notice how her heart flutters when he calls her name excitedly from across the lab; or the way her breath catches when his arm lightly grazes hers, but for once, Jemma doesn't pretend that it's just the wool of his cardigan that is soft and warm and perfect. She gives an involuntary shiver.

'You are so transparent,' Fitz sighs, bringing her back to the present. He reluctantly extracts himself from their embrace to take off his cardigan and put it around her shoulders, and Jemma laughs out of relief that, for once, she isn't actually transparent to him. 'I should just ask my mum to knit you one for Christmas.'

'Only if I get a Han Solo one to match your Chewbacca. Tell me, Fitz. What did spark the love of Star Wars related knitwear exactly?'

'Your funny bone's in tact, I see.' His face scrunches up in mock indignation and she giggles into his shoulder.

They stay like this for a while, the tea sitting forgotten on the floor, until Jemma exhales. She slides her hand across the bed until it meets his and she lets her fingers dance delicately over his knuckles. In an air-conditioned room, Fitz wonders why his hands are suddenly clammy.

'If coming here meant getting stick for being smart but also getting you,' she smiles. 'Well, I think I got rather lucky with my end of the bargain.'

It's not exactly what Jemma wants to say, but it's enough. The reality of how she feels about Fitz exists only in the shared silence and the fraction of space between their conjoined hands. It's delicate.

'And for the last time, we are not calling it the 'Night Night' gun.'