This is part three of a story that starts in Chapter 9 of By My Side.
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Fitz and Jemma had taken the repaired processor back over to the lab for some tests. Between them they'd negotiated a range of obstacles and proposed and found solutions. Each of them couldn't help but register afresh how much faster and more efficiently they worked when they were together. With the alphacron's processor restored to its full operational capacity, Jemma turned her attention to Fitz.
"Never been a better time for a celebratory pot of tea, wouldn't you say?" she suggested.
Fitz took a deep breath. "Lead the way, Simmons."
When they got back to The Bus, it wasn't quite ten. Jemma leant against the galley kitchen bench while Fitz rummaged for his long-neglected tin of leaf tea.
"Boil the water will you, Jemma?" he asked as he unearthed his glazed ceramic teapot. He smiled at it like he would an old friend.
"Ah, yes," she nodded, filling the kettle. "It's tricky to stuff that bit up."
Fitz laughed. "It's impossible to stuff any of it up. Making a pot of tea is the simplest thing in the world!"
Simmons shook her head. "You're wrong about that Dr. Leopold Fitz. You have a gift."
Fitz snorted.
"You do!" she cried. "Like I said, your tea has a medicinal quality!"
"I thought you were sceptical about alternative medicine, Dr. Jemma Simmons."
"Tea is hardly alternative medicine, Fitz. As my Nanna used to say, the first thing they do when you wake up in hospital is offer you a cup of tea, so it must be good for you."
"And with this anecdote we're time-travelling back to?"
"About 1947?"
"Ah."
"Yes, I suppose you're right. But people with the tea brewer's gift, like you, should be there to make people tea when they wake up in hospital."
Fitz took the boiled kettle from her and gently swirled the steaming water around the cavity of the pot to warm it. He fished out the brown woollen trivet and tea cosy his mum had knitted him. Jemma had always admired the intricate blue and beige argyle pattern his mum had lovingly and painstakingly knitted into them.
Fitz rested the warmed pot on the trivet and performed what Jemma was sure was one of the magical parts of the ritual. She had watched him do this so many times – he never seemed to measure the spoonfuls of tea leaves the same way. And yet, by her fairly accurate reckoning, the same amount of fragile black flakes floated down into the vessel. He seemed to somehow subtly adjust the strength of the tea to the need of the moment or that was how she had always thought of it.
Taking up the freshly boiled kettle, Fitz tipped it with a steady hand, stirring gently so that the rich brown colour swirled out of the leaves and into the water. A third stir, no more. Fitz tapped the teaspoon smartly on the rim of the pot and then carefully replaced the lid with what seemed to Jemma to be a highly satisfying clink. She took up the woollen cosy in her hands and fitted it snugly over the pot, as if carefully wrapping a small child in a warm cardigan. The heat emanating from he pot slowly warmed her hands through the soft wool – she held them there a moment longer, feeling as though it were somehow recharging her.
Fitz had managed to locate the two teacups that were part of the set. They were the same rich brown ceramic as the teapot, the glaze glinting in the light. Jemma watched Fitz warm them the same way as he had the pot and remembered the feel of the cup in her hand. One of them had a slight chip and Fitz had always taken that one for himself, giving her the pristine one, even though she suspected that she was the one who chipped it in a careless washing up incident.
"Take it to the table, Fitz," she said. "I'll get some milk."
Fitz looked over at the lounge. No one was there yet, so, for a moment, his anxieties threatened to flood in. But then reason took hold. We are sharing a pot of tea, he lectured himself. Of course, I need to sit next to her! And he boldly claimed the only two seater couch, sitting himself on one half and placing the tea pot and cups down on the table in front of him.
In a moment, Jemma sat herself next to him placing a pot of freshly boiled water for top-ups and a small jug of milk down next to the pot. Fitz smiled to himself. It looked like they were settling in for at least an hour of tea drinking.
"Now we wait for the next bit of magic," Jemma whispered.
"What on earth are you talking about, Simmons?" Fitz sighed in mock exasperation.
"The precise moment that it's ready to pour," she replied. "You always seem to intuitively know exactly when to pour it so that it is perfectly brewed."
Fitz shrugged. If only he could read Simmons like he could a teapot. The moment came and Fitz lifted the pot away from its trivet to pour the gloriously rich dark tea into their warmed cups. The scent of Assam, Ceylon and Keemun filled the air and Jemma breathed in deeply, breathing out with a contented sigh.
"It's been too long between drinks, Fitz," she said quietly as she watched him pour a just-right amount of milk into her cup. He held it out to her with both hands and she took it with both of hers, remembering as she did the magical quality of Fitz's teacups. Somehow, despite the scalding temperature of the tea, only a comfortably warming heat permeated the ceramic. These were the ideal teacups to nurse in ones hands, to warm oneself while one nutted through a problem and surmounted an obstacle.
And as Jemma raised the cup to her lips and sipped at Fitz's superlative brew, another of those obstacles fell away and a solution became perfectly clear.
She let both Fitz and herself take a quiet moment to savour the culmination of this ritual that had been almost as much a glue in their friendship as the mutual love of science and discovery that initially brought them together. Then she took a deep breath.
"Fitz," she began. "I've been thinking."
"Mmm?" he responded, his whole body suddenly more at peace than he'd felt in a long time.
"I have a proposition for you."
He looked openly back at her, emboldened by the restoration of something so significant between them.
"I know you chose the garage and I know you had your reasons, but I wonder," she paused to take another empowering sip. "I wonder if you could think about the possibility of spending a proportion of your week in the lab with me."
"A proportion?" Fitz asked.
"Like one day a week?" she suggested tentatively. "Or maybe an hour or two each day? Or every other day if that's too much?"
She placed her cup down in front of her and looked earnestly into his eyes. "Fitz, we were great today. And every time I've come to you for help recently we've solved the problem in half the time I would have on my own." Jemma was talking fast now, as if the sheer volume of words could hold off the refusal she felt sure was coming. "Wasn't that why we started working together at The Academy? We were twice as smart together, remember?"
Fitz suddenly broke into a grin.
"What?" she asked suspiciously, her eyes narrowed.
"How's this," he responded, placing his cup down next to hers. "What if I start each day with you. I'll make us a pot of tea, we can talk about what you've got on in the lab and I can bring my challenges from the garage. Then, if it's something we want to work on together, we can, and if not, or if Mack needs me, I'll go back to the garage. Would that work?"
Jemma was speechless. She had no expectation of him actually agreeing but he had just suggested the most wonderful arrangement she could have imagined. She impulsively threw her arms around his neck. Fitz hugged her back without letting himself overthink it. He was delighted by the possibility of a return to the way they used to be, while still maintaining a place to which he could escape if he felt it was too much.
At that moment, Mack wandered into the lounge. His eyes widened to see Fitz and Jemma embracing on the lounge but Fitz grinned at him and winked over Jemma's shoulder as they disentangled themselves from one another and returned to their teacups.
Mack chuckled silently as he bent down to retrieve a beer from the fridge. Nice to be on the receiving end of a wink from Turbo at last.
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It is just possible that this story is as much a homage to a good pot of tea as it is to the glory that is Fitzsimmons? Well, who doesn't want a man with mad tea brewing skillz?