Fitz and Simmons didn't know the extent of their quandary until Agent Weaver stormed into their holding cell, her face irrationally neutral—a tell that she was beyond furious. She sat calmly before the team; Simmons had now been implicated in the crime and joined Fitz in the interrogation room. Charles, they assumed, was off somewhere getting his memory wiped. Agent Weaver sat before them, staring them down for a solid thirty
"If you weren't one of our most promising students, your asses would be out of this program faster than you could recite the periodic table—"
"Fifty-nine seconds!" Simmons chirped, but Agent Weaver glared at her.
"As I was saying, if Fury hadn't taken a specific interest in you two, you would be out of The Academy. If you ever pull a stunt like this again… I honestly still can't believe you'd do this. Especially you, Dr. Simmons."
"Wait, Fury has taken a special interest in us?" Fitz interrupted. "Is that what the security guard, er, janitor meant?" Agent Weaver sighed.
"Honestly, those level two janitors cannot keep their mouths shut." Agent Weaver sighed. "But seeing as you are persons of interest for this project, I'll tell you what you're authorized to know. There are certain individuals—you've probably heard of scientist Bruce Banner and Abraham Erskine—that can discover and invent things that, should they fall in the wrong hands, can be detrimental to our homes. Our entire planet, solar system, or galaxy." She paused, giving them a moment to mull this over. "Director Fury and few other high-level agents have been working together to assemble a sort of…" She paused, deciding how to carefully word her next thought, "Receiving team. When we get intelligence of a threat, we'd send these teams of high-level, high intellect agents to assess the potential damage. It's all on paper, for now. The team we presently have on the ground is doing his job perfectly. But we'd like him to have partners, should forces become hostile, his team could deal with them immediately, instead of waiting until the problem has broken out into a full-on war."
"Like in World War II?" Simmons asked, obviously the only one out of the two of them who'd actually read Professor Vaughn's History of S.H.I.E.L.D.
"Exactly like that. Now, this information has barely left the idea room, it will most likely not even make it onto the SHIELD Cabinet agenda for years. But we just need you to be aware. You are some of our most extraordinary students yet, and know you are capable of great or terrible things. So stop messing around. This is your last warning." She finished, coming back around to her main point. "Don't think you won't be punished for this, by the way. Professor Vaughn needs help cleaning his apartment when you get back from Christmas break." She stood to leave, unlocking the door with her badge. "And his apartment is as decrepit as he is."
Fitz groaned and leaned back in his chair, while a guard began unlocking their wrists. Agent Weaver smiled and left the room.
"It's not that bad, Fitz. It could be a lot worse, I mean, at least we're not expelled." Simmons freed her wrists and began rubbing them. Jemma Simmons wasn't always the outstanding rule-follower and uptight homework pusher she became after this incident. Agent Weaver successfully put the fear of Fury into that girl that day, whether she showed it or not. "Now we have to explain where we've been to Mum." She squeezed her eyes shut, and looked shamefully at the ground, her face creasing with worry.
"We'll have Charles tell her. He's not going to remember this anyway." Fitz said, standing up and leading the way out the door. He saw Agent Weaver just rounding a corner, and jogged—with much labor—to catch up to her.
"Agent Weaver!" He called, "I—I just have one more question."
"After all that, you think you are entitled to another question?" She glared at him, but he didn't' catch the hint, even if it was bowled at him with a fifty-pounder, and nodded eagerly. She let out an exasperated sigh. "Yes?"
"Why was there an entire filing cabinet on me alone? I've only been with SHIELD for a few months." He wrung his hands nervously.
"But SHIELD has been monitoring you since you scored perfectly on your middle school standardized tests and won first place in that adult inventor's competition. The rest is beyond my clearance level. And yours. So best not ask questions you can't have the answers to." She walked away, leaving him there, still unsatisfied with the answer. Simmons caught up with him, escorted by a security officer.
"Come on, Fitz, let's go."
They picked up Charles in the infirmary, with no memory of one of the most exciting adventures in his life. His only souvenir was a sprained wrist. On the cab ride back to Simmons' somewhere around five in the morning, they decided Charles should be the one to say what happened, Fitz would fill in the missing bits, and Simmons would keep her mouth closed unless prompted.
It went over well enough. Mister and Misses Simmons thought their precious children had dragged their unsuspecting friend to a late night History Channel marathon on the rise and fall of the Roman Empire. They were surprised they got away with that lie, and even more surprised that Mr. Simmons reminisced with Mrs. Simmons about their late-night documentary watching.
Charles went straight to his room, the drowsy effect the memory-wiping drug had on him still not worn off. Jemma followed him shortly, heading to her own room, and trying to avoid her parents, in fear she might slip up and say something. This left Fitz, hungrier than he was tired, since he was the only one out of them who'd managed an accidental nap after his extraneous running. Birdie Simmons sat across from him at the kitchen table, as he stared blankly at his empty mug of tea, stomach still grumbling.
"Are you hungry, dear?" She asked, leaning over to look him in the eye.
"Uh, I'm fine, really." His stomach practically roared. She laughed, and Fitz had to look up to see if Jemma had come downstairs, their laughs identical. "Okay, maybe I'm a bit hungry."
"How do you like pancakes?" She said, standing up to prepare the meal.
"More than I like most things." He answered, offering his help. She accepted gratefully. "Though, I should warn you, Jemma does most of the mixing and titrating in our lab for a reason. I'm rubbish at all things kitchen."
"Best to learn, then, huh?" She offered, handing him a measuring cup. "Fill this with milk to the one cup line."
As they cooked, they talked about everything. His Scottish roots, his mother, grandmother, how he became interested in engineering, how he and Jemma began working together—something he had to make up many lies for, though kept the basics the same. He quite literally ran into her after lunch, then was partnered with her for their first assignment, causing maximum embarrassment with a girl he hoped he'd never see again, let alone end up being best friends with. Mrs. Birdie smiled through the entire story.
"Do you like her?" She'd asked, as the pancakes were cooking.
"Of course, she's my best friend." He answered.
"I think you know what I mean." He looked at his shoes.
"Uh, um. I mean, what's not to like? She's… uh, nice. She has… um… nice… skin… I mean, it looks good on her. Er, wait. I—" He was a beet with arms, unsure of where to look or what to say. "She's good at science."
"She is, isn't she?" Birdie nodded knowingly, trying her hardest not to laugh at the prudent boy before her. "Jemma deserves someone who is equally as fluent in the sciences as she is. Someone like you."
"Oh, well, uh, she's definitely smart'r than I am, ma'am." Fitz evaded, the awkward situation bringing out his deepest Scott.
"Maybe…" She trailed, sensing his tension for the subject and turning her attention back to the pancakes before her, flipping over the puffy circles of dough. "Could you grab the syrup out of the pantry?"
The smell of pancakes summoned the other members of the house, except Charles, who was still fast asleep. Jemma sat next to Fitz, and his earlier conversation with Mrs. Simmons was called to the forefront of his mind. She looked at him and winked, causing an even deeper blush.
"Jemma," She began, "How'd you like to do a little Christmas shopping this afternoon? That is, if you're recovered from your crazy night of history documentaries."
"Of course, Mum." She replied, between bites, and then looked over at Fitz, as if remembering he wasn't a part of their family for the first time. "Oh, but—"
"Mr. Fitz can see where your father works, then join us for supper later. I'm sure you wouldn't mind, right dear?" Mrs. Simmons grabbed her husband's arm. He didn't even look up from his book, but grunted. "See, no trouble at all!" Simmons glanced nervously at Fitz.
"Would that be okay, Fitz?"
He nodded, while inwardly screaming, No! Don't leave me with your father. He's probably a nice guy, but he'd definitely murder me the second we were alone. He forced a smile, "Sure, I'd like to see your, uh…"
"Museum. He's the senior curator at the British Museum." Simmons finished, looking knowingly at him. She knew, potentially even better than he did, how bored he'd be with nothing to do with his hands and nothing to look at but artifacts and paintings.
Dr. Simmons' cab arrived soon after, and they were off to the museum, Fitz sitting awkwardly next to the door. He considered talking with the cabbie, but figured Dr. Simmons wouldn't take too fondly to being interrupted whilst reading his book. So Fitz flipped through a book of his own, one Simmons had handed him as he walked out the door with her father. It was an old book, with yellowed pages and the distinct must of libraries. The title read "Technology of the Future". Published in 1903, the book described technology predicted to be invented by 2003. Simmons had specifically marked seven pages, with a post-it note written in her neat script in the front cover, Long over-due inventions? As he flipped through the book, he saw fascinating illustrations of blimps ridden like bicycles and machines for organizing dishes.
Soon enough, they had arrived at the British Museum, a building like no other Fitz had ever been to. Its spectacular pillars and columns rose three stories tall. The building over shadowed the lumpy grey snow at its foundation, having been pushed aside for more ample walk room. Fitz stumbled out of the cab to gaze at the building, book in hand. He almost lost Dr. Simmons, who walked away without warning. Trailing behind Jemma's father while looking at the fabulously historic building proved difficult, and he continuously ran into visitors of the museum. Going in through a side door, Leo and Dr. Simmons were able to skip the lines and enter immediately into the beautiful museum. Long deceased pharaohs of bronze and gods of stone welcomed them, showing them the artifacts. Rusted helmets and damaged swords were all that was left of some ages past, which struck Fitz as kind of sad. He hoped one day his inventions would be on display in a museum, and people would remember him—and Simmons—and their contribution to science, no matter how primitive. Fitz now found himself and Dr. Simmons in an office just off the main floor.
"I have to work, but you can…" He gestured exasperatedly, "Explore or something. Don't break anything." And he disappeared behind a door with Dr. George R. Simmons, Senior Curator printed neatly in gold lettering on it.
"Okay then…" He mumbled, and began his journey through the museum.
A glass dome, six dead-people remains, three realistic sculptures, one-hundred-forty-seven rusty tools, a sub-par lunch from the cafeteria, hundreds of sculptures, and millions of books later, it was finally time to reunite with Jemma. He had read a few of the marked pages in her book, and looked forward to talking with her, wishing she'd been here today. He wouldn't technically admit to missing her but he sure did miss her company. Fitz made his way to the offices, finding the near-empty museum a little unsettling. When he arrived, he knocked on Dr. Simmons door.
"He left just five minutes ago, lad. You the bubtian who came with today?" The secretary to his left stated, not looking up from her computer.
"He left? Do ya' know where he went? They didn't tell me the restaurant." Fitz asked, a little off-put.
"Dean Street, I think? At least, that's where he asked me to tell his cabbie. You'll need one too, I suppose?" Fitz just looked at her, confused.
"Need a cab?"
"Oh, uh, yeah. Of course. Same place." He responded, trying not to feel mad at Dr. Simmons. He was Jemma's father after all. Thankfully, the cab ride was a mere ten minutes, so he didn't have long to fidget and worry. He straightened the tie Jemma had tied for him, smoothed out his white dress shirt, and put on his coat, ready to face the freezing thirty second walk to the front door. Jemma greeted him right as he walked in.
"Oh, Fitz! Thank goodness you're okay. Father said he didn't know what happened to you." She took his coat and handed it to the host.
"Oh, that's a bloody lie. He left me at the museum. He left and didn't tell me. I had to find out where he went from his secretary. Thank goodness she hadn't left." He grumbled, Simmons giving him an odd look of both sympathy and reproach.
"I suppose he's a bit… apathetic… towards you." She said, trying to cover for her father. She began escorting him to their table.
"Apathetic? Hardly a strong enough word." He said through a plastered smile as he waved at Birdie and Dr. Simmons.
Dinner was better than he'd expected, as they had some traditional Scottish foods on the menu, something he missed desperately. He sat next to Simmons in a booth, her foot resting against his as they enjoyed their meals and talked about their day. Despite his wretched experience with her father and their near run-in with death earlier that morning, he'd had quite a good day, especially now.
But every day he spent with Simmons was a good day.