That night, in the relative privacy of his bedroom in a shared apartment, Fitz celebrated the return of the Jedi. ('The Jedi' was his boner.)
Perhaps it was strange, that he should want to go anywhere near the family jewels after those agonizing hours manhandling himself in the lab. But that night, Fitz took a simple, life-affirming joy in the act of proving himself each time the opportunity came up. ('The opportunity' was, likewise, his boner.) The next morning, he awoke tired, hungry, and rather more confident than he could remember in recent history. He was ready for whatever Simmons could throw at him. Bring it on, Limpstick.
So began a month of careful-at-first kisses in the lab, followed by hours of increasingly less hesitant data collection. They tested variable after variable - sometimes once, usually twice a day - and after ten times or so, Fitz found he no longer panicked when he felt himself go soft.
Instead, he began focusing his time and energy on how to impress Jemma during the trials. He shaved more closely, bought cologne, made sure he wore a clean shirt. He watched romantic movies and studied the protagonist's form during the more passionate kisses. He asked his roommate Clay for breath mint recommendations. He triple-checked the door and tried not to feel too ridiculous as he practiced making out with his closed fist.
And every day they tested the Limpstick - after dinner, after fasting, after water, after whiskey (those were fun). Starting 'flat' or starting 'tall', through quick kisses and longer snogs, they tested nearly every scenario they could think of in the name of responsible experimentation. If Fitz had been more of an optimist, he might even have thought that Jemma was trying to draw out the trials. Either way, though, he wasn't about to question it.
Unfortunately, things never stayed easy for long.
-o-
"It was bound to happen," Simmons said matter-of-factly. "Honestly, I'm surprised we didn't run into more problems on the last drunk test."
"I can do i'! Stop, Je-hic!-Jemma…" Fitz whined from his position on the floor, simultaneously attempting to roll himself away from her probing hands and keep his modesty intact. As much of it as I've got left, anyway.
"Stop wiggling about, Fitz, you're making this a lot harder than it needs to-" She smirked. "Well, perhaps not."
Crispy Christ on a stick. Still, better this way than the other. At least the liquor made doubly sure he couldn't get a stiffy with her hands on him. I think that's a good thing.
"Will y' jus' untangle me? This is embarrassin' enough as i' is." Fitz's inebriated mumbling did his accent few favors, but he had faith Simmons would understand him. They'd gotten used to deciphering each other's voices, slurred words at the Boiler Room, sleepy mutterings as they fought to stay awake during late nights revising, the rat-a-tat speed of a caffeinated discovery making four sentences sound like one. It's only other people who can't tell what we're sayin'.
Simmons eventually got him to roll onto his back, prying his hand off the monitor cuff to begin gently loosening the wire wrapped around his… situation, while Fitz propped up the monitor screen to keep it from being pulled down on top of him as she tugged apart the cords. He tried not to think about the softness of her cool fingers on his unresponsive man-meat, tried to avoid analyzing the way her eyes had widened - surprise? admiration? horror? - at seeing him for the first time.
Jemma's sympathetic clucks did absolutely nothing to improve Fitz's mortification, and after the third or fourth plaintive groan, she bit the inside of her cheek, looked down where she was working and said, "You've really got nothing to be ashamed of, Fitz."
"Wha'?!" He trained his eyes on her, but she'd kept her gaze locked on the task at hand.
Her tone was reassuring. "Accidents happen! It's my fault, really, I should have insisted on helping you with the hardware from the beginning."
"I could've done i', if I hadn't-"
"Tripped, I know."
He pouted. "Stupid shoe got in the way of my foot."
She hummed noncommittally, before releasing his manly bits and pulling his shorts back up with a brisk nod. "Well, that's done! Didn't even harm the monitor ring."
He frowned. "S'not a ring, Simmons. It's a cuff. I doubt I'd put a ring on m' bits."
She met his eyes, briefly, and seemed about to say something else before closing her mouth with a pretty flush. "Of course. What was I thinking." She knelt, holding a hand out to him to help him sit up.
He didn't take it. Instead, he clunked his head back against the tile floor with another groan, feeling like he needed to laugh or cry. Or both. Preferably at the same time.
"Fitz…" she'd put on her patient face, tilting her head and letting her hand fall to his arm, rubbing soothing tracks from his elbow to the inside of his bicep. "What's the matter?"
He gave her a flat look before squeezing his eyes shut and pressing a palm to his forehead. "Take a guess, Watson."
She continued in a tone that was likely meant to bolster his spirits. "If it makes you feel better, you shouldn't worry about people seeing your penis. It's perfectly average!"
The fuck? His eyes flew open and he stared, agog, as Simmons twisted her fingers together and rushed ahead with her reassurances. "I mean it, Fitz! Most women don't like a man who's too large," she chuckled awkwardly, "that's a myth. In fact, the most well-endowed man in the world-"
"Christ, Simmons-"
"-actually can't have sex with women, unless it's anally-"
"What the absolute Hell-"
"-and even then he can't fully penetrate! You see, the vagina can only take-"
"Simmons, stop!"
She stilled, half-gesturing in midair and her cheeks going pink. "Well I'm only trying to make you feel better…" she trailed off, a bit huffy.
Fitz pinched the bridge of his nose. "I'll feel better if you never, ever bring up the Guinness World Pecker again. Deal?"
-o-
"So, er… my roommate found some of the 'visual aids' you insisted I take home with me."
"Why would you leave them where- you know what, never mind." Simmons craned her neck to stretch the tension out of it, sweeping her hair over one shoulder. She'd done something different with her hairstyle today, curled it perhaps, and his throat was thick with unsung dreams just from looking at her. "So, what did Clay think? Did he like the pictures?"
Fitz drummed his palms against the front of his thighs. "Well, he didn't judge me, so there's that." Clay was a good guy. "Even offered to let me have some of his old magazines."
"Used pornography. Tempting." Simmons' disgusted nose scrunch telegraphed exactly how appealing she found that concept.
They sat in silence a few more moments, until Fitz couldn't hold off any longer. "Actually, he did like one of the pictures."
"Mmmm?"
"Yeah." Fitz was quiet for a single beat, then, "I have to ask, Simmons. Did you Photoshop me a naked Amy Pond?"
"No," came the immediate reply. And, after a pause, "I got a friend to do it."
Author's Note
Fitz's roommate Clay is named for one of my Secret Valentine's friends.
At the time this would have been taking place, Amy Pond was not the Doctor's companion yet. I apologize if the anachronism bothers you. I do a little more with the idea later on, and Amy Pond was a better fit.