A/N: I don't own Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.
A vest top is, as I understand it, the British term for a tank top / undershirt.
Fitz was hungry. And tired. His skin hurt. He was officially out of clothes now. And to make matters worse, he'd hardly seen Simmons in the last three days. An eensy-weensy part of that was his own fault - I have my own life; Simmons isn't my bloody keeper after all - but after he'd told her, very sensibly and with regret, that he had plans on Sunday and couldn't see her, she'd been strange. Getting off the phone like that, quick as you please, then barely talking to him during Solomon's class the next morning… it was - Fitz hated to criticize, but - immature. And she thinks I'm a child.
The kicker was that she'd cancelled their usual Monday night lab session, citing a mysterious "work conflict." Did she think he was a moron? She didn't have a paying job. She's clearly just trying to get back at me for blowing her off. Which Fitz hadn't even done. There was no rule that said they had to spend every day together. Did she expect him to follow her around like a lap dog? Grow up, Simmons.
And now that they were - finally! - going to get dinner and spend some time in the lab, she was half an hour late. Vindictive. Fitz shook his head and turned his attention back to the mirror.
"You look dope, bro, fo real!"
Simmons was hungry. And slightly smelly. And extremely pissed off. She'd just spent the last twenty minutes stuck in the elevator at Fitz's dorm with no cell reception. A couple minutes in, somehow, a stink bomb had gone off and filled the small space. Gee, I wonder who could've orchestrated this. Jonesy was a dead man. He just may not know it yet. Thankfully, the stench seemed to have aired itself out rather quickly, but she'd still been less than happy about her physical need to breathe during that stint in the Box of Flatulence.
So when she arrived at Fitz's dorm room and found him palling around with the yob in question, a switch flipped in her brain and she gritted her teeth, suddenly feeling like a bull in Spain. Is this why he couldn't hang out on Sunday? The worst part was that she'd been so nervous to ask. When she had a specific goal in mind - getting Fitz to eat properly, bolstering his study habits, sorting out the situation with Herrick - it wasn't hard to push Fitz into spending time with her, but this time, she'd simply wanted to see him. Despite how comfortable they'd gotten, she'd still been having kittens at the thought of inviting a guy to the movies. And when Fitz had brushed her off with a 'Sorry, can't do it. Guy stuff; you wouldn't understand.' it had stung a bit more than she cared to admit.
Showing up at his place after all that, she was angry enough that it took a few minutes to register the sight of him. When her eyes finally caught up to her brain, she gasped. Fitz was dressed like the world's most ironic rapper. Baggy jeans exposed the waistband of his underpants (surprising, given his embarrassment in the laundry room) and a thick wallet chain linked belt loop to pocket. He sported a tight (well, tight-ish, on Fitz) white vest top, neon-green and black checkered high-tops, satiny windbreaker about three sizes too big, and several golden necklaces. As she watched, Jonesy deposited a tall trucker's cap onto Fitz's head… sideways. Simmons was aghast. I have no words.
Well, almost no words.
"Fitz! Did you- I don't- what the Devil?"
"Mah boy looks straight menace, dass whassup! Whatcha think, Spunky? Might be some hope for 'im yet, ya feel me?"
I will not feel you, no. Not even if you were covered in cashmere and puppies.
"Yeah, Simmons." Fitz piped up. "We pimped my style! It's dead illin'!"
Oh, God. Her head started to shake of its own accord. "No, no, no, we're not doing this, Fitz. You need to change. Now."
"Chillax, Spunky!" Jonesy trudged forward, sniffing like a bulldog. "Or should I call ya Funky! Girl, you rank!" He fanned his hands exaggeratedly in front of his face.
Simmons was vibrating with affront. "Perhaps I could relax, Jonesy, if someone hadn't sabotaged the lift and set off a fart bomb!"
Jonesy's lamb-shank fist went between his teeth as he bellowed out his hilarity.
"What's that about a bomb?" Fitz looked alarmed. And why was his face all sunburned?
Blimey. I leave him alone for two days, and this is what happens. "Fitz! Clothes! Now!" It came out a little sharper than she might've liked, but given the circumstances, she felt it was justified.
"All right! Don't get your knickers in a twist…" And he's mouthing off as well. Fitz walked back to his bedroom, a strange sort of lopey gait that seemed to bounce awkwardly. Is that meant to be a strut? Simmons put her face into her hands.
Jonesy was the worst influence she'd ever seen. This needed to end. Immediately. The icy grip of desperation started to squeeze its thin digits into her skull.
Ignoring the chavvy buffalo's continuing laughter, she stalked over to stand outside Fitz's door, giving Herrick a half-hearted wave as the two Ops cadets headed out.
"Fitz? Are you decent? We need to talk."
"Are you decent?" As if she cared about his privacy. You've already violated my poor phone, and my relationship with my mum. Why should my room be any different? Though Fitz had been glad to hear she'd said nothing about the bird during her little gab session. Probably keeping my attempted murder quiet, so she'll have somethin' to hold over me in future.
But he was dressed, at least. "Yep, come on in."
Simmons paraded in like her name was on the door. "Oh, you've got to be kidding," she flatlined, watching him like a disapproving librarian.
"What? You said to change clothes."
"I didn't mean- is that a S.H.I.E.L.D. coat? Did you pinch that from the lab?"
"I'm there often enough, I should have my own. I'll let you borrow it if you want." It wasn't like he would suffer some nobody to wear his lab coat. It's considerate enough of me to share with Simmons.
"Wha- no! And I won't be seen at dinner with you in a lab coat. Take that off. It's going back to Webb Hall."
"Why? What's wrong with the way I look?" It was a perfectly appropriate thing to wear. Fitz was a scientist. And a man. I should get to pick my own clothes.
"Fitz! Take that stolen coat off this instant!"
Simmons was in rare form tonight. She's bustin' my balls, the harridan. Fitz looked fine in the lab coat. Better than fine, if he was allowed a little vanity for once in his life. What's got her so dischuffed? But his mum's words sailed in - pick your battles. He supposed, if it made Simmons happy, he wouldn't wear the coat. He undid the buttons and dragged it off, grizzling to himself.
"Oh…" Simmons groaned. What is it now? She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, composing herself. When she spoke again, it was with tightly controlled moderation. "Okay. I know what to do. That stink bomb in the lift made me a bit pongy, so let's head back to mine and I'll grab us new outfits. Fortunately, we look about the same size…"
"No." Fitz lifted one finger. "No!" He raised his voice to make the point. "I am not lettin' you dress me in girls' clothes like an ickle doll! Can we just go eat? Please? I'm starvin'." Fitz's normally limitless patience was stretched one-cell thin, like film on an onion.
"We could, if you weren't in shrunken sweatpants and an undershirt." She said it like he was naked, before taking him in from crown to heel, and Fitz felt himself wilt under her scrutiny. He didn't like it. "Fitz…" she stared, disbelieving, "are those socks and sandals? I thought you had trainers!"
"They got wet when I was washing my cardigans in the tub. Simmons, I'm not a mind reader. What do you want from me?"
"Different clothes!"
Fitz threw his hands up, completely gobsmacked by her attitude. She helped me throw all my clothes out, for Pete's sake! "Damnit, woman, does it look like I've got spares layin' around?"
"Well evidently we need to figure this out!" Simmons was getting a bit worked up as well.
"Thanks, Captain Smartypants." Fitz was not going to be intimidated. He'd done nothing to deserve this. "Listen - once my livin' allowance from my scholarship comes in, I'll replace whatever you want. Until then, Simmons, it's either proper clothes, or food." He set his narrowed eyes on hers, challenging. Fitz had been more than patient throughout this codswallop. "And I can't give up food. Jonesy says I need gains to get swole." Whatever that means.
Simmons had gone quiet. But as expected, she couldn't stay quiet for long. "I might have a solution," she breathed, ideas lighting up across her face like fireworks. She blazed into a smile. "Okay, so this is all very hush-hush and you can't say anything to anyone… but do you remember that work conflict I had yesterday?"
Fitz made a noise of agreement. As if I could forget the dagger in my back.
"Right. Well, you've heard of Dr. Franklin Hall, I assume?"
"The Chemical Kinetics whiz? Ground-breaking theories, so controversial he's never on campus even though he's technically a professor here? How do you know him?" Simmons had more secrets than she let on.
"I don't; my parents do. They were all at Cambridge together. Anyway, it appears he's hiring a research assistant, and… Fitz, he wants me! Can you imagine? It's thrilling!"
Fitz looked at her, unimpressed and a little let down. So, what? You just felt like braggin'? He sagely kept that thought to himself.
"The problem is…" Simmons chewed at her lip, "since I increased my courseload, I'm not sure I have the time to take it on. I'm hard-pressed to finish everything as it is. But Fitz, this would mean working with previously undiscovered elements, substances so rare we've only dreamed them!"
"So you want me to work for Dr. Hall instead?" Fitz understood what she was saying now. I could use the money from this research appointment! His heart started to beat out a John Philip Sousa march.
"God, no!" Well that was unnecessarily emphatic. The trombones fizzled in his chest, though Simmons was still beaming. "It's top secret! I shouldn't even have told you this much. But if you'll help me in the monkey lab, doing the clean-up, and some of the scut I don't have time for, then I think I could manage it all. And my new job pays uncommonly well, so in return, I'd be happy to buy you some clothes!" She looked like a sunrise, full of hope and certainty.
Fitz opened his mouth, his first instinct to object. You can stuff your blinkin' charity. Janitor work? I'm not your Groundskeeper Willie.
"I'll even let you do your own shopping." Fitz rolled his eyes. How big of you.
"On the condition-" Simmons enunciated, holding up her palms, "that you do not allow Jonesy any input whatsoever in your style choices."
Actually, that's not bad advice. He grimaced, remembering the way Simmons had reacted at seeing him in his "street" ensemble. And I guess she does owe me for chopping my ear off. Not to mention stealin' that research job out from under my nose. He opened his mouth again.
"And provided that-" she continued, glaring at him in accusation, "you help me prank that rotter once and for all."
Oh… the stink bomb in the lift. All the pieces started to snap together for Fitz. It was personal now, for Simmons. Fitz felt a laugh bubble up, wondering if Jonesy realized how mighty an enemy he'd made. To be fair, I was gonna prank him anyway. He just hadn't had the opportunity to tell Simmons, with how she'd ignored him the day before. But Fitz couldn't simply let her think she'd won. If I don't push back, she'll take advantage forever.
"Hmm… that's a lot of work, Simmons. Let's say clothes… and you swipe me into the cafeteria for a month."
"What?!" Her face was priceless.
"And you talk to your advisor about dropping some of these baby classes. You're obviously not learnin' anything you don't know, and it doesn't make sense to sit there when you could be takin' upper-division courses. For example, with your precious Dr. Hall."
Simmons looked dubious. "I'll think about it, Fitz, but I'm not sure-"
"I am sure. Drop that easy-peasy Bio and come take Neurobiology with me. I've already arranged my transfer with the Headmaster; I know they'd let you do the same." He put on his best charm. "Hell, we could probably graduate three years early, if we really tried." Fitz would never have said it outright, but he wouldn't mind having a few more classes with Simmons at his side. She was, he admitted, a big help with revising. "And the sooner we stop bein' freshmen, the better, wouldn't you agree?" She still seemed hesitant. "C'mon, Simmons. I don't want to leave y' behind."
Simmons smiled at him, a small, shy thing that peeked through her teeth before scurrying across her cheeks. "All right, then. I'll talk to Agent Weaver. As for the rest of it - do we have a deal?"
Fitz gave her a thumbs-up.
A/N: Thanks to bigdamhero for the image of "street Fitz" that compels Jemma to take matters into her own hands right frikkin' now.
The inspiration for Simmons getting stuck in an elevator goes to TheLateNightStoryteller and her story Shapeshifters.
Thanks to amandajbruce for the idea of Simmons getting jealous of Fitz spending time without her.
Thanks once more to serennog and starbrightnights for the British slanginess.
*slides over a big pot of Texas chili to all my helpful peeps* I didn't feel like baking today. Besides, chili fries? Nom nom.