Over the next several weeks, Jemma made a point to visit the cottage every Saturday, eager to keep up her new correspondence with Fitz. She found that he was extremely easy to talk to, on just about every subject imaginable. She could debate science with him, they could discuss articles and papers-only ones he had access to in his time, of course. She could complain about how slow her research was coming along, and he would encourage her to keep going. He could tell her what he could about what he was designing for work without breaking his nondisclosure agreements, and she would excitedly theorize on how they could be applied to her field.

Talking to Fitz was quickly becoming her favorite part of the week. Whether they were trading long letters that rambled on and on about the details of what they were working on or what they had done that week, or short, quick notes thrown back and forth in spirited discourse, it was exciting. Fitz kept her interest like no one ever had before. He was deeply intelligent with a dry, cutting sense of humor that made her laugh, and his questions actually made her think.

Waking up on Saturday mornings became a treat. She would pack up her laptop and research notes, grab a mug of tea, and set off for the countryside with a smile on her face, looking forward to seeing a new letter from Fitz. Even if they never managed to figure out how their letterbox worked, she was glad for it, because it meant she'd been connected with one of the best people she knew.

-:-

Wednesdays were the best day of the week, as far as Fitz was concerned. Wednesdays meant letters from Jemma. He was very glad it wasn't one of the days he had to go into the lab, because it meant he could take some of his work outside and wait for Jemma's letters to come through. Sometimes he had to take breaks to go inside for video calls, or the weather kept him indoors, but he braved it regularly to check for updates. Jemma always sent her first letter around mid-morning, and usually stayed through the late afternoon. Occasionally he wondered what she was cutting out of her schedule to come and spend the day exchanging notes with him-at first he thought she was coming to the cottage during the week, until he realized that she was exactly two years ahead of him, and that her dates fell on a different day of the week from him. But whatever she was skipping, he was glad she did. She was the first person he'd ever met who could keep up with him on an intellectual level, even if the process was slowed somewhat through the letterbox. She met all of his ramblings and questions with more questions of her own, but hers were insightful, and he found that he didn't mind explaining things if Jemma was the audience.

He even began to discuss some of his projects with her. Not all of Fitz's work was for SciTech; in his free time, he tooled away on designs he either wanted to submit to the lab for consideration, or that he planned to try and patent. He was currently refining designs for some non-lethal weaponry, an idea he'd had for a long while but just hadn't had the time to dedicate himself to properly. His sketches for the pistol and the rifle he'd dreamed up were coming along well, but they wouldn't be complete until he finalized the design for the bullet casing. And that was dependent on what he used for the paralyzing agent, which was where he had run into problems. In his cursory research into the subject, none of the widely available or commonly-used neurotoxins would work for his design. Either they were too weak at the dosage the bullet could hold, or too strong and risked doing harm to the target.

It was a good thing, Fitz thought, that he had Jemma's brain to pick now. She knew biochemistry; maybe she could help.

I've run into a snag on a project I'm working on, he wrote her one morning. I'm hoping that you'll be able (willing?) to help me .

I thought you weren't allowed to tell me anything about your work, she wrote back. Because it's all very secret MI-6 James Bond Q-type things.

Fitz rolled his eyes. She was teasing him and he knew it. He adjusted his notepad on his knees before starting to write. This is a personal project. I'm working on a non-lethal handgun design and I'm having trouble deciding what would be the most effective paralyzing agent. The numbers just aren't working out. I could really use a biochemist's eye on this.

When her reply came through, he couldn't help but laugh at it. Are you sure I should help? For all I know, giving you the information required to finish your design could rewrite time.

Time is fixed, he reminded her. If there are military and police forces running around in your time with stun guns, you're going to help me because you already have. Sort of like a time loop.

Aha, well, there are no stun guns in my time, Jemma wrote back. If smugness could be conveyed through the written word, she managed it. At least not that I know of. So maybe I'll choose not to meddle with time and keep history intact.

Fitz frowned slightly. While he acknowledged that there were some advantages to communicating through letters only, there were definite cons, too-he couldn't see her facial expression or hear her tone to go along with her words, and so he couldn't tell if Jemma was still teasing him or actually being serious. He thought she was kidding with him, but he couldn't be sure. He knew he would keep working on the design if she refused to help, but he wouldn't lie to himself-it would hurt a bit.

And then there was the fact that she'd said there weren't any of his guns in use in her time. Maybe he was still fine-tuning the design two years in the future, or he'd turned it over to SciTech and they'd labeled it classified for special use.

He was still deliberating on his response when the letterbox rattled again. Taking out the new piece of paper he found inside, he unfolded it, curious to see what Jemma had wanted to add without waiting for a reply from him.

You're in luck. Amazingly enough, the research I'm doing for my next book is all about the different possible applications of dendrotoxins, some of which I think might be rather useful to you. If you're willing to send me some of the specs on your design, I'll see what I can do to help.

There was a small smiley face drawn at the end of her note. His shoulders relaxed; of course she would be willing to help him. He shouldn't have doubted her. He went through the notes and sketches of the gun design he had outside with him and selected a few to send through the letterbox to her, along with a note detailing his issues and a gentle reminder to please send everything back once she was done.

Jemma quickly sent another short note through saying she'd received his package, and from there they delved deep into discussion on how Fitz might be able to apply dendrotoxin to his design and come up with a successful solution. He wouldn't be able to know for sure until he could run the numbers in a simulation, but it looked very promising, and not for the first time he was very glad that Jemma had come into his life.

For it wasn't just science and work that they talked about; their conversations began to turn personal in nature, too. They discovered that they were the same age, in real time-Jemma of course had two years on him in her time-and that they were both only children. Jemma was a morning person, while Fitz liked to sleep in. He let slip that he had a dangerous sweet tooth, and she responded that she was very much in favor of healthy eating and exercise, which he scoffed at. They both enjoyed nature documentaries, though Jemma had a soft spot for the Great British Bake-Off that Fitz didn't share.

My mum watches it, but I don't, he wrote.

I thought you'd love something like that, Jemma wrote back. Seeing the sweets they bake, and all.

Fitz grinned as he hastily scribbled his reply. That's just it. Everything looks so delicious and I can't eat it. It makes me hungry at night when it's too late to do anything about it.

He felt he knew her well enough by then to know that she would laugh at him for that. He could almost see the way her eyes might crinkle up at the corners and how her lips would spread wide in a smile-because his curiosity had gotten the better of him, and he'd run a search on Jemma's name online. He'd found a result for her on the University of Glasgow's School of Chemistry faculty page, and when he'd seen the small black-and-white photo next to her name, he'd sucked in a quiet breath.

Jemma was much closer to the nubile lab assistant Hunter had teased him about, and not at all the plain Jane Fitz had assumed her to be. She had dark hair that fell in soft waves to just above her shoulders, fine, delicate features, and a smile that made him feel lighter just for having seen it. She was, as his mother would say, a quintessential English rose.

Seeing her picture had made his insecurity flare up briefly-attractive women did not normally give him the time of day, and if for some reason Jemma ever came across him in her time, or discovered what he looked like, she'd surely ditch him in a heartbeat-but he managed to douse it out. One of the advantages to communicating the way they did was that their relationship was a true meeting of the minds; there was nothing superficial about it. He could reassure himself that Jemma wasn't the type of person to be so shallow, and that she genuinely enjoyed talking to him on his own merit. If she had done the same as him and looked him up, she either didn't find him hideous, or didn't care.

No, Jemma had proven herself to be a good friend-maybe even his best friend. Fitz enjoyed talking to her more than he did anyone else, even Hunter, and he never had to worry that she was comparing him to the man he'd been before his accident. He felt completely at ease when he was writing to her and able just to be himself in ways he didn't feel comfortable doing with other people. He found himself wishing more and more that he could see her in person, just once, just to hear her voice and speak properly to her, but understood that it simply wasn't possible. He was trapped in her past. He would just have to content himself with her letters.

Except, one Wednesday, Jemma's morning letter didn't come. Fitz frowned when he found the letterbox empty, but tried not to think too much about it; maybe she had just gotten a late start and her letter would arrive shortly. He checked a few more times over the course of the morning with no result, and by the time he'd finished his lunch, he was fighting the urge to pace.

He knew he was probably being a worrywart and unreasonable. They had no standing agreement to meet every week and Jemma had no obligation to him. She was free to use her time however she wished. It was just that he'd grown used to the routine they'd established over the past several weeks; he looked forward to Wednesdays now, and without their morning exchange of letters, he found himself missing her.

Suddenly, Fitz hated that they could only communicate through the letterbox, and he wished he could call or text like a normal friend. Not knowing why Jemma wasn't there, and being completely unable to contact her, left him feeling impotent and frustrated. His mind was conjuring up worst-case scenarios-what if she'd had an accident?-but most likely it was something completely benign. Maybe she'd just found something better to do. Maybe she had a date.

He didn't really want to examine the sour sort of jealousy that churned his stomach at the thought of Jemma out with someone else.

Fitz went about his day like he normally did, working on his projects for the lab, and when the sun began to sink low in the sky and he still hadn't received a letter from Jemma, he accepted that he wouldn't be hearing from her at all that day. He was disappointed, but there was nothing he could do about it. Without the ability to reach her any other way, he could only hope that she was fine and that she would come back in a week, ready and eager to resume their unconventional friendship.

-:-

The truth was that Jemma had become entrenched in a testing phase of her research. With students out for the summer, it meant she had no teaching duties scheduled and could spend full days in the lab running more time-sensitive experiments, documenting how long it took mammalian cells to recover from paralysis from various dosages of dendrotoxin. Unfortunately, the nature of her experiments required long hours in the lab and so meant she couldn't justify taking any time away until they were completed, even on the weekend. When she realized that she would have to miss her weekly meetup with Fitz, she'd felt horribly guilty, especially knowing she had no way of telling him. What would he think when his letterbox stayed empty?

Not much at all, possibly. Fitz was a brilliant man and probably had more than enough going on to keep him occupied in her absence. And one week away wasn't so terrible, really. He might not even mind the break.

Still, Jemma had an apology written and ready to deposit in the letterbox when she arrived at the cottage the next Saturday.

I'm sorry for missing last week. I was overwhelmingly busy with my research and some experiments I was running and couldn't be away from the lab for very long. I did miss our conversation, though. You would have been very welcome company while I was working.

She hoped she wasn't being too transparently needy, but it was the truth. Outside of Bobbi, Fitz was now her favorite person to talk to, if what they did could even be considered 'talking'. She really had missed him, and had woken up that morning even more excited than usual to drive out to the country.

For his part, Fitz found Jemma's letter with a sigh of relief. It felt like a weight had lifted off his heart. He knew he'd been silly to worry and that she'd had a perfectly good reason not to be there, and this proved it. Her saying she'd missed him put a smile on his face. It made him feel a little less unrequited in having missed her, too.

He sat down on the stoop and thought for a moment about how honest he wanted to be with his reply. They were friends, yes, but declaring that sort of attachment was a level of vulnerability he wasn't used to.

Glad to hear from you. I wondered where you were. His pen hesitated over the paper. Thought maybe you'd forgotten about me .

Jemma scoffed as she read his note, and immediately sat down to pen her response.

As if I could forget about you!

Fitz's smile widened, and he rubbed the back of his neck with one hand as he kept reading:

It was just work taking over, I promise. I'm sure you know what it's like to get so caught up in a project that everything else sort of falls to the wayside.

He did, but something about it didn't sit quite right in his mind. He tapped his pen against the paper for a moment.

Isn't term over? Shouldn't you be on holiday or something right now?

Jemma frowned. Holiday? Who had time to go on holiday when there was so much else to be done?

Yes, term is over and there's another week before the graduate students begin their summer research projects, she wrote. But knowledge waits for no one, Fitz. This is the perfect time for me to try and get ahead on my research, when I don't have lectures to prepare and marking to worry about. I'll never make Reader if I don't put in the work and finish my book. Don't you want to advance in your career?

Fitz shook his head, knowing what he wanted to say the instant he finished reading her reply.

Of course I do, but over the past year I've learned the value of rest. A bit against my will, but I have.

That made Jemma sit back, feeling a faint wash of guilt. Despite their growing friendship, Fitz didn't talk about his accident much; all she knew was that it had been a car crash in which he'd sustained a brain injury and a broken arm. She'd done a little reading up on brain trauma and found that the effects could be wide-ranging, and her heart had gone out to him. If his injury had been severe enough to prompt a move away from the city, he must have been struggling badly. But she'd suspected that FItz wouldn't react well to anything resembling pity, so she'd never brought it up with him.

Here, she thought she knew what he was trying to get at, and so she sighed, looking out at the garden as she thought about how she wanted to word her response, how much of herself she wanted to reveal. In the end, she decided she trusted Fitz enough to be honest.

I'm a workaholic. I can admit that. When I was still in school, I was always driven to work hard and succeed because I was so much younger than my peers. I felt like I needed to prove myself, to meet everyone's expectations. Anything other than coming out on top was abject failure. Now… well, now I suppose I keep at it just to stay busy. Jemma wiggled her pen in her hand for a moment. I've never had much success at making and keeping friends, and if I'm busy with my work, I can't think about how

She wiggled her pen again.

lonely I am. I do have one good friend I keep up with, and she's lovely, but I still don't get out very much. I've lived in and around Glasgow for a few years now and sometimes I still feel like a stranger here.

It was Fitz's turn to frown. He hadn't expected such candor from her and realized their conversation had turned a little more serious than he'd intended. He wanted to bring a little levity back and hopefully cheer her up at the same time. He knew all too well the pitfalls of throwing himself single-mindedly into his work and how other aspects of his life could suffer as a result. But how could he help her? Once again, he found himself bemoaning the limitations of their communication.

He grumbled to himself, and even got up to go inside and make himself some tea while he thought on the problem. He was stirring a large spoonful of sugar into his mug when his mind suddenly struck upon a solution, and he felt so clever, so eager to get back to Jemma, that he abandoned his drink to hurry outside and write to her.

Jemma, meanwhile, was worrying that she'd made a mistake in being so open, and that Fitz didn't want to hear about the sorry state of her social life. It had been an unusually long time since she'd sent her note through, longer than it normally took for him to reply-even a long one. She was just thinking about sending another note, apologizing for being so serious, when the letterbox rattled. She jumped, but quickly breathed a sigh of relief and stood to retrieve Fitz's reply.

Trust me when I say I know what it's like to have no social life, it said. But I've had an idea. You said you feel like a stranger here, so I thought of a way to get you out of the lab for a while to relax and hopefully have some fun. You can go for a walk with me in the city.

Jemma blinked. What? That was impossible. Unless he was suggesting an attempt to meet up with her somehow in her present, an idea which made her stomach do a little flip. Slightly breathless, she grabbed her notebook so she could write back.

How? It's not possible. I can't go back to the past.

Fitz's next reply came through much more quickly than his last. I know. But I've got it all figured out. Give me two days to get some things together and I can take you on a tour of Glasgow by proxy. I was born and raised there, so I know where to send you so you'll feel like you've actually been through the city. It'll be fun.

Jemma stared down at his letter, a curious warmth lighting in her chest. Her eyes lingered over his words on the page, the slant to the letters and the places his pen had pressed down harder on the paper. A small smile broke over her face, and she picked up her own pen.

That's very sweet of you. But I don't want you to have to go to any trouble.

The next note that came through only made her smile grow. It's no trouble. It's your summer holiday. You deserve it.

Jemma was so intrigued by Fitz's offer that she made the time to drive back out to the cottage after she'd finished her last lecture on Monday afternoon. True to his word, when she reached into the letterbox, she pulled out a map of Glasgow's city centre along with a few pages' worth of notes from him. Looking at the map, it had several locations circled with numbers, and lines drawn with arrows indicating the path she should take around the city. His notes turned out to be a legend he'd written for the map, detailing the locations he was sending her to and his own commentary on each of them.

It made that warmth burn in her heart again, leaving her feeling light and happy. Fitz had obviously put a lot of thought into it, and the care that shone through made her feel appreciated in a way she hadn't felt in a long time. She dashed off a quick note to let him know she'd received his package and planned on taking her tour that weekend.

On Saturday morning, Jemma woke up and ate a light breakfast before dressing in capris and a sleeveless blouse with sensible shoes before heading for the metro to ride further into the city. She had Fitz's map and legend tucked safely away in her small crossbody bag and was eager to see what all he had to show her. She'd restrained herself from looking everything up online first, wanting to preserve the surprise and not let Fitz's work go to waste.

Her first stop was the Necropolis, a large Victorian cemetery located behind Glasgow Cathedral. As she crossed over the bridge that led onto the grounds, she paused to read Fitz's notes.

Yes, I've brought you to a graveyard. A little morbid maybe, I know. But there's a lot of history here if you're interested in that sort of thing. We came here on a tour when I was in school, before I got skipped ahead. There's lots of famous Glaswegians and important Scottish historical figures buried here, and the view of the city from the top of the hill is nice.

Jemma laughed quietly, then looked up at the cemetery rising before her before pocketing her notes.

She took her time wandering the paths that circled up around the hill, taking in all of the weathered stone monuments laid out in rows around her. Some of them were plain, but most of them were extremely ornate, and she found herself stepping in as close as she could to see who had been given such impressive memorials. There was the mausoleum of Major Archibald Douglas Monteath, a rather impressive octagonal stone structure with an ornate door that dwarfed the other monuments around around it. James Dunlop had an imposing tiered monument that looked more like a Roman temple facade than gravestone. Charles Tennant had a statue of himself seated atop his granite slab tomb.

Jemma kept her phone out as she walked along the cherry tree-lined paths, running searches on people and reading a little about each interesting gravestone she came across. She wondered, if Fitz were there with her, if he'd be chattering away about Scottish history. Surely he'd make it interesting and fun, unlike Will, who somehow had the capacity to make even the most interesting historical subject sound flat and boring. She shook her head to clear it. This outing was about letting Fitz lead her around to experience Glasgow, not dwelling on the lesser qualities of her ex-boyfriend.

When she reached the summit and the tall column paying respects to John Knox, Jemma took a seat in the grass and looked out at the view Fitz had promised. It really was lovely, being able to see the entire city spread out down below her, past the brewery stacks spitting smoke right at the foot of the cemetery to out beyond the river that ran through the city centre. The cathedral sat to her west, its copper roof shining in the late morning sunlight. She tried to imagine what it would be like to be there on a school trip as a young child, precocious as she and Fitz had been, and decided she probably would have been more interested in the lichen growing on some of the tombstones than any lecture their teacher might have been giving. Imagining Fitz being similarly otherwise occupied brought a smile to her face.

The next stop on her tour was the cathedral itself. She'd walked down the brick-paved lane next to it to get to the Necropolis, but now she'd come back around to the front by Cathedral Square to go inside. She looked up at it as she approached, taking in the dark stone edifice and tall windows, then took out her notes again.

More history for you. According to what I've read, this is the only medieval cathedral in Scotland to survive the Reformation. I came here on a tour too when I was young, but I didn't appreciate it as much then as I do now. As an engineer, I really respect the design and innovation that went into constructing these churches hundreds of years ago. Truly a marvel. I don't know if you're religious-I'm not, not really-but my mum raised me going to church and there's just something about these big old buildings that always makes me feel a bit peaceful inside.

Jemma wasn't religious in the slightest, but she could recognize beautiful architecture when she saw it. Coming into the nave, looking up at the columns that rose to the arches and even further up to the vaulted ceiling, she felt a sense of wonder settle over her. Sunlight shone through the stained glass windows, bits of color dappling the wooden pews and the stone floor, and there was a reverent stillness to the air that made her move slowly, with care. Looking around, she saw a few people scattered across the pews up near the front, heads bowed in thought or prayer, and a small group of people taking a guided tour near the choir.

Once again, she imagined Fitz beside her. She had no idea what he looked like-she hadn't summoned up the nerve to search for him online yet-but she imagined someone taller than her, lanky, glasses maybe, dark or fair hair (it didn't matter which), eyes that lit up when he got to talking about something that interested him. It was easy to think of him leaning in and talking to her in hushed tones about the particulars of cathedral construction. It made her heart pang softly, wishing he were actually there with her, but his notes were more than enough to pretend that he was.

When she'd seen her fill of the cathedral, Jemma left and, following Fitz's directions on the map, walked past the Royal Infirmary to High Street and started heading south. The road was busy and the pavement was full of pedestrians, so she kept a good pace as it wound through Victorian tenements on one side and newer developments on the other, all with shops lining the street on the ground floor. As the road straightened out and began to slope gently downward, Jemma could see her next destination before she reached it.

More architecture. Are you tired of landmarks yet? I know, this is all very tourist-y, Fitz's notes said. That tower you see in the middle of the road is called the Tolbooth Steeple. Not as old as the Cathedral, but still pretty old.

Jemma stopped outside a restaurant on the corner of the busy intersection, using her hand to shield her eyes from the sun's glare as she looked up at the Steeple. It was a tall, square stone tower with small spires on the steepled roof and a clock on each of the four faces. She found it rather unremarkable aside from its age, and it looked almost strange standing alone in the middle of a crowded street with modern vehicles rushing around it. She looked back down at Fitz's notes.

If you want more morbid history, this is where they used to hold public hangings.

That got a laugh out of her-she could almost hear the dry sort of tone she'd expect Fitz to say that in. A passing pedestrian gave her an odd look, so she smothered her amusement behind one hand and switched her notes out for her map, looking for where to go next.

Fitz's directions had her turning east, walking under a railway bridge and past a small park to a section of town that looked more working-class. Keeping an eye on the map, Jemma made a turn shortly past the park and kept walking, crossing another busy road until she came to some narrower roads that bordered a very large, green park, stretching out almost as far as she could see. She consulted Fitz's notes again.

Welcome to Glasgow Green, they said. It's the oldest park in the city. Lots of music festivals and fairs and things are held here, not that I've ever been to any. If you head for the center, there's a large building you won't be able to miss. That's the People's Palace. My mum took me there a lot when I was young because it was free and it got me out of our flat. I thought it was bloody boring, but you might like it. There's a garden in the conservatory around the back that's nice, for you maybe, since you're into biology and all of that.

Jemma smiled as she slipped her notes back into the front pocket of her bag and started walking. There were lots of cyclists and joggers out on the paths, and people spread out across the lawns: children laughing and kicking around balls or flying kites, and couples sunning themselves on blankets or having a picnic, all enjoying the beautiful weather. It all came together to create an almost festive atmosphere, and it put a spring in Jemma's step as she made her way across the park.

Fitz was right; she picked out the People's Palace with ease, sighting the large structure long before she reached it. It resembled a Victorian-era civic building, made out of reddish stone with an expansive glass conservatory extending from the back, just as he'd described. There was also a large, ornate fountain outside the front entrance, water burbling merrily from carved lions' heads down into the wide basin below. Jemma lingered there for a few minutes, listening to the sounds of the fountain and watching sunlight dapple the water's surface in the basin, before heading inside.

There, she found a museum dedicated to the history of Glasgow and its people. Jemma could see how it wasn't exactly the most stultifying thing ever, but she appreciated that it was a look into the past and culture of the city that she lived in. She took her time going through the exhibits, once again imagining Fitz next to her, this time complaining about how bored he was and if they could leave soon.

When she made it to the conservatory, she found a quaint little café with tables spread out across the stone tiled floor. The garden was cultivated to look like a lush tropical jungle, with several tall palms rising to the high glass ceiling, and the air was humid. On impulse, Jemma took a selfie with the greenery in the background, in the vain hope that someday, somehow, she could show Fitz the photo.

After taking a few minutes to sit at one of the tables and rest, she took out her map and notes again to see what was next.

If you want to go see the river, there's some paths that run along the south end of the park that have some nice views. But if you're ready for a break, follow the directions to number 6 on your map .

Jemma winced. "Oops," she murmured. Perhaps she'd sat down a bit too early. She peered at the map, following the arrows Fitz had drawn along the streets, to the circled number 6. The location looked like a church. She turned back to his notes.

No, I'm not taking you to another church. Not technically. There's actually a nice little café down in the basement that I've been to a few times with my mates. I think you've earned a break and a drink of your choice by now, so enjoy.

She smiled. That was quite sweet and thoughtful of him, she thought, especially taking her to a place he'd been to before and enjoyed. She could obviously get a drink there at the café she was currently at, but she found the idea of taking advantage of his suggestion much more appealing. Standing, Jemma pocketed her notes and took up her map, eager to get to her next destination.

It didn't take her long to get there. The church the café was located under was old, built of yellowing stone with Roman columns in the front and a tall clock tower rising up from the gabled roof, ending in a thin spire. There was a sign for the café hanging from the low wrought-iron fence surrounding the church, showing the way to the entrance below ground level. Jemma went through the little gate and down around the ramp to go inside.

The café ended up being more of a brasserie, with a sleek bar carrying a wide assortment of drinks running along one wall, cozy booths lining the others, and tables scattered in between. But it looked inviting, and Jemma was immediately glad she'd come. Checking the time on her phone, she decided to get lunch there-Fitz had just recommended drinks, but surely he wouldn't steer her wrong on food, either.

A host showed her to a small table and let her with a menu, promising to come back in a moment to take her drink order. When Jemma opened the menu and got a look at the selections, she had to bite back an amused laugh. Everything just looked so Scottish, from the rumbledethumps to the haddock and potato soup to the stereotypical haggis, that it was no wonder Fitz had sent her there. Maybe he really was aiming to give her the true Glasgow experience.

She left forty-five minutes later, full on a glass of wine and a nice goat cheese salad, map back in hand and a fresh pep in her step. It was a bit of a longer walk this time, doubling back the way she'd come from the Steeple and going past it, down a new road. She took note of the shops and restaurants she passed as she went, and was glad for the fine weather; all the exercise she was getting by walking was good for her, and it did better to see the city this way rather than taking a bus.

Fifteen minutes and a few turns later, Jemma was standing outside the Gallery of Modern Art. She took out Fitz's notes again.

You can't call yourself a Glaswegian of any sort if you haven't gazed upon the cone on the Duke of Wellington's head at least once. Proud part of our city's heritage, that is.

Jemma snorted softly and looked up. In front of her was the tall statue of the Duke of Wellington astride his horse, with a bright orange and white road cone sitting at a jaunty angle over his head. Nearby, someone-likely a tourist-was having their picture taken in front of it. Thinking it couldn't hurt, she switched her phone over to selfie mode and took another photo of herself, making sure the statue, complete with cone, was visible in the background. It was something else she could hope to show Fitz one day, somehow.

Okay, I have one more stop for you. Hopefully I haven't tired you out yet.

She didn't have nearly as far to go this time, only one block. She found herself on a large square, mostly paved over but with squares and circles of grass here and there, lined with trees and benches. The square was crowded, people clumped in sporadic groups, walking through, or simply sitting on the benches.

This is George Square. Full of tourists and all, but another important spot for the city. The city council used to host a really big Hogmanay party here that I would to come to, but they scrapped it a few years ago. Now I have no real reason to visit, but thought it was worth you stopping by.

Jemma smiled at that, but her attention was caught by what Fitz had written next.

Now, here's your reward! Like a scavenger hunt, but not really. Okay, it's not a reward, but-anyway, you'll see. Go to the end of the square by the City Chambers and find the benches across from the statue of James Oswald.

She looked up and around. Going by common sense, the Chambers building was likely the large, ornate one on the far side of the square from where she was. She started walking, her chin held high, and kept an eye out for statues. When she arrived at the far end of the square, she saw that there were three of them, one on each corner and one in the middle, but only the corners had benches opposite. She went to the right first, and upon inspection, was pleased to find that she'd chosen correctly and had found the statue of James Oswald. She looked at Fitz's notes again.

Go to the bench to the left of the waste bin and and reach underneath the edge of the seat. Should still be there. And, that brings me to the end of the tour.

Intrigued, Jemma turned around and looked at the benches in front of her. There were five of them, two of the left of the waste bin. Hoping she was aiming for the correct side (and very glad no one was currently occupying it), she stuffed her notes back into her bag and went to sit down on the designated bench, right next to the waste bin. Then, feeling a little self-conscious and hoping no one noticed, she slowly leaned to the side in order to slip her hand beneath the seat of the bench and feel around.

After a few seconds of prodding, her fingers crinkled on something that felt like plastic, stuck to the underside of the seat. Glancing around again-no one was watching her-she fumbled for a good grip on it and tugged. The object came free, and when she pulled her hand back up, Jemma found that it looked to be a piece of paper wrapped inside a sheet of clear plastic and taped shut.

Suddenly breathless, she gently tore the plastic open and took out the paper. Unfolding it, she found Fitz's familiar, if faded, handwriting.

Thanks for coming with me on a walk today. Hope you had fun. Maybe we can do it again sometime.
Fitz

There was something painfully sweet burning in her chest, and Jemma's hands trembled lightly as she held the note. This wasn't something that had magically traveled through the letterbox; this was a letter that had lain in wait for her for two years to find. That somehow made it infinitely more tangible, real, and precious to her. She wished more than ever then that Fitz were there with her, that part of his 'reward' included him surprising her in person, that he'd waited two years to catch up with her-but, glancing around, her face flushed, no one seemed to notice her.

The absence of anyone who could have been Fitz didn't detract from her joy over his note, though. She looked back down it at for another few, long minutes, a small smile on her face, before folding it back up and carefully sliding it into her bag. She'd had a very good day being taken on her tour of Glasgow, but she rather thought that finding Fitz's note was the best part of the entire thing.

-:-

Fitz wasn't expecting to hear from Jemma for a full week after she told him she was planning on taking her tour, but to his surprise there was a letter waiting for him from her when he checked the post on Thursday.

Thank you so much for taking me on a tour of the city, Fitz, it read. I had such a good time. The weather was beautiful, and it was a wonderful opportunity to get out and about and get some exercise.

He smiled at that. Of course she'd mention exercise.

I have to say I think my favorite parts were the cathedral-the stained glass windows were gorgeous with the sun coming through them and it was just so quiet and peaceful inside-and the garden at the People's Palace. You were right in thinking I'd like that. Oh, and the café was quite nice, too. I had lunch there. It was fun to pretend you were with me the whole time, like a proper tour guide, giving commentary on everything. It made it feel like you were really there with me.

He felt some kind of unnameable emotion swell in his chest. He would have very much liked to take her for a walk through the city himself, to see her face light up as she took in each new thing, to talk with her and hear her laugh. But seeing as they were stuck separated by two impossible-to-cross years, he'd done the best that he could.

Knowing he'd done something nice for her, that Jemma had taken a break and enjoyed herself, was reward enough for Fitz. After all, wasn't that what friends were for?